Page 24 of Hold the Line

But even with Alex warm and sleepy in my lap, my mind keeps drifting back to old texts. To that shower. To Viktor’s hand on my throat and the way he said “I can’t…” before disappearing for a month.

I close my eyes and hold Alex a little tighter, like if I just hold on hard enough, the ache in my chest might loosen.

The cab ride from the airport to my parents’ house feels longer than the flight itself. Snow is falling lightly outside the window, turning Yekaterinburg into a gray, muted version of itself. I sit in the back seat, duffel bag at my feet, staring at the familiar streets sliding past. Everything looks smaller than I remember. Or maybe I have just grown too used to the wide-open spaces of Ravensburg.

The driver tries to make small talk in Russian. I give short answers until he gives up. My mind is elsewhere — on the paperwork I finished before leaving, on the house Damian arranged for my mother, on the plane tickets sitting in my email. On Cole.

Always on Cole.

The cab slows to a stop in front of the modest house I grew up in. I pay the driver, grab my bag, and step out into the cold. The front door opens before I even reach the porch.

My mother stands there, small and bright against the dim interior light. She looks even tinier than I remember, swallowed by her old cardigan, but her smile is the same one I have carried with me across oceans.

“Vitya!” she calls, her voice cracking with emotion as she steps out onto the porch.

I drop my bag and close the distance in two strides, wrapping her up in my arms. She feels so small against my chest, but she hugs me back tight, pressing her face into my coat.

“Hey, Ma,” I murmur into her hair. I hold her a little tighter than I mean to, breathing in the familiar scent of home — black tea, cooked beets, and the faint lavender soap she has used for decades.

She pulls back after a long moment, cupping my face with both cold hands as she looks up at me. “You look tired. Come inside, it’s freezing.”

We step into the house together. The warmth hits me first, then the familiar smell of the kitchen. But the living room is the same as always. My father is slumped on the couch, vodka bottle loose in his hand, his eyes glued to an old hockey game playing on the television. He does not even look up when we walk in.

“Hello, Dad,” I say flatly.

He grunts. That is all. Already drunk. The bottle is half empty, and it is not even noon here.

I roll my eyes and look away before the old anger can take root. My mother’s hand finds my arm, steering me gently toward the kitchen.

“Come,” she says softly, with a small smile. “I made your favorite. Borscht with the good beets. Pelmeni too.”

I let her pull me away from the living room, away from the man who still somehow manages to poison the air just by existing. The kitchen is warm and bright, pots simmering on the stove, the table already set for two. For a moment, it almost feels like enough.

The kitchen is warm, filled with the rich smell of borscht and fresh pelmeni. My mother moves around the stove with quiet efficiency, humming an old song under her breath as she plates food for both of us. For a few minutes, it almost feels peaceful. Normal. Like the kind of home I never actually had.

Then the heavy footsteps come. My father stumbles into the kitchen, bottle still in hand, eyes glassy and red-rimmed. He sways slightly in the doorway, glaring at the table like it personally offended him.

“Look at this,” he slurs. “The big NHL star comes home and suddenly there’s a feast. You never cooked like this for me, woman.”

My mother tenses but keeps her head down, setting a bowl in front of me. “Eat, Vitya.”

My father lurches closer, sneering. “Still hiding behind your mother’s skirts, boy? Alternate captain. Pathetic. You think you’re better than me because you play in America? You’re soft. Weak. Just like her.”

The words land like old wounds reopening. I feel the familiar burn of anger rising in my chest. I set my spoon down slowly. “Sit. Down,” I growl.

My father laughs. “Do not talk to me like that, you disrespectful prick. I made you. I put you on the ice. And what do you do? Stand behind some American boy like a loyal dog.”

He takes another swig from the bottle, then turns his bloodshot eyes on my mother. “And you — still coddling him. Always talking too much, always laughing like some stupid girl. No wonder the boy turned out soft. You ruined him with your weakness.”

I stand up so fast the chair scrapes loudly against the floor. The room feels smaller. My hands are clenched at my sides, turning my knuckles white. The image of him grabbing her, yelling at her, dimming her year after year flashes behind my eyes like lightning. “You will not speak to her like that,” I say. “Ever again.”

My father straightens, trying to look imposing even as he sways. “Or what? You think you can come into my house and—”

“It is not your house anymore,” I cut him off, stepping closer until I tower over him. “And if you touch her again — if you so much as raise your voice at her — I will make sure you never see either of us again.”

The kitchen falls silent except for the bubbling of the pot on the stove. My mother’s hand finds my arm, small and trembling but grounding. My father stares up at me, drunk and furious, but for the first time in years, there is a flicker of something like fear in his eyes.

I am not my father. But right now, I am willing to become something close if it means protecting her.