17. February 18, Friday #3
And Mitch had delivered. He’d done more for both of them than Ilya could ever repay.
He’d told himself he could prove his thanks by showing Mitch that his gamble on some unknown kid and his tagalong sister hadn’t been for nothing. Even at seven-years-old, Ilya knew that you didn’t fail the people who count on you.
And now, he was a captain whose self-control had hairline fractures running through it, feeling like he was failing his teammates and the brother of his heart.
“I’m fine,” he said finally. The words tasted like dirt.
Bobby sighed. “You’re really bad at lying for someone who does it so often.”
“You should work on your compliments.” Ilya rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
A small grin tugged at Bobby’s mouth. “What Jason said about you and Zoey?” He winced. “Not the time, but also not wrong.”
“Thanks,” Ilya said dryly.
“But for what it’s worth,” Bobby added, “I don’t think you’re the villain in that story.”
“There shouldn’t be a story,” Ilya snapped before he could stop himself.
Bobby held up both hands. “Hey. I’m Switzerland.
I’m just saying…nobody’s out here handing Mitch a sainthood medal.
He wasn’t exactly Husband of the Year.” His voice softened.
“Mitch fumbled. That’s on him. He didn’t treat her the way she deserved.
He made choices, and she made choices. It’s done.
Final. Signed papers, separate lives. He doesn’t get to own her for all eternity because he screwed it up first.”
“That is not the point.”
“It kind of is,” Bobby insisted. “Look, I get the whole bro code thing. I do. But this isn’t like you swooped in while they were married. Mitch gave her up. You didn’t.”
When Ilya thought those words, they sounded selfish. Ugly. Disloyal.
Coming from Bobby, they sounded…almost reasonable.
“You don’t understand,” Ilya muttered.
“Probably not,” Bobby agreed easily. “Because I like sleep and I don’t torture myself with hypothetical moral dilemmas at three in the morning.” His tone gentled. “But I do know this: you being her safe place? That is not a betrayal. That’s just…who you are with her. It’s always been like that.”
Always.
College study sessions. Late-night calls when Mitch had blown off another dinner.
She’d been his soft place to land long before she and Mitch made things official.
“And,” Bobby added, like a man casually tossing a grenade, “if it ever turned into more? Two single adults figuring their shit out is not worse than what she already lived through. She is allowed to move on. You are allowed to move on. You two finding each other on the other side of that? That doesn’t erase what she had with Mitch.
It doesn’t erase what you had with Mitch.
Those relationships existed. They mattered.
But they’re not the only chapters in the book.
And, to give you a secret, any happily married guy would tell you true love trumps bro code every time. ”
The phrase true love made something in Ilya’s chest lock up. “This is not about love,” he said stiffly.
Bobby’s gaze was too knowing. “Sure.”
Silence stretched.
“You make it sound simple,” Ilya said.
“It’s not,” Bobby answered immediately. “It’s messy as hell.
Feelings, history, optics, Nina having a coronary.
All of it.” His mouth hitched. “But you standing ten feet away from her trying to pretend you don’t want to be closer?
That’s not protecting anybody. That’s just you suffering in silence because you think you’re supposed to. ”
Ilya was so fucking tired. Tired of being the good brother. The good teammate. The good captain. The guy who set himself on fire to keep everyone else warm.
“You think I should just forget Mitch ever existed?” he asked, hating how small his voice sounded.
Bobby shook his head. “No. I think you should remember that your friendship with him and whatever’s between you and Zoey are two different things. They overlap, sure. But they’re not the same. One doesn’t cancel the other out.”
True. But useless because the guilt in his chest didn’t understand nuance.
“Also,” Bobby added, lips quirking, “bro code has a statute of limitations. Pretty sure the lawyers would back me up on that.”
“Not helping,” Ilya said, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Bobby’s expression gentled. “Look. Nobody’s saying you gotta marry her tomorrow. All I’m saying is…if it looks like she’s trying to flirt? To get her groove back? It’s okay to flirt back.”
