Chapter 11
He’s back.
Viktor fucking Petrov is back from Russia like nothing happened, like he didn’t disappear to deal with whatever hell he won’t talk about, like he didn’t kiss me in that Vancouver shower and then vanish.
And since he returned? It’s worse than before.
Not a word. Not even the usual heavy stare I’ve gotten used to over the years.
Yesterday after practice I cracked and asked him outright if he was okay.
He just looked at me with those dark eyes, gave one single nod, and walked away.
Left me standing there like an idiot staring after his massive back.
So yeah. I’m pissed. And when I’m pissed, I play like a demon.
Elias slams into me on the bench during a line change, shoulder checking me hard enough to rattle my pads as he drops down beside me. “Jesus, Hollywood,” he laughs. “You trying to end their season single-handedly or what? That last pass was filthy.”
I flash him a grin that feels more like a snarl, wiping sweat from my face with my jersey sleeve. “They’re in my way. Not my fault they skate like they’re stuck in molasses.”
He chuckles but I catch the worried flicker in those green eyes as he studies me a beat too long.
He’s been doing that all night—throwing me those little concerned looks every time we hit the bench.
Captain mode mixed with best friend radar.
He knows something’s off. Of course he does.
But I just tap my stick against the boards and keep my eyes on the ice as our next shift gets called.
The media circus started the second they saw pictures of me and Alex leaving my apartment after Thanksgiving.
Some fan caught us saying goodbye on the sidewalk—his hand on my arm, me smiling down at him like a normal person for once—and suddenly it’s all anyone wants to talk about.
Not the fact that we’re defending champs.
Not the way Elias is leading like a goddamn prodigy.
Not even Viktor’s quiet return to the blue line.
No. It’s all “Cole Vance spotted with mystery guy” and “Is Hollywood off the market?”
Zara is losing her mind. She cornered me this morning before we flew out, sharp eyeliner and sharper glare, tablet in hand.
“Is this serious?” she asked, straight to the point like always.
I hesitated—just for a second, thinking about Viktor’s stupid face and the way my chest still aches every time I look at him—and that was all she needed.
She exhaled through her nose like I’d personally ruined her week and muttered something about damage control before storming off to handle the swarm of reporters asking the most ridiculous questions.
Hockey doesn’t even matter anymore, apparently.
One blurry photo and suddenly the press wants to know if Alex is moving in, if we’re exclusive, if I’m “settling down.” It’s exhausting.
And the worst part? Part of me wishes it was serious.
Alex is good. Kind. Here. He doesn’t disappear or look at me like I’m both everything and nothing at the same time.
But Viktor is on the ice right now, massive and silent as ever, shutting down Wranglers forwards like it’s nothing. Every time I find him my stomach twists. He hasn’t looked at me once tonight. Not even when I set him up for that perfect shot in the first period that he buried glove-side. Nothing.
I push off the boards as our line jumps back out, skates carving into the ice. The roar of the crowd fades into background noise. All I see is the puck, the orange jerseys, and the burning need to hit something.
I’m deep in their zone, chasing a loose puck along the boards when one of their bigger defensemen—some meathead who’s been gunning for me all night—decides he’s had enough of my speed.
He barrels in like a freight train, pinning me hard against the glass with a vicious shove that rattles my teeth and sends pain shooting through my shoulder.
The boards groan under the impact. My helmet smacks against the plexiglass.
For a second everything blurs—orange jersey, heavy breathing, the scent of sweat and aggression.
He’s trying to hold me there, chirping something about me being distracted by my new boyfriend, but I’m already twisting, fighting for space, stick jammed between us.
Then Viktor is there. Like always. That massive frame crashes in like a goddamn wrecking ball, peeling the Wrangler off me with brutal efficiency, one gloved hand shoving the guy back hard enough that he stumbles.
Viktor’s eyes flick toward me for half a second—checking, protecting, the same silent routine we’ve had for years—and something in me just snaps.
Before I can think, before the rational part of my brain can catch up to the rage boiling in my chest, my fist is flying.
It connects with Viktor’s jaw with a solid, stupid crack.
