Chapter 23
I know I told him I would not leave. I know I meant it when I said it.
But the fear is louder than the promise right now.
The image of my father’s face, the way he looked at Cole like he was something to destroy, the violence I let loose on my own porch — it all loops in my head on repeat.
I cannot stand the idea of becoming that around him.
Yesterday morning I went to Cole’s apartment and left his Christmas present at the door. A small box with a note I could not bring myself to sign with more than my initial. He has not texted. I have not texted. Neither of us has called. The silence feels like punishment I probably deserve.
Right now I am sitting in Damian’s coach office at the rink.
No one is playing today. The arena is quiet except for the low hum of the lights.
Damian has a glass of scotch in his hand, swirling it slowly.
I refuse to touch alcohol anymore. Not after what happened on Christmas Eve.
Not after seeing what it does to men like my father.
Not after what it almost made me do around Cole.
“Petrov… fix it,” Damian says.
“I can’t,” I reply, staring at the floor.
He grunts, taking a slow sip. “Didn’t know I had a coward for defense and alternate.”
I shoot back without thinking. “Didn’t know I had a bully for coach.”
Damian snorts, the sound almost amused. “Yes you did. Fix it.”
He grabs his cane, pushing himself up from his chair.
He starts walking around the office pulling framed team pictures off the shelves from every year since Cole joined the Reapers.
One by one he slams them onto the desk in front of me, arranging them in chronological order like evidence in a trial.
“Rookie year,” Damian starts, pointing at the first photo.
It is from the season opener against Boston.
Cole is in the back row, fresh-faced and grinning, but his eyes are locked on me with this soft, awestruck look — like I hung the moon and then stole it away just to watch him chase it.
I remember that night. He scored his first NHL goal and looked at me like I was the reason the puck went in.
“Year two,” Damian continues, slamming down the next three.
The first is from the All-Star break skills competition, where Cole absolutely crushed it and then immediately looked for me in the crowd.
The second is from a late-season game against Toronto where I blocked a shot meant for him and he skated over after the whistle, his eyes shining with something I was too scared to name.
The third is from the end-of-season party, Cole half-drunk and laughing, but his gaze still found me across the room like I was the only person there.
“Year three,” Damian says as he adds three more.
The first is from the home opener, Cole scoring the game-winner and immediately pointing his stick in my direction on the bench.
The second is from a brutal road trip in Vancouver, where I protected him from a dirty hit and he looked at me afterward like I was his safe place.
The third is from the awards night, Cole in a suit, eyes soft as he watched me accept the Norris.
“Last season,” Damian continues, his voice softening just a fraction as he sets down the final three.
Elias had just joined the team. The first is from the Cup Final celebration, Cole and I standing side by side, his shoulder brushing mine while he looked at me like I was everything.
The second is from the parade, Cole jumping on my back for a photo while laughing, but the way he held on said more than the smile did.
The third is from the ring ceremony, Cole standing just a little too close, eyes on me instead of the camera.
Every single picture. Every single year. Cole looking at me like I was the center of his universe.
Damian leans on his cane, staring down at me. “Four years, Petrov. Four years of him looking at you like that. And you’re going to throw it away because you’re scared?”
I stare at the photos, the truth of it hitting me harder than any hit I have ever taken on the ice. Cole has been mine for longer than I ever let myself believe.
But then Damian gets into that sadist bastard mood of his, and reaches for another stack of photos from Cole’s rookie year, the ones taken after that night we hooked up — the night I kissed him like he was oxygen and then left before he woke up.
Damian slams them down on the desk one by one, right next to the earlier pictures.
The difference is brutal.
In the first one, from a morning skate a few days after that night, Cole is smiling for the camera but his eyes are hollow, drained.
The second is from a team dinner, him laughing at something Shane said, but the smile does not reach his eyes — he looks angry, brittle, like he is holding himself together with sheer willpower.
The third is from the plane ride home after a road trip, Cole staring out the window with this quiet, devastated expression that makes my stomach twist. There are more.
