Page 41 of Hold the Line

“Good,” Viktor says, pride tucked into that one quiet word like a secret. “And then: ya ne ochen’ horosho govoryu po-russki. I don’t speak Russian very well.”

I stare at him. “That is so many words.”

Roman, the bastard, wheezes.

Viktor’s smirk deepens. “Try.”

I take a breath, focusing so hard my brain nearly catches fire. “Ya… ne ochen’ horosho… govoryu po-russki.”

“Better,” Viktor murmurs, and the softness in his voice does something deeply inconvenient to my chest.

The entire table has gone quiet by then, everyone staring at us like we just grew extra heads.

Roman looks stunned. Elias has stopped mid-chirp, mouth open. Even Damian looks mildly surprised. Shane’s eyes are sparkling like he just witnessed magic.

I sink a little lower in my seat, but Viktor’s hand squeezes my thigh under the table, warm and steady. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m performing. I’m just… trying. For him.

Viktor leans in just a fraction closer. “Good boy.”

My brain short-circuits. I gape at him, mouth falling open, heat exploding across my face so fast I’m surprised I don’t combust right there at the table. He said it so casually, so quietly, but the praise hits me like a fucking truck. My stomach flips hard and I forget how to speak for a second.

At the exact same moment, Elias — who was apparently close enough to catch it — yelps surprised like someone just shocked him. “OH MY GOD—”

The sound is so sharp it makes Damian jolt beside him, nearly spilling his drink. The entire table turns to look at Elias, who is now staring at us with wide, delighted eyes, one hand dramatically pressed over his heart like he’s witnessing history.

I’m still gaping at Viktor, who looks far too smug for his own good, the tiniest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he takes another sip of his vodka like he didn’t just ruin me in front of half the team.

Elias recovers quickly, leaning forward with pure menace. “Did you just— Viktor Petrov, you absolute sap—”

“Shut up, Curls,” I hiss, kicking him under the table while my face burns hotter. Viktor’s hand squeezes my thigh again, steady and possessive, and I have to fight the urge to hide my face in his shoulder like a coward.

The rest of the table is now watching us with varying levels of confusion and amusement, clearly sensing they missed something juicy. I’m going to kill both of them. Slowly.

Before I can think better of it, I snatch Viktor’s glass right out of his hand and down the rest of the vodka in one desperate gulp.

Big mistake.

The liquid burns like battery acid going down. I immediately start coughing like a dying man, eyes watering, chest heaving as I slam the empty glass back on the table. “Holy fuck— that tastes like paint thinner and broken dreams!” I wheeze, pounding my own chest. “Why the hell do you drink this shit? It’s evil!” As if I didn't pull this last season also.

Viktor stares at me, eyebrows raised, clearly caught off guard. The entire table has gone quiet again, watching the disaster unfold.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, still coughing, and shove the empty glass toward him. “Another. Please. I need to erase that taste from my soul.”

“No,” Viktor says flatly, already reaching to take the glass away.

“Daddy, pleaaaaseee!!” I whine, dragging the word out dramatically and giving him the biggest, most pathetic puppy eyes I can manage.

Viktor’s jaw ticks hard. He stares at me for a long second, clearly fighting some internal war, before he groans like I personally aged him ten years. With obvious reluctance, he picks up the flask and pours again — only halfway this time, giving me a warning look that says this is all you’re getting.

I grin triumphantly, even as my throat still feels like it’s on fire, and snatch the glass before he can change his mind. Elias is cackling across the table. Damian looks like he’s regretting every life choice that led him here. And Viktor… Viktor just shakes his head, but his hand finds my thigh again under the table, squeezing like he can’t quite help himself.

I down the second half-glass like an idiot who has not learned his lesson, the vodka burning all the way down and spreading that dangerous warmth through my chest. It tastes like regret and rocket fuel, but I still push the empty glass back toward Viktor with a hopeful little grin.

“Another?” I ask sweetly, batting my lashes and giving him the full puppy eyes treatment.

Viktor looks at me for a long second. “No,” he says firmly, already moving the flask out of reach. “We have game two against Halifax tomorrow. You are not showing up hungover.”

I pout dramatically, leaning into his side. The puppy eyes usually work. Not this time. He is annoyingly responsible when it counts. I huff and settle for stealing sips from my own overly sweet drink instead, grumbling under my breath about Russian killjoys.