Page 62 of Hold the Line

I squeeze his hand under the table, grounding him. “He is right. You need to heal properly. I am not carrying your stubborn ass around the ice when you re-injure yourself.”

Cole slumps back in his chair, still sulking but looking properly cowed for once. “Fine. But I am not happy about it.”

Damian snorts, leaning back with a satisfied look. “You do not have to be happy. You just have to be smart. Now go home and rest. That's an order.”

Cole nods, leaning into my side as we stand up. I keep my arm around him as we leave the office, the weight of his body against mine a quiet reminder that he is here.

On the way home, Cole is in a mood about being benched. He sits in the passenger seat with his arms crossed, still sulking even though the pain meds are clearly still working. The second we pull out of the parking lot, he starts negotiating.

“What if I just do light drills at home?” he asks, turning those big pleading eyes on me. “Nothing crazy. Just some stickhandling. Maybe a little skating in the driveway. You can supervise me. I’ll be super careful. Promise.”

I keep my eyes on the road, but the corner of my mouth twitches. “No.”

“Come on, Vik. I’ll go crazy just sitting around. You know I will. Light drills. Very light. Like… almost not drills at all. Just moving the puck around a little. For mental health.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “You are not doing any drills. Not until the doctor clears you. No skating. No stickhandling. No ‘almost not drills.’ You are resting. That is final.”

He huffs, slumping back in his seat. “You're so mean. I'm injured and you're being mean to me. This is abuse. I'm telling Elias.”

I snort softly, reaching over to rest my hand on his thigh, squeezing gently. “You can tell Elias. He will agree with me. You need to heal, soroka. I am not watching you re-injure yourself because you are too stubborn to rest.”

Cole grumbles under his breath but leans into my touch, his hand covering mine. “Fine. But when I'm cleared, I'm doing extra drills just to spite you.”

I smile, small and fond, as I drive us home. “You can try. I will be there to make sure you do not overdo it.”

He laces our fingers together, the fight draining out of him as the car warms up and the city lights blur past.

The bass is thumping so hard I can feel it in my cracked ribs, and the whole damn house is vibrating like it’s personally offended by the concept of a quiet New Year’s Eve. Lights flash, bodies grind, and the Reapers have officially taken over Mats’ ridiculous mansion for the night—half the team already three sheets to the wind, the other half pretending they’re not about to join them. I’m parked on a leather couch that probably costs more than my first car, bandages wrapped tight around my ribs like some shitty corset, left wrist in a brace, and my face still sporting that lovely purple-green palette from the beating. Seven more weeks of this bullshit. Seven. I want to scream.

Elias is living his best chaotic life right in front of me, hair wild, shirt half-unbuttoned, dancing like a drunk golden retriever on crack. He keeps circling me, hips popping, arms flailing, chirping at the top of his lungs. “Look at you, Hollywood! Sitting there like a grumpy little mummy while the rest of us are out here living our best lives! You gonna chirp me or just sit there pouting all night?”

“Fuck you, Curls,” I fire back, grinning even though it pulls at the split in my lip. The words come out louder than necessary, alcohol burning warm in my chest. I skipped the pain meds today—Viktor gave me the choice between feeling loopy on opioids or feeling the buzz on vodka, and like the responsible adult I am, vodka won in a landslide. The ache in my ribs is a constant, throbbing reminder that I can’t even stand up and dance without wanting to die, and it’s making me pissy as hell. “At least I’m not dancing like a stripper who just discovered Red Bull. You look ridiculous.”

Elias cackles, spinning around me with zero rhythm and maximum chaos, nearly knocking over a lamp. “You’re just jealous you can’t join the monkey parade! Come on, one little shimmy! I’ll hold your good hand!” He grabs my uninjured arm and tries to tug me up, but I hiss through my teeth as pain flares hot across my side. He immediately lets go, eyes wide and apologetic even through the drunk haze. “Shit, sorry, sorry—delicate mummy, right. No dancing for the injured princess.”

