Page 7 of Hold the Line

“You know,” I murmur after a minute, voice quieter now, the teasing fading into something more raw, “it’s actually kinda funny. All this time I thought I was the only one losing my mind over that night. But you just admitted it’s not easy for you either.” I let out a tired huff of laughter. “Progress, I guess.”

Viktor shifts slightly, the mattress dipping under his weight. I feel the movement like a live wire. He still doesn’t look at me, but his jaw is tight, that controlled stillness he’s famous for starting to fray at the edges.

I swallow hard, the old hurt creeping into my voice despite my best efforts. “I’m not trying to make it weird, Vik. I just… I don’t know how to be around you anymore without remembering how it felt when you wanted me. And then decided you didn’t.”

The words hang there in the dark between us. I didn’t mean to say that much. Not tonight. Not when I’m this tired and he’s this close. I turn my face into the pillow. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. I’ll shut up now like a good little Hollywood.”

I roll over sharply, turning my back to Viktor, pulling the covers up higher like they can shield me from the mess in my head. Just sleep, asshole. Force it. My eyes squeeze shut, but my body stays wired, heart still hammering like I just finished an overtime shift.

Before I can even settle, a large, warm hand reaches across the bed and wraps gently around my wrist firm enough to stop me. Viktor’s grip is careful, his calloused thumb brushing once over the inside of my wrist, right where my pulse is racing. Heat floods up my arm like liquid fire and my body betrays me with a full-body shiver I can’t hide. I don’t pull away. I can’t.

Slowly, I turn my head back toward him. Our eyes meet in the dark, and neither of us says anything. It’s a quiet, intense stare-down—his near-black eyes locked on mine, like he’s trying to read every thought I’m desperately trying to hide. My breath catches. I don’t know what to say. I don’t think he does either.

I roll back over to face him fully. I tuck my arm under the pillow, trying to look more relaxed than I feel. “You know Damian and Elias placed bets on us, right?”

Viktor’s expression doesn’t change much, but his voice comes low and steady in the darkness. “Yes. I know. Elias already lost. Soon so will Damian.”

The words hit like a slap shot to the ribs.

Elias had said preseason games. Damian had said Halloween. It’s almost Halloween now. And if Viktor is saying Damian is going to lose too… that means he thinks nothing is going to happen between us. Ever.

“Right.” My voice comes out flat, smaller than I want it to. That weird stinging sensation spreads across my entire body. It knocks the air out of me for a second. I swallow hard, forcing the corners of my mouth up into something that might pass for a smile. “Good night, Petrov.”

I turn away again, curling in on myself, back to him. The space between us feels wider than ever now, even though we’re still in the same bed. I close my eyes tight, willing the sting behind them to fuck off. I’m still letting him break my heart in new ways without even trying.

I lie there pretending to sleep, eyes closed, breathing slow and even like I’ve drifted off. Better to just shut down. Better to let the silence win.

Minutes drag by. Maybe ten. Maybe twenty. The rain taps steadily against the window, and Viktor’s breathing stays deep and measured beside me. I’m almost convinced he actually fell asleep when I hear it—his voice, barely a whisper, so low it almost blends with the rain as he says in Russian “…you know I can’t… soroka…”

My eyes stay closed, but my heart kicks hard against my ribs. I catch the words in fragments. You know I can’t… and then that one word again. Soroka. Something about a bird?

I keep perfectly still, forcing my breathing to stay steady, pretending I’m dead to the world. Inside my head, though, my brain is wide awake and spinning. I’ve been secretly grinding Russian on those weird apps for years—Duolingo at 2 a.m., random YouTube channels, flashcards I delete the second I close them. I know enough to get by in basic conversations, but right now my mind is scrambling.

I know it’s a bird. I know it. But which one? Pigeon? Crow? Some kind of noisy scavenger? Why the fuck is he talking about a bird in the middle of the night while I’m lying right here?

The question loops in my head like a bad TikTok. What the hell is a soroka? I’m too tired to remember properly, but the word feels familiar in a way that tugs at something I can’t quite reach. He said it like it meant something. Like it hurt to say it.

Great. Just great.

Now I’m never going to fall asleep. I’m just going to lie here all night wondering why Viktor Petrov is whispering about birds in the dark.

The locker room in Vancouver buzzes with pre-game energy, but it feels muted tonight. The team is still dragging from the travel and the restless night. I sit in my stall, methodically taping my stick with slow, precise movements, trying to ignore the heavy exhaustion pulling at my eyes. I barely slept. Every time Cole shifted beside me, every quiet sigh, every memory of his words in the dark kept dragging me back to the surface. But I hide it well. Years of practice have taught me how to lock everything down.

Cole, on the other hand, is failing spectacularly.

He is slumped in front of his stall, half-dressed, his skin looking pale under the harsh lights. His movements are sluggish as he pulls on his pads, like his body is still fighting to wake up. He has not chirped anyone once. Not a single joke. Not even at the rookies. That alone tells me how bad last night was for him.

Damian limps through the room on his cane, scanning everyone with that sharp gaze. When he reaches Cole, he stops. Without warning, his hand comes down in a firm slap to the back of Cole’s head. “Wake the fuck up, Vance,” Damian growls. “This is not nap time. We’re playing Vancouver tonight. Get your head in the game.”

Cole jolts upright, blinking rapidly. “Ow—Jesus, Coach. I’m awake. Mostly.”

I watch silently from across the room as Cole rubs the back of his head, still looking half-dead. My chest tightens. I know exactly why he looks like this. Because of me. Because I could not give him the one thing he needed last night—peace.

Elias appears a moment later, holding a bright, ridiculous-looking coffee cup covered in colorful swirls and whipped cream. He drops it into Cole’s hands with a smug little grin.

Cole’s entire face lights up the second he sees it. The exhaustion cracks, replaced by genuine warmth as he wraps both hands around the cup like it is something precious. “Curls… my savior,” he mumbles. He takes a long sip and makes a happy little sound. “Though it’s your fault I look like this.”

Elias blinks innocently, green eyes wide with fake confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m just being a supportive best friend bringing you sugar and caffeine. Pure selflessness.”