Chapter 9
Thanksgiving hits differently this year.
My apartment smells like actual food instead of the usual takeout regret, thanks to Damian and Elias basically taking over my kitchen.
The two of them have been in there for hours — Damian moving around with that quiet efficiency even while favoring his bad leg, Elias chirping nonstop and stealing tastes when he thinks no one is looking.
I’m shit at cooking, so I didn’t even pretend to help.
I just set the table and tried to look useful.
Alex is here. He’s sitting on my couch in a soft cream sweater, looking unfairly cute and a little nervous about being around the captain and his husband.
We’ve gotten closer over the last few weeks.
Nothing explosive. Nothing that sets my whole world on fire.
Just… nice. He laughs at my jokes, lets me pull him close when we watch movies, kisses me like I’m someone worth staying for. It should be enough.
It’s not.
But I can’t keep waiting for a miracle from Viktor. Not after a month of silence. Not after he kissed me like I was oxygen and then walked away like I was poison.
“Table’s ready!” Elias calls from the kitchen, voice bright and a little manic. He’s wearing one of Damian’s old Reapers shirts and an apron that says “Kiss the Captain” — which is ridiculous and perfect.
Damian limps out carrying a massive turkey like it weighs nothing, setting it down in the center of the table with a grunt. His eyes flick toward me for a second, then to Alex, then back. He doesn’t say anything, but I catch the subtle lift of his eyebrow. He knows. Of course he knows.
We all sit down. Elias is vibrating with chaotic energy, telling stories about last year’s Thanksgiving when they were still pretending they weren’t completely obsessed with each other. Alex laughs softly at the right moments, his hand brushing mine under the table.
I smile back at him and squeeze his fingers.
This is good. This is what I should want. A sweet guy who doesn’t make me feel like I’m constantly one wrong move away from falling apart. Someone who stays.
Alex and I agreed this was casual—no labels, no promises, no exclusivity—but sometimes I catch the way he looks at me and wonder if he wants more than I can give.
We’re just sitting down at the table, plates loaded with way more food than four people should ever attempt to eat, when a loud, aggressive bang echoes through my apartment.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Alex startles so hard he nearly knocks over his water glass. Elias freezes mid-reach for the mashed potatoes. Damian just raises one eyebrow, looking mildly annoyed like he already knows exactly who it is.
I push my chair back and head to the door, muttering under my breath. “If this is some delivery guy with the wrong address, I swear to God—”
I open the door and then the entire Reapers team is standing in my hallway.
Shane at the front with a massive casserole dish, grinning like a maniac.
Mats behind him holding two pies. Tyler and Jace juggling bags of side dishes.
Roman with a bottle of vodka in each hand.
Even Zara is there, looking impeccably put-together in a black coat, carrying what looks like a fancy charcuterie board.
“What the fuck?!” I mumble, blinking at the invasion.
Before I can say anything else, they start pouring in like a tidal wave of loud, sweaty, hockey-flavored chaos.
Shane shoulders past me with a “Move it, Hollywood, this is heavy,” while Elias laughs, delighted, from the table.
Within thirty seconds my living room is completely occupied — guys sprawled on the couch, sitting on the floor, leaning against walls, food bags and dishes covering every available surface.
Alex is still at the table, eyes huge, looking like he’s about to combust on the spot. His face has gone bright red, and he’s gripping his fork like it’s a lifeline. The entire starting lineup of his favorite team is now crammed into my apartment like it’s completely normal.
I snort at the look on his face, unable to help it. Poor guy went from a quiet Thanksgiving with me, Damian, and Elias to suddenly being surrounded by professional hockey players and their very sharp PR coordinator.
“Surprise!” Shane yells, already setting his casserole down and claiming space on my couch. “We figured if we left you to cook, we’d all die of food poisoning. So we brought reinforcements.”
Zara gives me a dry look as she passes. “Try not to make my job harder tonight, Vance.”
I close the door behind the last straggler, still half in shock, and lean against it for a second. My tiny apartment has never felt smaller. Or louder.
Alex stares at me, wide-eyed and overwhelmed, and I can’t help the soft laugh that escapes. I walk over and squeeze his shoulder gently. “Welcome to the family, I guess,” I murmur.
He looks like he might faint.
Within ten minutes of the team invading, it feels like a full-blown Reapers locker room exploded in my living room.
Food is everywhere — casseroles, pies, trays of wings, multiple turkeys, bottles of beer and vodka.
Shane is already on his second plate, telling some unhinged story about last year’s Thanksgiving when he tried to “bless” the turkey with ritual symbols and almost burned Damian’s kitchen down.
Mats is flirting shamelessly with Zara, who keeps shutting him down with increasingly creative threats.
Tyler and Jace are wedged on the couch with the rookies, wide-eyed and trying to keep up.
Elias and Shane have zeroed in on Alex like sharks smelling fresh blood.
“So, Alex,” Elias says, leaning forward with that feral grin. “How’d you manage to bag Hollywood? Did you have to fill out an application? Because we’ve got a very strict vetting process.”
Shane nods solemnly, his mouth full of mashed potatoes. “Yeah. We need to know your intentions. Are you in it for the abs? The TikTok fame? Or are you secretly a spy for Vancouver?”
Alex turns bright red, looking like he wants the couch to swallow him whole.
He glances at me for help, and I can’t help but laugh as I wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer.
“Leave him alone, you animals,” I say, pointing my fork at both of them.
“Alex is a good guy. Unlike some people in this room who shall remain nameless but whose names rhyme with Shmane and Shmias.”
Elias gasps dramatically. “Rude! I’m an angel.”