“Princess my ass,” I mutter, taking another long pull from my drink. The alcohol helps dull the edge, but it also makes everything sharper in the worst way—the frustration, the restlessness, the way my body feels trapped in all this tape and gauze. I want to move. I want to crash into people and laugh too loud and forget the last few days ever happened. Instead I’m stuck here watching Elias twerk like an idiot while the rest of the team howls encouragement. Shane’s already filming it for blackmail material. Jace is trying to copy him and failing spectacularly. It’s perfect chaos, and I’m sidelined like a fucking spectator.

My eyes drift toward the bar across the room. Viktor’s there, leaning against the counter like he owns the place, his eyes scanning the crowd until they land on me. He’s nursing a coffee—coffee, on New Year’s Eve, while the rest of us are destroying our livers. Suspicious as hell. Damian’s next to him, swirling his usual scotch, saying something low that makes Viktor’s jaw tighten for half a second before he nods. They’ve been thick as thieves tonight, that silent captain-alternate conversation bullshit they do. I narrow my eyes. Something’s up with my man, but the vodka and the ache are making it hard to chase the thought.

Elias drops onto the couch beside me with a dramatic flop, slinging an arm around my shoulders—careful, at least—and grinning like a menace. “Aw, don’t look so grumpy, Hollywood. Vik’s been staring at you like he wants to carry you upstairs and kiss every bruise better. It’s disgusting. I love it.”

“Shut up,” I grumble, but I can’t stop the stupid little smile. Even pissed off and hurting, the way Viktor watches me like I’m the only person in the room still settles something deep in my chest. “He’s drinking coffee. On New Year’s. Who does that?”

Elias snorts so hard he almost falls off the couch. “Probably plotting world domination with my husband. Or planning your next round of ‘rest’ which we both know means he’s gonna wrap you in bubble wrap the second you get home.” He leans in closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that’s still way too loud. “Bet you ten bucks he’s already picked out a new nickname for ‘injured and bratty Cole.’ Something like ‘Grumpy Magpie.’”

I elbow him with my good arm—gently, because even that hurts—and we dissolve into loud, messy chirping again, trading insults about each other’s dancing, our taste in men, and how Elias is definitely going to puke before midnight. The pain is still there, nagging and sharp every time I shift, but the alcohol and Elias’s ridiculous energy keep pushing it back. For a minute it almost feels normal. Almost.

But then Viktor catches my eye again from the bar, and that quiet, intense look cuts straight through the noise. He tilts his head slightly—like he can read every ounce of pissiness and pain I’m trying to drown—and something warm and possessive curls low in my stomach despite everything.

Elias must see the exact moment my mood sours because his feral grin sharpens like he’s just been handed a new mission. “Okay, okay, no dancing for the mummy. New plan!” He hops up—way too fast for someone as drunk as he is—and disappears into the crowd for about thirty seconds before returning with two shot glasses balanced precariously in one hand and a bottle of something expensive-looking in the other. He drops back onto the couch beside me with a triumphant whoop, sloshing a little liquor onto his own thigh. “Shots! We’re doing shots. You can sit, I can pour, and nobody has to move their busted ribs. Genius, right?”

I snort, already reaching for the glass he’s shoving at me. The vodka burns going down, cutting through the dull throb in my side for a blessed second. “You’re buying me a new liver after this, Curls.”

“Worth it,” he declares, clinking his glass against mine before we both throw back the next one. The alcohol hits fast on top of what I’ve already had, warming my chest and loosening the tight knot of frustration in my gut. Elias leans in close, curls brushing my shoulder, voice dropping into that conspiratorial, shit-stirring tone he gets when he’s about to be a menace. “So. While we’re sitting here like responsible adults… spill. How’s the sex with the big scary Russian now that you’re all banged up? Does he go all gentle giant, or is he still pinning you down like you owe him money?”

I choke on my next sip, laughing so hard it pulls at my ribs and makes me wince. “Jesus Christ, Eli. No warm-up?”

“Nope,” he says cheerfully, pouring us both another round. His green eyes are bright and wicked, the kind of drunk that means zero filter. “Come on, Hollywood. I tell you about Damian bending me over his desk after practice. Fair’s fair. Does Viktor still do that thing where he holds you down by the throat but kisses you like you’re made of glass? Or is he too busy brooding about your injuries to rail you properly?”