Page 70 of Hold the Line

Cole doesn’t miss a beat, even with my hand still on his jaw from putting the piercing away. He turns that sharp, shit-eating smile on our captain. “Nervous? Please, Curls. The only thing I’m nervous about is how bad you’re gonna look trying to keep up with me after two months of me being the smartest one on the bench. Try not to trip over your own skates out there, yeah?”

Elias barks a laugh and shoves Cole’s shoulder lightly. “Big talk for a guy who’s been eating my cooking for two months because he can’t be trusted in a kitchen.”

Before Cole can fire back, Damian’s voice cuts through the locker room like a whip. “Enough! Get your asses on the ice. Now. Wolves aren’t going to wait for you idiots to finish your comedy routine.”

The team starts moving as we head toward the tunnel. I stay close to Cole the whole way, one hand resting on the small of his back, guiding him through the chaos.

We step onto the ice and the roar of the crowd hits us like a wave. Cole’s whole body lights up beside me, that restless energy snapping back into place the second his blades touch the sheet.

The first period starts and the Wolves come out aggressive, just like we expected. The puck drops and the game explodes into motion. Cole is right there with us, but it takes him a few shifts to settle back into the rhythm. He is not quite as fast as he was before the injury, not yet, and I can see him taking it easy, playing smarter instead of faster. His shifts are shorter than usual. He complains about it to Damian on the bench, voice loud and dramatic even through the cage.

“Come on, Coach, I’m fine! Give me a full shift, I can handle it!”

Damian ignores him completely, eyes locked on the ice, cane tapping once against the boards like punctuation. Cole huffs but doesn’t push it further. Smart.

Elias and Tyler are right there whenever Cole needs a break, covering for him seamlessly, the line chemistry still intact even after two months. When Elias and Cole connect on a beautiful give-and-go in the neutral zone, Cole buries the puck glove-side with that signature Hollywood flair. The arena erupts. Cole grins like there is no tomorrow, arms up, skating straight into Elias for a celly that looks more like a tackle. I allow myself a small smirk behind my cage. That’s my little birdie.

The Wolves are pushing hard, trying to exploit our defense, especially when the rookies are out there. They manage to get a few chances, quick transitions and dirty plays, but Shane is a wall in net tonight, stopping everything with that chaotic energy of his. The crowd is loud, the bench is loud, and the game feels exactly like it should.

I spot Mason Richter across the ice during a line change — the big Chicago defenseman, 6’7” of old-school brutality. We have not faced each other in a while. A slow smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. I love playing against Mason. He is one of the few who can actually match me physically, who doesn’t back down when I step up. It makes the game sharper. Better.

I tap my stick on the boards and glide out for my next shift, eyes already tracking the big Wolves defenseman. Cole is on the bench watching, still buzzing from his goal, and I feel his gaze on me like a touch.

The shift starts and Mason Richter is right there, big body looming, stick active, eyes locked on me with that familiar glint. We crash into each other almost immediately — shoulder to shoulder, a heavy battle along the boards as he tries to muscle past me toward Shane. The crowd erupts, the roar shaking the arena as we fight for position. He is one of the few who can actually match me physically, all brute strength and old-school hockey violence. I love it. The hit is clean but hard, and for a few glorious seconds it is just the two of us battling like the rest of the game does not exist.

Mason grins through his cage, breathing hard. “Heard you got yourself a little pitbull barking from the bench these days, Petrov. Cute. He always this loud when you’re out here working?”

I rarely chirp anyone. It is not my style. But the words slip out before I can stop them, low and sharp as I shove him off the puck and clear it up the ice. “Better a pitbull than a lapdog who still cries about last season’s finals. Keep your head up, Richter. Wouldn’t want you missing the view when we shut you down again.”

Mason barks a laugh, impressed, and we collide again, the hit rattling both of us. The crowd is losing it, chants and boos mixing in a beautiful chaos. From the bench I can hear Cole chirping loud and protective, voice carrying over the noise.

“That’s right, Vik! Put him in the cheap seats! Big Tree don’t play!”

His voice is fierce, proud, the kind of support that settles warm in my chest even as I battle Mason for the puck. But then something shifts. Cole goes quiet. I catch a glimpse of him on the bench as we skate past — arms crossed, eyes narrowed, staring at the two of us with an intensity that is not just game focus. Jealous. Possessive. The way he watches Mason and me battle it out makes the corner of my mouth twitch under my cage.

Mason notices too. “Your boy’s glaring daggers over there. Jealous type, huh?”

I don’t answer. I just drive my shoulder into him harder, winning the puck clean and sending it up to Elias. Cole is still quiet on the bench when I glide past for the line change, eyes locked on me like he is trying to decide whether he wants to kiss me or fight me later.

Cole’s next shift comes and he explodes onto the ice like he has something to prove. The jealousy is rolling off him in waves — I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the sharper cuts of his blades, the way his eyes lock on Mason the second he steps on the sheet. He goes straight for the big Wolves defenseman, playing way more aggressively than he should after two months off. A hard shoulder check into Mason’s chest, stick work a little too close to the hands, skating right into battles he used to play smarter.

“Easy, soroka,” I mutter as I skate in to support him, but he is already chirping.

Mason laughs, clearly enjoying the fire. “Look at this. The little pitbull finally off the leash. You gonna bite me, Hollywood, or just bark?”

Cole spits venom right back, voice sharp and fast. “Keep Viktor’s name out of your mouth, you oversized meathead."

Mason’s grin widens, eyes flicking between me and Cole as we battle along the boards. He knows exactly what he is doing. We have played against each other for years, even before the Reapers, and he has always loved pushing buttons. “Aw, cute. You know Viktor used to let me buy him drinks after rough games back in the day? Real friendly. Told me all kinds of things about how he likes it when someone can actually match him physically. You think you can keep up with that, kid?”

Cole’s eyes flash with pure jealousy. He glares at Mason, then shoots a hard look my way like I personally betrayed him. “Bullshit. Viktor wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.”

Elias skates in fast, trying to reel him back. “Cole! Focus on the puck, not the mouthy asshole! Save it for after the whistle!”

I grab Cole’s jersey lightly, pulling him back from another reckless hit. “Soroka. Breathe. He is baiting you.”

But Cole is too far gone. The next time Mason gets near him, Cole chirps even harder. “Keep dreaming, Richter. Viktor’s mine. You had your chance and clearly couldn’t handle it if he never mentioned you once.”

Mason laughs loud and delighted, loving every second. “Oh he mentioned me plenty. Ask him about that road trip in juniors. Real memorable nights. Guy’s got stamina, I’ll give him that.”