Page 14 of Hold the Line

But he doesn’t kiss me.

Instead, Viktor exhales roughly and gently but firmly pulls my head down until my face is pressed against his chest. My cheek lands right over his heart. I freeze as the fast thump of it fills my ears. It’s racing. Just as hard as mine.

I can feel the heat of his skin through the thin t-shirt, the rise and fall of his breathing, the way his fingers stay tangled in my hair like he can’t quite let go.

“Sleep, birdie,” Viktor says, barely above a whisper. There’s exhaustion in it. Affection too, buried so deep I almost miss it.

Birdie.

The nickname hits softer than “soroka” did. I squeeze my eyes shut, my hand fisting tighter in his shirt. My whole body is still buzzing from the almost-kiss, from the alcohol, from the way he’s holding me like I’m something precious and dangerous at the same time. I want to argue. I want to push. I want to ask him what the hell “soroka” means and why he’s calling me birdie like it means something.

But I’m so fucking tired.

I let out a shaky breath against his chest, melting into the solid warmth of him despite every instinct screaming that this is going to hurt later. His heart is still beating too fast under my ear. Mine probably sounds the same.

“Asshole,” I mumble into his shirt, the word soft and tired and fond all at once.

The second game against Vancouver is louder, meaner, and more personal than the first. The arena is packed, the crowd hostile, black and silver jerseys everywhere. We are leading by one goal early in the second period, but the satisfaction I should feel is buried under something darker. Something I have no right to feel.

Jealousy.

Luca Moreau has been flirting with Cole the entire game. Every faceoff, every stoppage, every time they skate near each other — Luca is there. Leaning in too close during line changes, saying something that makes Cole laugh that bright, sharp laugh I know too well. Touching Cole’s shoulder with his stick. Grinning at him like they shared something last night that I have no claim to.

I have no right to be pissed.

I was the one who pulled Cole against my chest last night and told him to sleep. I was the one who could not give him more. And yet every time Luca looks at him, my blood burns.

The puck drops again in the neutral zone. Elias wins it cleanly and sends it back to me at the point. I carry it forward, eyes scanning. Cole is streaking up the right wing, still riding the adrenaline high from whatever chaos he and Elias got into last night.

Luca cuts across to challenge him. He overcommits, chasing Cole with that cocky grin still plastered on his face. I accelerate hard, legs burning, and step into the lane with perfect timing. The hit is legal. Clean, but brutal.

My shoulder drives into Luca’s chest at full speed, lifting him slightly before slamming him into the boards with a thunderous crash. The sound echoes through the arena. He folds, his stick flying, breath knocked out of him. The whistle blows immediately.

I stand over him for half a second, breathing hard, staring down at the man who thought he could put his hands on Cole last night. Who thought he could flirt with what is mine.

The crowd boos. My teammates tap their sticks on the boards in approval. Cole skates over, eyes wide, but there is something else in them too—surprise, heat, maybe even understanding. “Jesus, Petrov,” he mutters as he passes me on the way to the bench, quiet enough for only me to hear. “You trying to kill him or just marking territory?”

I do not answer. I just skate toward the penalty box—two minutes for boarding, completely worth it.

I should not feel this possessive.

Luca Moreau is already back on the ice, cockier than ever. The hit I laid on him only seemed to fuel him. He skates faster, chirps louder, and makes a beeline straight for Cole the moment the puck drops again.

Not to score. Not even to play the game.

He times it perfectly — catches Cole along the boards with a hard, deliberate slam. He’s taller, broader in that moment, pinning Cole against the glass with his body, forearm across Cole’s chest. They’re tangled up, sticks clashing, Luca leaning in close enough that I can see his mouth moving.

Cole twists violently, trying to break free, but Luca holds him there a second longer, saying something directly into Cole’s ear. Whatever it is, it lands. Cole’s entire body goes rigid for half a heartbeat, then explodes with movement. He spins hard, shoves Luca off with surprising force, and breaks away.

The crowd roars as Cole explodes up the ice. Elias is already there — reading him like they share the same brain. Cole threads a perfect pass through traffic. Elias one-touches it right back, and Cole buries it glove side, top corner.

We go up by two.

From the box, I watch Cole crash into Elias near the net, both of them yelling. But before he skates back, Cole’s eyes find me through the glass. There’s fire in them — anger, adrenaline, and something hotter.

I can’t help it.

I smirk. Just a small tilt at the corner of my mouth, but Cole sees it. His expression flickers — surprise, then that dangerous, bright grin that always ruins me. He taps his stick against the boards as he passes the penalty box, close enough that I can read his lips.