Page 37 of Hold the Line

“Alright, that’s enough, pup,” Damian says as he pushes off the wall. His eyes are still sparkling with barely-contained amusement, but the command in his tone is unmistakable. Elias huffs dramatically but actually shuts up, crossing his arms and shooting both me and Viktor one last betrayed glare.

The locker room stays awkwardly silent for a beat, the rest of the guys still staring like they’re watching the world’s most dramatic reality show. I rub the back of my neck, feeling the weight of every single eye on me, and manage to speak. “I’m really sorry, guys,” I say, voice quieter than usual. “I fucked up. Badly. I just… needed to disappear for a minute. It won’t happen again.”

“Damn right it won’t!” Elias shoots at me, still looking equal parts furious and relieved as he glares like he’s trying to set me on fire with his mind. His hair is a wild mess from how much he’s been gesturing, and I can tell he’s not quite done scolding me yet, but before he can launch into round two, Shane — bless his chaotic little heart — decides to break the tension in the most Shane way possible.

“Finally!” Shane crows from his stall, throwing his arms up like he just won the lottery. “Cole and Petrov hooking up like everyone with functioning eyes knew they would! I’ve been waiting for this since the Cup parade. Did you two finally stop eye-fucking each other across the locker room or what?”

Chirps and laughter erupt from every direction — Mats lets out a loud wolf whistle, Tyler and Jace are cracking up, even Roman is smirking while muttering something in Russian. Someone starts slow-clapping. I feel my face burn hot as I flip Shane off, but I’m also grinning despite myself because yeah… it’s kind of hilarious. Viktor stays quiet in his corner, but I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s fighting not to react.

“Shut it,” Damian cuts in, his voice booming across the room in full Coach Kade mode. The laughter dies almost instantly. He pushes off the wall, cane thumping once against the floor as he levels all of us with that terrifying stare. “Save the gossip for after practice. Get your asses on the ice. Now. Unless you all want to bag skates until someone pukes.”

The team scrambles into motion like someone lit a fire under them. Gear gets pulled on faster, sticks are grabbed, and the chirping turns into low muttering as everyone starts heading toward the tunnel. Elias shoots me one last pointed look — the kind that says we’re not done talking — before following his husband out. I catch Viktor’s eye across the room and he gives me a small, steady nod, the kind that says I’ve got you.

I’m just about to step onto the ice, stick in hand and skates laced tight, when a massive wall of Russian muscle suddenly plants itself directly in front of me, blocking my path completely. Viktor looks down at me with that unreadable expression, and says in that low, commanding voice that always does terrible things to my insides, “Take it off.”

I blink up at him, confused for a second. “Huh?”

“The piercing, Vance. Take it off,” he repeats, quieter this time but no less firm. His gaze flicks down to my mouth pointedly.

“Oh shit,” I mutter, realization hitting me like a bad hit into the boards. League rules. No jewelry during practice or games. I’d completely forgotten in the whirlwind of everything that happened this morning. I yank off my gloves and try to unscrew the barbell myself, but my fingers are clumsy from nerves and the fact that I apparently screwed the damn thing on way too tight in a fit of spite last week. It refuses to budge.

Viktor makes a low sound of impatience, then grabs my wrist gently but decisively. “Come on.” He steers me back toward the locker room without another word. I follow, cheeks burning as a few of the guys catcall and whistle behind us. Once we’re inside, he washes his hands thoroughly at the sink, then comes back to where I’m standing like an idiot in the middle of the room.

“Tongue out,” he says.

I narrow my eyes at him for a long second, still a little salty about being ordered around like this, but the look he gives me — patient and just a tiny bit amused — makes me cave. I stick my tongue out. Viktor’s big hand comes up, careful and surprisingly gentle as his fingers steady my jaw. He works the barbell free with focused precision, the cool metal sliding out. The relief on my tongue is immediate. He slips the piercing into his own glove for safekeeping, then looks at me again.

“You’ll get it back after practice,” he says, almost like a promise.

I swallow, the absence of the metal feeling strangely intimate now that he’s the one who took it out.

Before we even make it out of the locker room, Viktor steps closer, crowding me gently against the edge of my stall. His big hand comes up to cup the side of my face, thumb brushing along my skin. Then he leans in and kisses me like he’s still getting used to the fact that he’s allowed to do this now. I melt instantly, knees going a little weak as I lean into him, one hand fisting in his practice jersey. The kiss is sweet, almost reverent, nothing like the desperate, bruising ones from last night, but it still lights me up from the inside.

When he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips brush mine. “I like your piercing,” he murmurs in Russian against my mouth. The words sink into me, filthy and sweet all at once, and I feel my face heat up as I let out a shaky breath.

“Fuck,” I whisper, dazed. “You can’t just say shit like that right before practice.”

Viktor’s almost smiling, before he presses one last kiss to my forehead and steps back. I have to take a second to pull myself together, adjusting my shorts and trying to will away the fresh wave of heat crawling up my neck. This man is going to be the death of me.

We head out onto the ice, and practice starts normally enough — until Elias skates up beside me during a water break, his eyes narrowing as he stares at my mouth.

“Wait a minute,” he says, loud enough for half the team to hear. “Where the fuck is the piercing? You had that shiny little barbell and now it’s gone?” His face lights up with pure mischief. “Oh my God. Viktor took it out for you, didn’t he? That’s so fucking domestic I’m going to throw up.”

“Hollywood got his jewelry taken out by his boyfriend!” someone yells. “Petrov’s out here doing maintenance on the ice now?”

I groan, covering my face with my glove as the chirps rain down. Viktor, skating past on the blue line like the picture of stoic calm, doesn’t say a word. But I catch the quiet satisfaction in his eyes when they flick toward me — the tiniest hint of a smirk as he watches the chaos he indirectly caused. The bastard is enjoying this.

“Fuck all of you,” I mutter, but I’m grinning despite myself, skating backward to escape Elias, who is still cackling and calling me “Viktor’s little maintenance project.”

Aweek has passed since I brought Cole home, and somehow the world has not ended. We have fallen into a strange, addictive rhythm — stolen kisses in dark corners of the arena, his body under mine every night, the quiet ritual of me taking out his piercing before practice and games and putting it back in after. It still feels unreal most days. Like I am waiting for the other shoe to drop. But right now, we are in the guest locker room in Halifax, facing the Icehawks — the same team that lost the Cup to us last season and has been bitter about it ever since. Every game against them feels like playoffs. They play angry. They play mean. And tonight will be no different.

Cole is standing right in front of me, his helmet off, mouth open with his tongue sticking out like an impatient child. The silver barbell glints under the locker room lights as I try to unscrew it. He is supposed to be quiet and cooperative. Of course he is not.

Instead, he is chirping Elias mercilessly, words slightly slurred around his outstretched tongue. “C’mon, Curls, you gonna cry if I score tonight? Gonna run to your husband and tell him the big bad Hollywood hurt your feelings again?”

“Stop talking, soroka,” I hiss under my breath, trying to focus on the tiny screw. My fingers are too big for this delicate work, but I refuse to let anyone else touch him like this.

Cole just grins wider around his tongue and keeps going. “You know you love me, Captain. Admit it. You missed me while I was gone. You were probably stress-baking with Damian like a sad little househusband—”