Pain explodes up my arm instantly—punching a Russian brick wall was never going to feel good—but I don’t care.
I hiss through my teeth, cursing loudly as I shake out my hand.
“What the fuck, Petrov,” I growl, venomous even as the arena seems to hold its breath.
Damian’s roar cuts across the ice like a gunshot, so loud I’m convinced the entire building heard it. “VANCE!”
The refs are everywhere at once, whistles shrieking in confusion.
They don’t know what the hell to do—teammate on teammate violence isn’t exactly standard procedure.
I’m still breathing hard, glaring at Viktor who’s standing there like a statue, not even reacting to the punch like the unflappable bastard he is.
One of the referees grabs my arm, looking bewildered.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demands, already starting to drag me toward the penalty box.
“He pissed me off!” I huff, yanking against his grip even though my knuckles are screaming.
“That’s your own defense!” the referee groans, literally hauling me across the ice like I’m a misbehaving kid. The crowd is losing its mind—boos and confused cheers mixing together as I get shoved into the box.
I drop onto the bench, still fuming, cradling my sore hand while the game tries to restart around me. Viktor is already back at his position like nothing happened, but I can feel the weight of the entire team’s eyes on me. Elias is staring from the bench. Damian looks ready to murder me.
The Wrangler gets called for the roughing too, which is the only small mercy in this shit-show.
We both end up in the penalty boxes, staring each other down through the glass like it’s some kind of fucked-up staring contest. He’s breathing hard, helmet half-off, looking at me with this raised eyebrow that screams what the actual fuck is wrong with you, man?
Like he can’t believe I just clocked my own teammate in the middle of a game.
I hold his gaze for a beat, then flip him off with my good hand, slow and deliberate, before slumping back against the bench with a groan.
My knuckles are throbbing like a bitch. Punching Viktor is officially the dumbest thing I’ve done in weeks, and that’s saying something.
The penalty kills feel eternal. I watch the game through the glass as the team plays four-on-four.
Viktor is a wall as always, shutting shit down without a single word or glance in my direction.
Elias is flying, trying to keep the momentum going, but I can see the tension in his shoulders every time the camera pans toward our bench.
When my two minutes are finally up, I explode out of the box and back onto the ice, determined to channel every ounce of this rage into burying the Wranglers even deeper.
The third period is no better. I’m still playing like I’ve got something to prove—maybe to Viktor, maybe to myself, maybe to the entire fucking arena—but it’s reckless now, not smart.
I’m taking hits I don’t need to, chirping louder than usual, pushing every boundary.
Damian looks like he’s two seconds away from benching my ass for the rest of the game.
I catch him glaring from behind the boards more than once, promising murder, his cane planted like he’s physically holding himself back from dragging me off the ice himself.
But Elias keeps intervening—leaning in close during line changes, muttering shit like “not now, Cap, we need him” with that feral little smirk that usually gets him whatever he wants. Somehow, it works. I stay in.
We win. 6-2. The final horn sounds and the guys pile onto the ice in celebration, but the victory feels hollow in my chest. I skate through the handshake line on autopilot, avoiding Viktor’s gaze like it might actually kill me this time.
The Wranglers are pissed, shoving and chirping on their way off, but I barely register it.
By the time we make it back to the locker room, the storm clouds have gathered.
Zara is already waiting, arms crossed, looking like she’s ready to commit murder in her perfectly tailored blazer.
Her sharp eyes lock onto me the second I step through the door, and I can practically see the PR nightmare headlines flashing behind them.
Damian is right behind her, leaning on his cane.
The rest of the team goes quiet fast—gear clattering softly, guys exchanging looks like they know exactly how bad this is about to get.
I drop onto the bench in front of my stall, peeling off my gloves with my uninjured hand, the adrenaline finally crashing and leaving nothing but exhaustion and regret in its wake. My sore knuckles are already bruising. Perfect.
I barely get my gloves off before the storm hits. Damian’s voice cuts through the locker room like a fucking whip crack, low and lethal in that way that makes every single guy freeze mid-motion. “Vance.”