So many more. Each one showing the same thing: the light in him dimmed.
The chaos muted. The bright, loud Cole I fell for looking like someone had taken something vital from him.
Damian leans on his cane, his voice turning merciless. “This is what you did to him, Petrov. Every time you pulled away. Every time you left before he woke up. Every time you told yourself you were protecting him. This is what it looked like from the outside.”
I cannot look away from the photos. The guilt is crushing. I did that. I dimmed him. Just like I always feared I would.
Damian’s voice softens just a fraction. “He still looked at you like you hung the moon. Even when you were breaking his heart. So fix it. Before you lose him for good.”
Then Damian’s phone rings. He picks it up, softening the way he only does for one person. “Yes, pup.”
I cannot hear what Elias is saying on the other end, but I see Damian straighten up immediately, his frown deepening. “Excuse me?!” His voice sharpens. “Where are you?”
He listens for another second with his jaw tight. “Stay there. Do not leave his side. We’ll be right there.” He hangs up, face grim as he looks at me. “Cole’s in the hospital.”
I stand up so fast my chair topples over behind me, clattering loudly against the floor. “What?!”
“Someone’s beaten him up,” Damian says, already grabbing his coat, furious.
The rage that hits me is immediate and blinding, the same protective fury I feel on the ice when someone goes after him, but a thousand times worse.
Cole. In the hospital. Beaten. The thought of someone putting their hands on him makes my blood boil.
I am moving before I even realize it, heading for the door, fists clenched so hard my split knuckles ache again.
Damian is right behind me, cane thumping as he follows. “We’ll take my car. Drive fast.”
I do not need to be told twice. All I can think about is getting to Cole. Making sure he is okay. And finding whoever did this so I can make them regret ever touching what is mine.
Damian and I head straight for his SUV in the parking lot.
He tosses me the keys without a word, which might be a mistake on his part.
I do not care. I get behind the wheel and drive like the devil himself is chasing us.
Red lights? Ignored. Stop signs? Barely slowed down for.
The streets blur past as I push the SUV as fast as it will go, knuckles white on the steering wheel, heart hammering with a fear I have not felt since Russia.
When we screech into the hospital parking lot, Damian takes longer to get out, his bad leg stiff from the cold and the rush. “Go,” he says, waving me off as he grips his cane.
I barrel into the hospital, the automatic doors barely opening fast enough. My boots echo loudly against the linoleum as I storm up to the reception desk. “Where is Cole Vance?” I demand.
The receptionist starts with the normal questions — insurance, relationship, visiting hours — and I lose it. “Listen here, lady… I need to see my boyfriend, right the fuck now, unless you want me to start punching shit.”
I remember last season, when Damian was in the hospital and Elias lost his mind at reception. I had to calmly convince them to let us through. That calm is nowhere to be found right now. I am all rage and fear and the overwhelming need to get to Cole.
The receptionist, wide-eyed, eventually gives me the room number after a tense back-and-forth.
I text it to Damian and start running down the hallway, ignoring the stares from nurses and patients alike.
My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might burst. I skid to a stop outside his room, breathing hard, my hand hovering on the door.
I prepare myself for the worst before I open it.
When I step inside, the sight still hits me like a body check into the boards.
Cole is in the hospital bed, bandaged and bruised, but awake.
Elias is sitting on one side, Lena on the other, both looking exhausted but relieved.
Cole is clearly pumped full of pain meds — his eyes are glassy, his grin dopey and wide when he sees me.
“Vik…” he says, slurred and happy, like I am the best thing he has seen all day.
I am next to him in the blink of an eye, heart hammering as I study every bruise and cut.
He looks really bad. One eye is badly bruised and half-closed, his left arm is wrapped in bandages, and I can see the wrapping around his ribs under the hospital gown.
My hands are gentle as I cup his face, brushing carefully over the uninjured parts of his cheeks.
“Who did this to you?” I growl, the rage still simmering just under the surface.
Cole leans into my touch, still grinning like an idiot.
