Page 55 of Hold the Line

The doctor, to his credit, stays calm under the combined intensity of a head coach and a very pissed-off defenseman. “He will be fine,” he says, glancing at the chart. “Two cracked ribs and a fractured left wrist. No internal bleeding, no concussion. He’ll need to stay off the ice until the ribs and wrist heal properly — at least six to eight weeks. We want to keep him for observation at least until tomorrow, just to be safe.”

By the time the doctor finishes explaining and leaves the room, Cole has fallen asleep. He looks smaller in the hospital bed, bruises standing out against his skin, but his breathing is steady. I stand there, just watching him, the rage and guilt twisting together in my chest until it is hard to breathe.

I turn to Damian. “Can you stay with him tonight?”

Damian’s eyebrows shoot up. “Where are you going?”

“You don’t need to know,” I say, already moving toward the door.

“Petrov…” Damian warns.

I pause in the doorway, looking back at him. “Don’t worry… I won’t do anything you wouldn’t.”

Damian deadpans, crossing his arms. “That is not reassuring whatsoever.”

I do not answer. I just nod once at Elias and Lena, who are both watching me with worried eyes, and walk out of the room. My father crossed a line tonight. He touched what is mine. And I am done being afraid of becoming like him.

Being Viktor Petrov has always had its perks. Right now, as I walk away from the hospital into the cold night air, one of those perks is knowing exactly who to call.

Sasha picks up on the second ring. He is an old friend from back home, the kind who moved to America years ago but never truly left the old life behind. “Petrov… what’s wrong?” he asks immediately, because I do not call unless something is wrong.

“Where is my father?”

“Shit. Wait.” There is movement on the other end, followed by a woman complaining as Sasha apparently pushes her aside and reaches for his laptop. Keys begin clicking beneath his voice. “Give me a minute.”

Instead of going home, I hail a cab and give the driver Cole’s address. While Sasha works, I need to see the apartment for myself. The ride passes in silence except for the murmur of the radio and the hiss of tires over wet pavement.

Cole’s door is unlocked but closed. I push it open slowly, and the sight beyond it turns my blood cold.

The apartment has been destroyed. Furniture lies overturned, photographs are smashed, and Cole’s belongings have been scattered across the floor as though someone wanted to hurt every piece of him they could reach. Broken glass crunches beneath my boots as I step inside. A lamp lies beside the couch, its shade crushed beneath one leg of the coffee table, and a dark smear of blood marks the edge of the kitchen counter.

“Uhm. He’s in Ravensburg,” Sasha says through the phone.

I pace through the wreckage, jaw tightening. “I know, Sasha. Where in Ravensburg?”

“What the hell did he do now?” The typing grows faster as he narrows the search.

“Touched what is mine for the last time.”

Near the wall, a shattered frame holds a photograph of Cole and me from last season. The crack in the glass cuts directly across Cole’s smiling face. I pick it up, staring at the damage while Sasha goes quiet.

“All right,” he says eventually. “I have an address. I’m sending it now. Be careful, Vik. Your old man has been drinking more than usual, and he isn’t stable.”

I hang up without answering and place the photograph back where it belongs.

The address Sasha sends is less than twenty minutes away. The ownership record attached to it carries a name I know too well: Sergei Petrov. My father bought the apartment during my rookie year without ever telling me it existed.

Before leaving Cole’s building, I pull my hood over my head. The black leather gloves I wore out of the hospital are still on my hands. The cold bites at the narrow strip of exposed skin above my collar as I walk, but it does nothing to touch the rage beneath it. If anything should frighten me, it is how calm I feel.

My father’s building is an old brick walk-up wedged between two newer developments, its entrance recessed beneath a rusted metal awning. The intercom is cracked and dead, and above the doorway is only a pale square where a camera might once have been mounted. Inside, weak yellow lights hum over peeling wallpaper, and the narrow hall smells of dust, damp plaster, and old cooking oil.

When I knock, the door opens almost immediately.

My father is already drunk. His face is flushed, his eyes wet and unfocused, and one hand braces against the frame to keep him upright.

“Viktor,” he says, surprise briefly cutting through the slur.

I shove him backward, step inside, and lock the door behind me.