Chapter 29
I’m sprawled on Viktor’s couch like a discarded hockey bag, ribs still taped tight, wrist braced, and the remote lying useless on my chest because nothing on TV can hold my attention for more than three minutes.
The Reapers are flying to Chicago today for a back-to-back against the Wolves, and I’m stuck here like a broken toy while the rest of my family gets to go to war without me.
Viktor is still in Russia handling funeral shit, and every minute he’s gone feels like someone carved another hole in my chest.
I miss the ice so bad it’s physical. Miss the burn in my legs, the clash of sticks, the roar of the crowd when I thread a perfect pass.
Miss chirping rookies and hearing Damian bark orders and watching Viktor shut down plays like it’s nothing.
Instead I’m here, popping pain meds and antibiotics like candy, scrolling through old game highlights on my phone like a masochist.
My phone rings and I answer it immediately when I see Elias’ name.
“Curls, I hate you,” I groan the second the call connects, not even waiting for him to speak. “Tell me how cold the airport is. Tell me Shane’s doing something chaotic. Tell me anything that isn’t me slowly losing my mind in this empty house.”
Elias laughs on the other end, the familiar bright sound cutting through the airport noise in the background.
“Hollywood, you sound like a sad puppy. We’re all waiting at the gate like good little soldiers.
Jace is stress-eating gummy worms again, Mats is flirting with a flight attendant, and Damian’s glaring at everyone like they personally offended his coffee. You missing us that bad already?”
“Missing the ice. Missing Viktor. Missing not being a useless lump on the couch.” I shift and immediately wince as pain flares through my ribs.
“This sucks. I’m going insane, man. Weeks before I can even think about skating and Viktor’s still in Russia doing…
whatever the fuck he’s doing with his mom.
I keep checking my phone like a teenager. It’s pathetic.”
Elias makes a sympathetic noise, but I can hear the grin in his voice. “He’ll be back soon. And hey, at least you get to rest.”
The call stretches on longer than it probably should, Elias filling every silence with team gossip and dumb jokes while I cling to the sound of his voice like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
In the background I can hear the boarding call echo through the airport, the team’s usual chaos rising as they start gathering their shit.
“Alright, Hollywood, we’re moving,” Elias says eventually, warm but apologetic. “They’re calling our group. I gotta go before Damian starts threatening to leave without me.”
“Yeah… go crush the Wolves for me,” I mutter, trying to keep the pout out of my voice and failing miserably. “Tell everyone I said they suck without me.”
Elias laughs softly. “Will do. Rest up, okay? We’ll call you after the game.”
The line clicks dead and the house falls quiet again. Too quiet. I drop the phone onto my chest and stare at the ceiling for a long minute before I pick it up again and start scrolling. Anything to fill the silence. TikTok, Instagram, the usual mindless shit.
Eventually the algorithm betrays me and drops me straight into the headlines.
“Father of Ravensburg Reapers Defenseman Viktor Petrov Dies in Ravensburg – Alcohol Poisoning Suspected”
Of course it’s everywhere. Viktor’s one of the best defensemen in the league, alternate captain on last season’s Cup winners — the media eats this kind of story up.
I click on one of the articles anyway, watching the short news clip.
The same calm anchor voice from New Year’s.
The same photo of Sergei Petrov they used before.
My thumb hovers over the screen as the memory hits me like a dirty hit from behind.
I scroll further, reading the same details over and over. Alcohol poisoning. Found in his apartment right here in Ravensburg. No foul play suspected.
What are the chances that Viktor’s father dies right after I get jumped by four Russian guys in my own apartment?
I stare at the picture of Sergei on TikTok — the same stern, weathered face that’s been floating around the news. My thumb freezes on the screen. Viktor wouldn’t do something stupid, right? Sergei really just died because he was a dumb drunk man who finally drank himself to death… right?
The thought loops in my head, louder with every pass.
The timing still feels off. Too clean. Too convenient.
I know Viktor’s capable of a lot of things — that quiet, terrifying intensity that makes opponents back off without him saying a word — but murder?
No. Not my Viktor. Not the man who holds me like I’m made of glass even when he’s fucking me into next week.
Still…
I sit up a little too fast, ribs protesting sharply, and immediately open a new tab.
My thumbs fly across the screen as I start googling.