“I… don’t know. I’ve never seen them before…
they were Russian though. Four of them.” Then, because he is high as a kite and completely shameless, he immediately starts flirting hard.
“But you should see the other guys. I got a few good hits in. Still… you should kiss it better, big guy. Make me feel all better. You look really hot when you’re all protective like this.
My big, strong, scary Russian boyfriend… ”
Elias snorts from the chair, trying and failing to hide his laugh.
Lena just rolls her eyes fondly. I keep my hands on his face, studying him, the fear and fury mixing into something fierce and protective.
Russian. Four of them. My father’s face flashes in my mind, and I have to force myself to stay calm for Cole’s sake.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, careful of the bruises. “You are safe. I am not leaving.”
Cole hums happily, nuzzling into my hand like a cat. “Good. Because I really like when you stay. Especially when you’re all growly and hot like this…”
I cannot stop the small, relieved smile that tugs at my mouth.
My eyes drop to Cole’s throat. The silver magpie chain I left on his doormat yesterday morning is there, resting against his skin like it belongs.
Something in my chest tightens at the sight of it.
He kept it. He put it on even after I left it like a coward.
“Anything broken?” I ask as I study his face, his bandaged arm, the way he is breathing carefully.
“Two ribs and his left wrist is fucked,” Elias supplies, mostly because Cole looks too high to know what is actually broken or not. He is floating on pain meds, but still trying to focus on me.
I should not have left him alone. If I had stayed, if I had not pulled away, maybe this would not have happened.
“Vik… he was unconscious when I found him at his apartment,” Elias says. “And I also found this.” He hands me a piece of paper with Russian writing on it. I unfold it and read the words scrawled in Cyrillic.
American Whore.
My blood turns to ice, then immediately boils over. I know exactly who left this. My father. Or someone he sent. The threat is clear. The rage that surges through me is so strong I have to force myself to stay still, to not put my fist through the nearest wall.
Cole, even high as a kite, seems to sense the shift in me. He starts getting clingy, reaching for me with his good hand, his fingers curling into my shirt as he leans into my side like he can physically hold me here. “Vik… stay. Please.”
Damian walks into the room then. Elias immediately jumps off the bed and goes to him, kissing him quickly before Damian picks him up like he weighs nothing, carrying him over toward us.
“Talk to me,” Damian says as he looks at me, then at Cole.
I look down at the note again, thankful that nobody else in this room knows Cyrillic well enough to read it. Cole is too high to translate anything right now. I fold it and slip it into my pocket. “Later,” I say. My hand finds Cole’s good one and holds on tight.
The doctor comes in a few minutes later, and both Damian and I immediately jump on him with questions. Damian because he is Cole’s coach and has every right to know what this means for the team. Me because Cole is mine, and the need to know exactly how bad it is burning under my skin like fire.
The doctor, to his credit, stays calm under the combined intensity of a head coach and a very pissed-off defenseman.
“He will be fine,” he says, glancing at the chart.
“Two cracked ribs and a fractured left wrist. No internal bleeding, no concussion. He’ll need to stay off the ice until the ribs and wrist heal properly — at least six to eight weeks.
We want to keep him for observation at least until tomorrow, just to be safe. ”
By the time the doctor finishes explaining and leaves the room, Cole has fallen asleep.
He looks smaller in the hospital bed, bruises standing out against his skin, but his breathing is steady.
I stand there, just watching him, the rage and guilt twisting together in my chest until it is hard to breathe.
I turn to Damian. “Can you stay with him tonight?”
Damian’s eyebrows shoot up. “Where are you going?”
“You don’t need to know,” I say, already moving toward the door.
“Petrov…” Damian warns.
I pause in the doorway, looking back at him. “Don’t worry… I won’t do anything you wouldn’t.”
Damian deadpans, crossing his arms. “That is not reassuring whatsoever.”
I do not answer. I just nod once at Elias and Lena, who are both watching me with worried eyes, and walk out of the room. My father crossed a line tonight. He touched what is mine. And I am done being afraid of becoming like him.