Shane cackles. “He brought you here during Thanksgiving. That’s basically marriage in hockey years. We need details. How nervous were you when you met Cole? Did you stutter? Did you cry?”
Alex hides his face in my shoulder, mortified but laughing softly. I rub his back, grinning. It’s sweet — the way he’s trying so hard, blushing every time someone teases him. These moments feel easy.
For a little while, I let myself enjoy it.
The chaos. The food. The loud, ridiculous family I somehow ended up with.
Alex fits in better than I expected — quiet but polite, answering their ridiculous questions with shy honesty.
Elias eventually takes pity on him and starts telling embarrassing stories about me instead, which has the whole room howling.
Then Shane pauses mid-bite, blinking as he looks around the crowded living room like he’s doing inventory.
“Where’s Petrov?” he asks suddenly.
The room quiets a little as everyone starts glancing around, as if Viktor has been here the whole time and they just misplaced the 6’6” Russian brick wall.
“Russia,” Damian says casually, spearing another piece of turkey.
Russia.
I try to keep my face neutral, keep smiling, keep laughing at whatever stupid story Shane is telling, but I feel the shift hit me like a blindside hit. My shoulders tense. My grip on my fork tightens. The noise of the room fades into background static for a second.
Viktor is in Russia.
He went back. To the place he hates. The place full of memories he never talks about. And he didn’t say a word to me. Not a text. Not a heads-up. Nothing.
Alex notices almost immediately. He leans in closer, soft and concerned under the chaos of the team yelling over each other. “Hey… you okay?”
I blink, forcing my grin back into place like muscle memory. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Just spaced out for a second. Too much food, too much sugar, you know how it is.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but before he can push, Elias swoops in like the chaotic guardian angel he is. He grabs Alex by the shoulders with both hands.
“Alex! You’re on my team for charades. Come on, we’re gonna destroy these losers.”
Alex lets out a surprised laugh as Elias drags him toward the living room, shooting me one last worried look over his shoulder. I give him a thumbs up and a wink, pretending everything is fine.
The second they’re gone, I slip into the kitchen, bracing my hands on the counter and closing my eyes for a second.
Just one second. I breathe in deep through my nose, trying to push down the ache that’s been living in my chest for a month.
Russia. He’s in fucking Russia. And I’m here playing happy couple with a sweet guy who deserves better than someone who can’t stop thinking about a man who kissed him and then ran.
I hear the familiar heavy step of Damian’s cane behind me. “He’s being stupid, you know,” Damian says suddenly.
I lift my head to look at him. He’s leaning against the doorway, watching me with that steady, knowing look only he can pull off. “Yeah,” I mutter, resigned. My voice cracks just a little. “I know.”
Damian doesn’t push. He just nods once, like that’s all that needs to be said, and limps back toward the chaos in the living room. I stay in the kitchen a moment longer, staring at the counter, the sounds of my team laughing and yelling filtering in like they’re miles away.
It’s past midnight by the time the last Reaper leaves my apartment.
The place is a disaster — empty beer bottles, half-eaten pie plates, random pieces of hockey gear someone left behind. But it’s quiet now.
Alex is asleep in my bedroom, curled up under my sheets wearing one of my old jerseys. He looked so happy when I gave it to him earlier, shy and glowing. Sweet. Good. The kind of guy who deserves someone who isn’t half in love with a ghost.
I’m sprawled on the couch in nothing but basketball shorts, legs hanging off the armrest, phone glowing in my hand. The apartment is dark except for the blue light of my screen. I should be asleep. I should be in bed with Alex, letting myself enjoy something easy for once.
Instead, I’m scrolling through old texts with Viktor.
Messages from two years ago. Random shit.
You coming to team dinner, soroka?
Stop calling me that, big guy.
Make me.
A blurry photo he sent me once from a road trip — just his hand holding a cup of black tea with the caption You would hate this. My reply: You know me so well it’s annoying.
I keep scrolling, my thumb moving slower and slower. The more recent ones hurt worse. Shorter. Colder. Good game. Thanks. You okay? Fine.
Then nothing.
A whole month of nothing.
I lock the phone and drop it onto my chest, staring up at the ceiling. My eyes burn. I don’t know if it’s exhaustion or something worse.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I drag a hand down my face, letting out a long, shaky breath. The apartment smells like Thanksgiving and too many hockey players. My chest feels tight. Heavy. I think about going to bed. About crawling in next to Alex and pretending this is enough.
Alex pads into the living room, sleepy and rumpled, wearing nothing but my oversized jersey. It hangs off one shoulder, the hem brushing the tops of his thighs. His hair is messy, eyes half-lidded, and he looks so soft and warm it makes something in my chest ache in a completely different way.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just crawls straight into my lap, his knees settling on either side of my hips, arms looping around my neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His face tucks into the crook of my shoulder, breath warm against my skin.
“Come to bed, baby…” he mumbles, sleepy.
I smile a little, small and tired, and slide my hands up the backs of his thighs, pulling him closer. My palms settle on smooth skin under the hem of the jersey. I press my face into his hair for a second and breathe him in.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “In a minute.”
Alex hums contentedly and snuggles in deeper. I rub slow circles on his thighs with my thumbs, trying to let the quiet comfort of him sink in. He feels good. Safe. The kind of easy affection I keep telling myself I should want.
But even with Alex warm and sleepy in my lap, my mind keeps drifting back to old texts. To that shower. To Viktor’s hand on my throat and the way he said “I can’t…” before disappearing for a month.
I close my eyes and hold Alex a little tighter, like if I just hold on hard enough, the ache in my chest might loosen.