Page 48 of Hold the Line

We shove our feet into regular shoes without even bothering with the laces, grab whatever gear we can reach, and bolt out the back exit toward the players’ parking lot. The entire time we’re laughing like absolute idiots. Viktor’s laugh is low and rare and rumbling, the kind I’ve barely heard, and every time it breaks free it hits me straight in the chest. I love that sound. I love it so much it makes my eyes sting even while I’m sprinting beside him like a criminal.

The second we both throw ourselves into his car, Viktor floors it. The tires squeal as we peel out of the lot, and I’m still laughing so hard my ribs hurt, head thrown back against the seat, tears streaming down my face from pure chaotic joy. Viktor glances over at me, and for a moment everything feels perfect.

Then his phone starts ringing through the car speakers.

Damian.

I stare at the screen like it’s a bomb, eyes wide, still half-laughing as I shake my head frantically at Viktor. “Don’t answer. Please don’t answer. He’s gonna kill us. Zara’s gonna kill us. We’re both dead.”

Viktor gives me a look — half amused, half fond — and hits the answer button anyway. Of course he does. Because apparently he and Damian are weirdly best friends, both terrifying in their own ways.

The call connects and we’re immediately greeted by Zara screaming in the background, her voice shrill enough to make the speakers crackle. “—and I swear to God if I see one more frame of that elevator footage I’m burning the entire security system myself!”

Damian’s voice cuts through, calm as ever. “So, Petrov. All four of you will be there, yes? Elias demands a headcount.”

Viktor looks over at me, one eyebrow raised in silent question. I bite my lower lip, heart still racing from the run and the panic and the laughter, but after a second I nod. Because it’s Christmas. Because it’s family. Because I’m done running from things that scare me.

Viktor’s hand finds mine on the center console and squeezes once, steady and warm. “Yes, Kade,” he says, voice calm. “We’ll be there.”

Zara’s screaming gets louder in the background as Damian ends the call with a satisfied grunt. I slump back in my seat, still catching my breath, but I’m smiling now.

His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “You okay, soroka?”

I squeeze his hand back, leaning my head against the window as the city lights blur past. “Yeah… I think so. Just… meeting your mom. And surviving Zara. Big day.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You will be fine. She will love you. And if Zara kills us, at least we die together.”

I snort, the tension cracking into something lighter. “Romantic. You’re such a sap.”

“Only for you.”

It is the 24th of December, just after four in the afternoon, and the house smells like fresh cookies and pine from the small Christmas tree my mother insisted on decorating herself. Two hours until we are supposed to be at Damian and Elias’s for dinner. I told Cole and Lena to come here first, so my mother could meet them in peace before the full chaos of the team descends. She deserves that much — a quiet moment, without twenty loud hockey players and their endless chirping.

I am in the living room helping her pack the last of the Christmas presents into gift bags, tying ribbons with fingers that feel too big for the delicate task. She moves around me with efficiency, humming an old Russian lullaby under her breath as she wraps another batch of cookies she baked yesterday. The house is warm, smaller than the one I grew up in, but brighter. Every time I see her smile here, something tight in my chest eases a little more.

“You are nervous,” she says softly in Russian, not looking up from the cookie tin she is sealing with a red bow. “About the boy. And his sister.”

I pause, fingers stilling on a ribbon. “He is… a lot,” I admit. “Loud. Bright. Like you used to be. I just want them to see you the way I do. Not… not with all the noise.”

She laughs gently, the sound still carrying echoes of the woman she was before my father dimmed her. “Vitya, if he is half as good as you say, and if he makes you smile the way you have been smiling these past weeks, then I will love him. Loud is not bad. Loud means alive.” She reaches over and squeezes my arm. “And I survived your father. I can survive a hockey team and one loud American boy. Now stop worrying and finish that ribbon before you strangle the present.”

I huff a quiet laugh and nod, the tension in my shoulders loosening just a fraction under her familiar touch. She has always known how to steady me, even when the rest of the world felt like it was falling apart.

The doorbell rings, so I straighten, wiping my hands on my jeans. “That must be them.” I head toward the door, but when I open it, it is not Cole. It is my father.

He stands on the porch, coat collar turned up against the cold, his eyes bloodshot and face flushed with drink even at four in the afternoon. I freeze completely, hand still gripping the doorknob, every muscle locking up as old memories and fresh rage surge through me at once.

“Son,” my father says in Russian, like the word itself tastes bitter on his tongue.

“No,” I reply instantly, the word cutting through the cold air between us like a blade. My hand stays tight on the door, body blocking the entrance completely. “Why are you in Ravensburg?” I ask, because I left him in Russia — alone, drunk, and far away from her. Far away from us.

“I came to take my wife,” he says, eyes bloodshot and defiant as he tries to peer past me into the house.

“You have no wife,” I answer, every muscle in my body coiled tight. “You lost that right a long time ago.”

His face twists. The sweet, pathetic mask drops in an instant, replaced by the ugly, violent man I grew up fearing. He lunges forward, trying to shove past me into the house, shoulder slamming into my chest as he snarls, “She is still mine! Move, boy! I will drag her back myself if I have to!”

I grab him by the throat before he can take another step, and slam him back against the doorframe hard enough that the wood rattles, lifting him slightly off his feet. He gasps, his hands clawing at my wrist, but I do not let go. “You will not touch her. You will not come near this house. You will not speak her name again. She is free of you. I made sure of it. If you ever try to come near her — or me — again, I will finish what should have been done years ago. Do you understand me?”