Page 64 of Hold the Line

Every “sorry,” every awkward pat on the shoulder, every sympathetic look makes Viktor’s neck go rigid. I can feel the tension rolling off him in waves, that quiet, dangerous irritation he gets when people try to poke at things he doesn’t want touched. His thumbs are still stroking my cheeks, but his body has gone rigid beside the couch. I reach up with my good hand and grip his wrist, trying to ground him while my own head is spinning from the shots and the sheer weirdness of the moment.

“Listen everyone,” Viktor says, carrying that commanding weight that makes even drunk hockey players shut up. “I appreciate your thoughts. But I’m fine.”

A few guys still hover, mouths half-open like they want to say more, but thankfully Damian steps in like the terrifying coach he is. He thumps his cane once against the floor and starts herding people with that signature growl. “You heard him. Back to your alcohol and your bad decisions. Party’s not over just because the news is on. Move.”

The team scatters reluctantly, murmurs fading as they drift back toward the drinks and the music and the chaos. Elias is still watching us with sharp, too-aware eyes even through the drunk haze. Lena hovers for a second longer, looking between me and Viktor like she wants to ask a million questions, but she eventually lets Damian pull her away too.

Viktor doesn’t move. He stays right there, forehead still pressed to mine, breathing steady while the party ramps back up around us like nothing happened. But I can feel it—the storm under his skin, the way he’s holding himself together with pure control. And that tiny smile I saw earlier? It’s gone now, replaced by something colder. Calmer. Like the news was just an inconvenience instead of a tragedy.

“Vik…” I start again, softer this time, needing him to give me something—anything—before the questions in my head drown out the music entirely.

“Don’t worry about it, soroka,” Viktor murmurs against my skin, like that should settle everything. Like the news of his father’s death is just another inconvenience in an otherwise normal New Year’s Eve.

I nod a little even though my stomach is still twisted up in knots. The alcohol makes it easier to pretend I believe him, but the shaken feeling lingers, heavy and uncomfortable under my ribs. “Yeah… okay.”

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say after a beat, already wiggling my way out of his hold. It takes more effort than it should—my ribs scream at the movement and my wrist throbs in the brace—but I manage. Viktor frowns, that little crease appearing between his brows, his hands hovering like he wants to pull me right back. Funny. That got more of a reaction out of him than the news about his own father. Cool. Totally normal. Mhm.

He lets me go though, reluctantly, and I slip away before he can change his mind.

I don’t go to the bathroom. Instead I push through the sliding glass doors at the back of Mats’ ridiculous mansion—seriously, how does a defenseman afford this place—and step out onto the sprawling back porch. The cold night air hits me like a slap, sharp and sobering, snow falling softly in big, lazy flakes that catch the light from the house. I sink down into one of the fancy outdoor chairs, the cushions freezing under my ass, and just… stare out at the yard. The snow blankets everything in quiet white. It should be peaceful. It’s not.

My head is spinning from the shots, my ribs ache with every breath, and my mind keeps circling back to Viktor’s face when that news segment came on. The tiny smile. The complete lack of surprise. The way he said “Never better” like it was the best news he’d heard all year.

Sure, Sergei was a monster. He sent those goons to beat the shit out of me. He made Viktor’s life hell. He abused his mom. I get it. I know it. But… still his father. Not even a flicker of sadness? Not a single tear? Just that calm, almost relieved look and then a kiss like nothing happened?

I rub my good hand over my face, breath fogging in the cold air. The party noise is muffled out here, distant bass and laughter, but it feels a million miles away. I should go back inside. I should let Viktor hold me and pretend everything’s fine like I always do. But right now, sitting in the snow with my body taped together and my boyfriend acting like his dad’s death was a minor Tuesday inconvenience… I just need a minute.

“Vance.”

The voice from the patio door makes me jolt hard enough that pain flares sharp through my taped ribs. I twist around too fast, wincing, and find Mats standing there with a bottle of tequila in one hand and that easy, slightly concerned Miami smile on his face. The snow catches in his dark hair as he steps outside and closes the door behind him, muffling the party noise even more.

He drops into the chair next to mine without asking, handing me the bottle like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You good, man?”

I take it gratefully, the glass cold against my palm, and tip it back for a long pull. The tequila burns all the way down, warm and welcome. “Yeah, you know… I miss the ice.” It’s only half a lie. I do miss it. Desperately. But right now the ice feels like the least complicated thing in my head.

Mats nods, humming low in his throat as he takes the bottle back and drinks. We sit in silence for a minute, snow drifting down around us, the mansion’s warm lights spilling out across the white yard. It should be nice. Peaceful, even. But my brain won’t shut up.

I turn to him suddenly, the alcohol loosening my tongue before I can think better of it. “Are you fucking my sister?!”

Mats chokes hard on his next sip, tequila spraying as he coughs and sputters, eyes wide. “Uhm… who?” he babbles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking every bit like a man who just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Oh, come on, man! That’s my sister!!” I whine, the words dragging out long and dramatic because Mats’ guilty-as-hell reaction already told me everything I need to know. He’s definitely fucking Lena. My baby sister. In this mansion. While I’m out here taped up like a broken piñata.

Mats recovers from his choking fit, wiping tequila off his chin, and then the bastard actually snorts. A full, amused little laugh that makes me want to strangle him. “And sheee is amazing,” he drawls, that Miami charm dripping all over the words. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

I glare at him, pure sibling indignation burning through the drunk haze, and scoop up a handful of snow from the arm of the chair. My left wrist screams in protest but I don’t care—I pack it into a sad, lopsided snowball with my right hand and hurl it at his stupid head.

It goes wide. Of course it does. Wrong fucking hand, broken wrist, zero coordination. The snowball sails harmlessly past his shoulder and splats against the railing instead.

Mats laughs harder, the traitor, leaning back in his chair like this is the funniest shit he’s seen all night. “Nice arm, Hollywood. Real threatening.”

I flip him off with my good hand and steal the tequila bottle back, taking another angry swig. The snow keeps falling softly around us, the party thumping distantly inside, but all I can think about is my sister and Mats and the fact that Viktor is inside smiling about his dead father while I’m out here spiraling.

Three days later the snow in Yekaterinburg feels heavier than the snow in Ravensburg ever did. Thicker. Meaner. Like the city itself remembers every ugly thing that happened here and refuses to let it go. We had Sergei’s body flown back because this is where he belongs—buried in the dirt that raised him, far away from Cole, far away from the life I am trying to build. I could have let them put him in the ground in Ravensburg, but the thought of him being even that close to what is mine made my skin crawl. So Russia it is. One last trip to put the monster to rest.

My mother stands beside me in a black coat that looks too thin for the cold, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs as the priest speaks. We are the only ones here. No friends. No distant relatives. No one who actually mourned the man. Just us, the snow, and a priest who never knew Sergei Petrov.

“...forgiveness,” the priest says, his voice solemn and practiced, breath fogging in the freezing air. “Mercy for those who have fallen. Family is the greatest gift, even in its brokenness. Repentance cleanses the soul, and a father’s love, however imperfect, echoes into eternity...”