“Can you die from drinking too much alcohol?” “Alcohol poisoning symptoms” “How much vodka to die.” I know it theoretically happens.
I’ve seen enough drunk idiots in the league to know it’s possible.
But I need to see the words. I need the cold, clinical articles telling me it’s real.
That people really do just… stop breathing after too many bottles.
The search results load fast. Medical sites, news stories about tragic cases, warnings about binge drinking.
My eyes scan line after line, the glow of the phone bright in the dim living room.
Every article confirms it can happen. Fast. Ugly.
Choking on your own vomit, respiratory failure, all of it. No mystery. No conspiracy needed.
But that tiny smile on Viktor’s face at midnight keeps flashing behind my eyes. The way Damian cursed like he knew something. The Russians who jumped me right before it all went down.
I set the phone down on my chest and rub my good hand over my face, exhaling shakily. I’m being ridiculous. Pain meds and boredom are making me paranoid. Viktor is intense, yeah, but he’s not… that. Right?
I shake my head hard, like I can physically knock the stupid thoughts out of my skull.
This is ridiculous. Viktor is Viktor — intense, protective, a little terrifying sometimes, but not a murderer.
I’m just bored, injured, and missing him way too much.
The pain meds are making everything feel bigger and darker than it is.
I swipe out of the search tabs and call Lena instead. She picks up on the second ring.
“Hey, bro,” she says immediately, voice warm and teasing like always. “How’s my favorite invalid doing? Still sulking on the couch?”
“I’m not sulking,” I lie, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Just… existing. How are you?”
She laughs softly. “I’m good. How’s Viktor holding up with everything? I know the news hit kind of hard. You need me to come over? I can bring food and we can watch bad movies and make fun of the team’s road trip TikToks.”
“Nah, I’m okay,” I say, even though the offer sounds dangerously tempting. “Just resting like the doctor said. Trying not to lose my mind.”
We chat for a minute about nothing important—her latest tattoo client, some drama at the shop—before the memory from New Year’s slams into me like a cheap shot. Her coming out of that hallway at Mats’ party, hair messy, lipstick smudged, looking way too satisfied.
“Wait a second,” I say, sitting up a little too fast and wincing. “Speaking of New Year’s… I saw you coming out of Mats’ bedroom. What the fuck was that about, Lena? Are you hooking up with Mats? My teammate Mats?”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end, then Lena’s signature sharp laugh. “Oh my god, you actually noticed that?”
Lena deflects playfully at first, the way she always does when she knows she’s been caught. “What, a girl can’t enjoy a nice quiet hallway at a party? You’re reading way too much into it, Hollywood.”
I narrow my eyes even though she can’t see me. “Lena. I saw your lipstick. And your hair. And the fact that you came out looking like you just got railed against a wall. Spill.”
“Okay, fine. Yes. We’ve been… hanging out. A little. He’s surprisingly good with his hands for a hockey boy, and he’s got that whole charming Miami thing going on that’s annoyingly effective.”
“ Lena!” I groan, half-laughing, half-horrified as protective big-brother mode kicks in full force.
“That’s my teammate! My defensive partner!
If he hurts you I’m going to have to fight him and I can’t even throw a punch right now because of this stupid wrist. What the fuck are you thinking?
Is this serious or are you just using him for stress relief after tattooing weirdos all day? ”
She snorts. “Relax, drama king. It’s casual.
Fun. He makes me laugh and he’s surprisingly respectful when he’s not being a cocky asshole on the ice.
I’m not looking for a white picket fence, Cole.
I’m just enjoying myself. Unlike some people who are currently pouting on their boyfriend’s couch because they can’t skate. ”
I rub my face with my good hand, the frustration and boredom and worry all mixing together into one big knot in my chest. “I just… you’re my sister. I don’t want you getting hurt by one of these idiots. Especially not while I’m stuck here unable to do anything about it.”
Lena’s voice softens just a fraction. “I know. But I can handle myself. You focus on healing and not spiraling about Viktor and whatever the hell is going on. You sound like you’re thinking too hard again.”
I sink back into the cushions. She’s not wrong. The news about Sergei is still sitting weird in the back of my mind, but right now my sister banging my teammate feels like the more immediate crisis I can actually yell about.
“What’s wrong?” Lena asks immediately when she hears my sigh, her voice sharpening the way it always does when she senses I’m full of shit.