Page 8 of Hold the Line

Cole snorts into the cup, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “Yeah, sure. Supportive. You and your husband are menaces. Both of you.”

I keep my head down, continuing to tape my stick, but I cannot stop listening. The easy banter between them is familiar. Comforting, even. But underneath it, I hear the exhaustion in Cole’s voice. The way he is still performing—smiling, teasing—while running on empty.

My hands tighten on the tape. I want to say something. I want to pull him aside and tell him to stop pretending. But I stay quiet. Because saying anything would mean admitting how badly I wanted to pull him closer last night instead of letting him suffer on the other side of the bed.

Damian claps his hands once, drawing everyone’s attention. “Listen up. Vancouver is fast and cocky. They want to make this personal. Stay sharp. Vance—get some more of that sugar in you and wake the hell up. We need our playmaker tonight.”

Cole gives a lazy salute with the colorful cup. “Yes, sir.”

I study him one more time. He still looks tired, but there is a small, real smile on his face as he sips the coffee Elias brought him. For a second, our eyes meet across the locker room. I look away first.

The warm-ups are sloppy, and the game itself starts even worse. Vancouver is fast, loud, and playing with something to prove. Their crowd is already roaring, black and silver jerseys filling the stands like a storm. I stay focused on the ice, reading plays before they happen, but my attention keeps drifting to Cole.

He is sluggish.

Not terrible—not enough that the casual observer would notice—but I see it. His usual explosive speed is half a beat slow. His hands are not as quick on the puck. He misses a simple pass during warm-ups and laughs it off, but I catch the frustration in the set of his shoulders. The lack of sleep from last night is weighing on him like chains. Because of me.

I skate closer than I should during shifts, positioning myself like a shield every time a Vanguard player drifts toward him. One of their forwards tries to pin him against the boards early in the first period. I am there before the hit lands, stepping into the lane and driving the guy back with a clean but firm check. Cole cuts me a quick look as he regains the puck, something unreadable flickering across his face before he takes off again.

I stay on him like a shadow for the rest of the period. When Luca Moreau, their flashy center, starts chirping during a faceoff, I step in close behind my right winger, my presence alone enough to make the kid shut his mouth. Elias wins the draw cleanly and sends the puck to Cole, but Cole is breathing harder than he should be.

By the time we hit the bench for a line change, I can feel the tension rolling off him. He drops down beside me, helmet pushed back, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat. For a moment he just sits there, catching his breath.

Then, after a solid shift where he threads a beautiful pass to Elias for a near-goal, Cole leans slightly toward me on the bench, his voice low enough that only I can hear it over the crowd.

“Easy there, big guy,” he murmurs, that familiar teasing edge fighting through the exhaustion. “You gonna tuck me into bed after the game too? Or just keep playing human shield all night?”

The words are light, but I hear what is underneath—the attempt to shake off the tension from last night, the careful distance we kept in that hotel bed, the way he tried so hard not to take up space. He is trying to be Hollywood again. Loud. Funny. Untouchable.

I turn my head slightly, keeping my voice low. “You were slow. Someone had to make sure you did not get killed out there.”

Cole snickers, bumping his shoulder against mine for half a second before pulling back. “Yeah, yeah. My hero. Don’t worry, I’ll wake up eventually. Probably right after I drink another one of Elias’s sugar bombs.”

He is still performing. Still trying. But the smile does not quite reach his eyes, and the exhaustion clings to him like fog. I want to tell him to stop. To sit down. To let me handle the physical stuff so he does not have to push through this on no sleep.

Instead, I just grunt and tap my stick against his once. “Focus, Vance.”

He nods, but as we hop back over the boards for the next shift, I stay closer than usual. Vancouver wants blood tonight, and I will not let them have his.

The first intermission is a blur of sweat, barked instructions, and the smell of menthol and adrenaline. We are down 2-1, but the mood in the locker room is still focused. Damian is limping more than usual as he moves between stalls, cane tapping against the floor while he gives adjustments in that low, commanding voice. Elias stays close to him like always, green eyes sharp and attentive.

I sit in my stall, wiping my face with a towel, watching Cole across the room. He still looks drained, moving like his body is running on fumes. Until Elias appears with another ridiculous coffee—this one even more colorful than the last, piled high with whipped cream and some bright blue syrup.

“Here, Hollywood,” Elias says, shoving the cup into Cole’s hands with a wicked grin. “Extra shot. Drink up.”

Cole’s eyes light up like someone flipped a switch. He takes the cup with both hands and downs half of it in one go, letting out a pleased groan. “Curls, I love you. Marry me instead of Coach.”

“Fuck off,” Damian growls from nearby, but there is no real heat in it. Elias just laughs and ruffles Cole’s damp hair before heading back to his husband.

By the time we hit the ice for the second period, the caffeine and sugar have done their job. Cole is awake again. More than awake—he is vibrating. That familiar chaotic energy is back, bouncing on his skates, stick loose in his gloves, mouth already running.

The shift starts and within thirty seconds he and Elias click like they were built for this. Cole streaks down the right wing, dekes one Vanguard defender, then threads a perfect no-look pass to Elias cutting through the slot. Elias buries it top shelf, bar down. The red light flashes. The horn blares. 2-2.

Cole crashes into Elias at the boards, helmet to helmet, both of them yelling like idiots. I skate past them, tapping my stick against Cole’s once. He flashes me that bright, dangerous grin as he pulls away.

The game tightens after that. Vancouver pushes back hard, but Cole is everywhere now—chirping their captain, flying down the wing, setting up plays with that electric vision that makes him worth every headache. By the end of the second period we have clawed our way back, and as we head into the third the scoreboard is tied at 3-3.

“Yo, Moreau!” Cole yells across the ice during a stoppage, voice carrying over the crowd. “You skating or just posing for the cameras? My grandma moves faster and she’s been dead six years!”