Page 68 of Hold the Line

“Nah, I’m okay,” I say, even though the offer sounds dangerously tempting. “Just resting like the doctor said. Trying not to lose my mind.”

We chat for a minute about nothing important—her latest tattoo client, some drama at the shop—before the memory from New Year’s slams into me like a cheap shot. Her coming out of that hallway at Mats’ party, hair messy, lipstick smudged, looking way too satisfied.

“Wait a second,” I say, sitting up a little too fast and wincing. “Speaking of New Year’s… I saw you coming out of Mats’ bedroom. What the fuck was that about, Lena? Are you hooking up with Mats? My teammate Mats?”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end, then Lena’s signature sharp laugh. “Oh my god, you actually noticed that?”

Lena deflects playfully at first, the way she always does when she knows she’s been caught. “What, a girl can’t enjoy a nice quiet hallway at a party? You’re reading way too much into it, Hollywood.”

I narrow my eyes even though she can’t see me. “Lena. I saw your lipstick. And your hair. And the fact that you came out looking like you just got railed against a wall. Spill.”

“Okay, fine. Yes. We’ve been… hanging out. A little. He’s surprisingly good with his hands for a hockey boy, and he’s got that whole charming Miami thing going on that’s annoyingly effective.”

“ Lena!” I groan, half-laughing, half-horrified as protective big-brother mode kicks in full force. “That’s my teammate! My defensive partner! If he hurts you I’m going to have to fight him and I can’t even throw a punch right now because of this stupid wrist. What the fuck are you thinking? Is this serious or are you just using him for stress relief after tattooing weirdos all day?”

She snorts. “Relax, drama king. It’s casual. Fun. He makes me laugh and he’s surprisingly respectful when he’s not being a cocky asshole on the ice. I’m not looking for a white picket fence, Cole. I’m just enjoying myself. Unlike some people who are currently pouting on their boyfriend’s couch because they can’t skate.”

I rub my face with my good hand, the frustration and boredom and worry all mixing together into one big knot in my chest. “I just… you’re my sister. I don’t want you getting hurt by one of these idiots. Especially not while I’m stuck here unable to do anything about it.”

Lena’s voice softens just a fraction. “I know. But I can handle myself. You focus on healing and not spiraling about Viktor and whatever the hell is going on. You sound like you’re thinking too hard again.”

I sink back into the cushions. She’s not wrong. The news about Sergei is still sitting weird in the back of my mind, but right now my sister banging my teammate feels like the more immediate crisis I can actually yell about.

“What’s wrong?” Lena asks immediately when she hears my sigh, her voice sharpening the way it always does when she senses I’m full of shit.

“Nothing,” I lie, the word coming out too fast and too casual. It’s mostly paranoia anyway — stupid, half-formed thoughts that I definitely don’t want to give my sister any reason to dig into. She’s already protective enough without me planting seeds about Viktor possibly being involved in his own father’s death. “Just… bored. And sore. And missing the team. Normal injured guy stuff.”

She hums, clearly not buying it but willing to let it slide for now. “Mhm. Sure. Well, if you change your mind about me coming over, you know where I am. And stop doom-scrolling the news, idiot. It’s not good for you.”

We talk for a few more minutes — her teasing me about being a dramatic baby, me giving her half-hearted warnings about not breaking Mats’ heart (or dick) — before she has to go back to work.

I realize I’m spiraling when my thumb keeps hovering over Viktor’s contact like it’s magnetic. I’ve already typed and deleted three different messages. The paranoia is getting loud — the smile, the timing, Damian’s curse, the Russians who jumped me, all of it swirling in my head like bad highlight reel footage on loop. I need to do something. Anything. Before I call him at some ungodly hour in Russia and start interrogating him like a paranoid wife in a bad soap opera.

Cooking. That’s normal. Productive. Viktor’s kitchen is stupidly nice and I’ve barely used it since I’ve been here. Mac and cheese. Classic, idiot-proof comfort food. I can handle that. Probably.

I push myself up from the couch too fast. The room tilts for a second. I grab the back of the couch with my good hand, breathing hard through my teeth, and nearly face-plant into the coffee table when my knee buckles.

“Fuck— stupid fucking ribs— stupid fucking body—” I hiss, straightening up slowly this time, one arm wrapped protectively around my taped side. Every breath feels like I’m inhaling broken glass. I shuffle toward the kitchen like an eighty-year-old man who lost a fight with a Zamboni, muttering the entire way.

The kitchen is pristine. Viktor keeps it spotless, all sleek dark counters and fancy appliances that look like they cost more than my first car. I stare at the cabinets like they personally offended me, then yank one open with my good hand. Pots clang. A measuring cup rolls out and bounces across the floor. I curse again.

One-handed cooking is apparently a special kind of hell.

I manage to get a pot onto the stove after dropping it twice. My left wrist is useless in its brace, so every movement is clumsy and slow. I knock a spoon off the counter, then the box of macaroni when I try to grab it. Dry pasta scatters across the floor like tiny beige landmines.

“Son of a bitch,” I growl, carefully lowering myself to pick them up one by one. My ribs scream in protest the whole time. By the time I get back up, I’m sweating and already regretting every life choice that led me here.

I pull up YouTube on my phone and prop it against the knife block. “How to make mac and cheese from scratch” — because apparently I’m too dramatic for the boxed kind right now. The first video starts playing. The cheerful woman on screen makes it look stupidly easy. I follow along, cursing every step.

“Boil water. Okay, easy.” I turn the burner on too high because I’m impatient and the water takes forever. “Salt it. Sure. Whatever.” I dump in way too much salt and immediately regret it.

The macaroni goes in. I stir with the wrong hand twice and almost send the whole pot flying. I’m swearing at the pasta like it insulted my mother.

“Stir constantly so it doesn’t stick— yeah, no shit, lady,” I mutter at the video. I stir too hard and water sloshes over the side, hissing on the hot stove. The smell of burnt starch starts to rise.

I move on to the cheese sauce. Another video. This one is even more annoying because the guy keeps smiling like he’s never had a bad day in his life. I grate cheese one-handed — which takes approximately seventeen years — and keep dropping shreds onto the counter and floor. My good hand is starting to cramp. The sauce is lumpy. I add too much milk trying to fix it and it goes watery instead.

“Fuck this fucking sauce. Why is this so hard? It’s cheese and milk and pasta, for fuck’s sake—”