Page 58 of Hold the Line

I try to sit up and immediately wince at the sharp pain in my ribs, a hiss escaping through my teeth. The movement makes Viktor look at me instantly, his hand coming to rest gently on my shoulder to keep me down.

“Good morning, little bird,” he says, but there is something careful in it his voice, like he is waiting for me to remember something.

I frown, confused, especially as every person in the room starts fussing over me. Lena is suddenly at my side with a glass of water, and Elias is adjusting the pillows behind me. My body hurts in ways I do not understand — ribs aching, left wrist throbbing under a bandage, my face feeling swollen and tender. The last thing I remember is being in my apartment, waiting for pizza. Then… nothing.

“What… happened?” I ask, disoriented as I look around at all of them.

Viktor’s hand stays on my shoulder. “You got into a fight,” he says simply, but there is something heavy in his eyes, like there is more he isn't saying yet.

I blink at him, trying to process. A fight? I don't remember fighting anyone.

Elias jumps in before anyone else can say anything as he throws his hands up like he is telling the greatest story ever. “Okay, so picture this — our boy Hollywood here gets jumped in his own apartment by four absolute idiots who clearly did not know who they were messing with. But Cole being Cole, he put up one hell of a fight before they got the upper hand. I found him unconscious, called Lena, and here we are. You’re a hero, man. A very bruised, very stubborn hero.”

He makes it sound like an epic tale instead of the terrifying thing it apparently was, and somehow it helps. The mood in the room lightens just a little as Elias keeps going, gesturing wildly and adding ridiculous details that probably didn't happen but make me snort despite the pain. I start remembering bits and pieces — the knock on the door, the men pushing in, the fight, the pain. It is hazy and fragmented, but it's coming back.

Damian and Viktor both assure me quickly that the four men are now in jail, their voices overlapping in that steady, protective way that makes me feel a little safer. “They were hired through someone else,” Damian says gruffly. “They don’t know who paid them, and they’re not getting out anytime soon.”

But then it hits me. I cannot play hockey for the next few weeks. I immediately pout, the realization sinking in like a bad hit. “Wait… I’m benched? For weeks? That’s bullshit. I just got back. I was playing so good—”

Elias laughs, ruffling my hair carefully. “You almost died, you dramatic idiot. The ribs and wrist need time. You’ll survive.”

I groan, sinking back against the pillows as everyone starts fussing over me again.

“Alright, since our winger is awake and alive, we’ll leave you to it,” Damian says, pushing himself up with his cane. “Ladies, let’s go. I’ll take you home.”

He turns to Viktor. “You got everything you need?”

Viktor nods once. Then the weirdest thing happens. Damian and Viktor look at each other like they are having a telepathic damn conversation. Damian studies every little tell on Viktor’s face — the tension in his shoulders, the look in his eyes. Viktor just stares back, calm and unreadable. When Damian is satisfied, he nods like they reached some silent agreement nobody else in the room understands. It's the kind of wordless communication only people who have been through hell together can have.

They all start filing out, but not before Viktor’s mother comes over and gives both of us a kiss on the cheek. Her lips are soft and warm, her hand gentle as she cups my face for a second. “Rest well, Cole. I will see you soon.” She does the same to Viktor, whispering something in Russian that makes his shoulders relax just a fraction.

The door clicks shut behind them, and suddenly it's just Viktor and me in the quiet of his bedroom. The pain in my ribs is a dull throb thanks to the meds, but the confusion and the worry are still there, swirling under the surface. I look at him, searching his face for whatever silent conversation he just had with Damian.

“Vik…” I start, my voice still rough. “What was that about?”

He doesn't answer right away. He just climbs onto the bed carefully, lying down beside me and pulling me gently against his chest, mindful of my injuries. His hand finds mine, fingers threading together like he needs the contact as much as I do. “Later,” he murmurs against my hair. “Right now, just rest. I’ve got you.”

I want to push. I want to know what happened, why he looks like he is carrying the weight of the world again. But the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart under my ear, and the exhaustion still lingering in my body win out.

I wake up again a little later, the room dim and quiet except for the low sound of tape playing on Viktor’s laptop. He is sitting in the chair by the bed, watching game footage with that focused intensity he gets when he is studying opponents. I shift a little, my ribs aching dully, and moan sleepily. “Mmh… Vik… Vik!!”

He looks over at me immediately, the serious expression softening. “Yes, magpie?”

“Is my jacket here?” I ask, still half-asleep but determined.

Viktor raises an eyebrow at me but gets up without question. He comes back a few minutes later with my Reapers winter jacket, holding it out to me. I grin, still loopy from the meds, and make grabby hands at him like a toddler. “Ah… gimme gimme!!”

He hands it over with a small, fond smile, watching as I start digging through the pockets with clumsy fingers. I find it — the small box I had wrapped for him on Christmas, the one I never got to give him because everything went to hell. My heart does a little flip as I pull it out, the wrapping a little crumpled but still intact.

I hold it out to him, suddenly nervous despite the pain meds making everything feel soft and floaty. “For you. I… didn’t get to give it to you on Christmas. Sorry it’s late.”

Viktor takes the box carefully, sitting on the edge of the bed as he looks at me. His fingers trace the wrapping for a second before he starts opening it, eyes flicking up to mine every few seconds like he cannot quite believe I got him something.

He opens the small box carefully, and I watch his face. Inside is a silly little keychain I picked out — a cartoonish tree with big muscles and a tiny hockey stick, with the words “Big Tree” engraved on the back in bold letters. I got it because I remembered calling him that in Russian during one of our nights together, the words slipping out in my clumsy accent, and how it made him laugh then. I wanted to see that laugh again.

For a second he just stares at it. Then Viktor lets out a real, rare laugh — warm and surprised, the kind that makes his shoulders shake and his eyes crinkle at the corners. The sound fills the room and something tight in my chest loosens instantly. He holds up the keychain, grinning at me like I am the funniest person alive.

“Big Tree?” he asks as he dangles it between us. “You remembered that?”