Page 40 of Hold the Line

“And then Cole comes flying in like a goddamn missile—” Elias is saying, standing up to demonstrate the play with wild hand gestures.

I grin and cut in, “—and I roof it right over the goalie’s glove! Bar down, baby! You should’ve seen their faces!”

The table erupts again. But every time Nico opens his mouth to add something, I shoot him a sharp glare across the table. The rookie has the decency to look uncomfortable now, but I’m not ready to let it go just yet. Not after that locker room bullshit.

Then Viktor, who has been mostly quiet beside me with his hand resting possessively on my thigh under the table, reaches into his jacket and pulls out the infamous flask. My eyes narrow immediately. I know exactly what’s in there. That Russian vodka is straight poison — I learned that the hard way last season when I made the mistake of taking a sip. It could probably strip paint off a car.

Shane, the chaos gremlin, lights up like Christmas morning. “Ooh, is that the good stuff? Hook me up, Petrov!”

Viktor levels him with a flat, terrifying glare. Last season that same vodka put Shane completely under the table, and he spent the rest of the night trying to kiss Mats. Mats still hasn’t fully recovered from the trauma — he visibly tenses up at the memory.

Before anyone else can comment, Roman — our quiet Russian rookie — eyes the flask with clear interest. I watch, amazed, as Viktor’s entire demeanor shifts. The tension in his shoulders eases, the constant low-level glare softens. For the first time tonight, he does not look like he is one wrong word away from throwing someone through a wall. He grunts, almost approvingly, and pours two glasses — one for himself and one for Roman.

I smirk into my own fruity drink, swirling the straw lazily, but I don’t say a word. Seeing Viktor relax even a little because he is no longer the only Russian at the table does something warm and dangerous to my chest. He catches me watching and raises an eyebrow, silently daring me to comment. I just grin wider and take another sip, letting the team’s laughter wash over us.

The table is loud and chaotic in the best way, exactly how I like it. Elias, Mats, and I are in full chirp mode, going back and forth like we’re still on the ice trying to get under each other’s skin.

“You gonna keep hiding behind your husband’s bad leg all season, Curls?” I fire at Elias, grinning like an idiot. “Or are you actually planning to score more than two goals this year?”

Elias gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Says the man who ghosted his own team for a week and a half because he couldn’t handle getting dicked down properly. At least my man doesn’t need to take my jewelry out before every practice like I’m his personal Barbie doll.”

Mats nearly chokes on his drink, laughing. “Bro, you walked right into that one. Hollywood’s been getting maintenance checks from Petrov every night. We all saw the hickeys. Man’s wearing a turtleneck in December.”

“Fuck both of you,” I laugh, flipping them off while leaning back in my chair. Viktor’s hand is still heavy and warm on my thigh under the table, thumb stroking slow circles that keep me grounded even as the chirps fly.

Across from us, Roman says something in Russian, low and casual, and Viktor answers in the same language. The shift in Viktor’s voice is immediate — smoother, more relaxed, the words flowing freely in a way I rarely get to hear. I catch a few words here and there — something about the game, about the cold weather, about home — and it hits me like a weird little punch to the ribs. Seeing him speak so easily with Roman, no walls up, no careful restraint… it makes me jealous in a stupid, soft way. I want that. I want him to talk to me like that too. Maybe I should learn more Russian. Not just the dirty stuff. All of it.

My shoulders deflate a little without me meaning to. Elias, the perceptive little shit, notices instantly. His hand slides under the table and grabs my other thigh — the one Viktor isn’t already claiming — and gives it a gentle squeeze, pushing me closer into Viktor’s side. I glare at him hard, but Elias just grins like a menace, all feral golden retriever energy, and immediately turns to his husband.

“Damian,” he purrs, batting his lashes dramatically and leaning into the older man’s space, “have I told you lately how hot you look when you’re yelling at us from behind the bench? Sir.”

Damian snorts, one eyebrow raised, but there’s clear fondness in his eyes as he drapes an arm around Elias’s shoulders. “Flattery won’t get you out of bag skates tomorrow, pup.”

I roll my eyes at Elias’s obvious distraction tactic, but I still let myself lean into Viktor’s solid warmth, his hand tightening possessively on my thigh like he knows exactly what just happened. The Russian conversation continues beside me, and even though I don’t understand most of it, the sound of Viktor’s voice like that — open, comfortable — settles something warm and greedy in my chest. I want more of it. All of it. All of him.

I end up sitting next to Viktor for a while, just listening to the chaos around the table while my mind drifts.

Viktor eventually notices my silence and turns toward me, concerned. “You okay, Hollywood?”

“Huh?” I blink, snapping out of my little dissociative spiral.

Viktor asks again, this time in Russian, soft and careful. “Ty v poryadke, soroka?”

The words pull me back instantly. I answer without thinking, the Russian clumsy but genuine. “Da… ya v poryadke.” Yeah. I’m okay.

Roman’s head snaps up so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t get whiplash. “Wait. You know Russian?” he blurts, his eyes wide with excitement.

Then he starts talking to me—fast, enthusiastic Russian that might as well be machine-gun fire. My eyes bug out as I try to keep up, catching maybe every third word. Something about me understanding, about how cool it is, and possibly a question about how long I’ve been hiding this from everyone. Honestly, at this speed, he could also be asking me to help him rob a bank.

Viktor smirks beside me but doesn’t help. He just waits, patient and far too amused, while I mentally scramble to translate what the hell Roman just said. Eventually, I piece together enough to answer and look up at Viktor for courage.

He gives me a small nod, encouraging, like he actually believes I can do this.

I try my best, the words slow and awkward. “Ya… russkiy… nemnogo uchil. Govoryu… ne ochen’ horosho.”

Viktor’s mouth twitches, but he corrects me gently, quiet enough that only I—and probably Roman—can hear. “Ya nemnogo uchil russkiy,” he murmurs. “I studied a little Russian.”

My cheeks burn, but I repeat it carefully. “Ya nemnogo uchil russkiy.”