The word sent a strange current through him. Flirt. He didn’t flirt with Zoey. He bantered. He supported. He…restrained.
Flirting felt frivolous. Dangerous. “What good does flirting do?”
Bobby’s brows lifted. “Jesus, no wonder you’re single.”
Ilya snorted.
“Flirting makes people feel good,” Bobby said.
“Seen. Desired. She’s been through the wringer.
Divorce in the public eye, that whole wanting-a-family shit, everybody having an opinion about her worth.
You think a little healthy attention from someone she trusts is gonna ruin her?
Or maybe it helps her remember she’s still… her. Funny. Gorgeous. Wanted.”
The words hit him low. His fingers dug into the webbing between them as he tried to process everything Bobby was throwing at him.
“She trusts you more than anyone,” Bobby explained softly. “You’re probably her safest person in the world. If she wants to lean into that, let her. Be her soft place. Her fun place. If she tries flirting and you flirt back? That’s not betrayal. That’s care.”
Care.
Ilya knew how to care. He’d been doing it his whole life. For his parents, however undeserving. For Kira. For Mitch. For teammates who drank too much and slept too little and called him from hospital waiting rooms.
Could this be that? A way to give Zoey something without taking anything permanent for himself? A way to care for Zoey without betraying Mitch?
“Just…flirt back, man,” Bobby said, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “See what happens. You don’t have to figure out the rest tonight.”
“Maybe,” Ilya said slowly, chewing it over, “if it could help her. To feel…like that again.”
Bobby’s gaze sharpened. “Or it could help you. Either way.”
Ilya ignored that, letting Bobby’s framing settle instead. Helping. Supporting. Giving her back pieces of herself Mitch had eroded.
If he thought of it that way, maybe he could live with the heat that curled low in his gut when he imagined letting himself actually enjoy her the way he’d never allowed himself before.
Flirting. Nothing more.
Nothing that would force him to choose between her and the team. Between her and Mitch. Or her and the promise he made to take care of his loved ones.
The door opened a crack. Ty stuck his head in. “You two still in here braiding each other’s hair?”
“Just finished up,” Bobby said. “Professor Serge here was just assigning us some light reading on martyrdom.”
“Cute,” Ilya muttered.
Bobby squeezed his shoulder once more and moved toward Ty. “You’re not gonna break the team by wanting something, Serge.”
The words lodged somewhere behind his ribs. Wanting something. Like it was that simple. “Maybe not,” Ilya said, staring at the artwork instead of Bobby’s face. “But I could break her. Or him.”
He heard his sister’s sharp voice in his head after a frat house incident that almost got him arrested; she’d been sixteen and already too perceptive.
“You don’t have to fix everything for me to love you, idiot.
I could have handled it on my own. You didn’t need to risk your scholarships playing SuperBro. ”
And years later, he’s still trying to smooth life for everyone else, ignoring the risk to himself.
Bobby exhaled, long and slow. “There’s the martyrdom Jace was talking about. Good to see it alive and well.” With a defeated shake of his head, he tapped Ty and ushered them out, leaving Ilya to his misery.
Ilya stared at the solid wood, his heart stuttering in a traitorous rhythm.
Zoey on the terrace. That dress. Their almost-kiss.
Jason’s voice in his head: You protecting her or yourself?
Bobby’s voice: She trusts you more than anyone…
Could he…care?
His fingers tightened. He could do this.
He’d walk back in, find Zoey, make sure she was okay after the chaos, and then he’d re-establish space. A little space. Enough that he could breathe. Just enough that she wouldn’t look at him with that shining, hopeful expression that made all his good intentions fall apart.
And then if something happened…he’d flirt back. Maybe. Carefully. To put some sparkle back in her eyes, to make her feel powerful, wanted and whole. He’d repeat to himself that it was for her. Eventually, his brain would believe it. Even if it shredded him.
When presented with the dangerous choice to help Zoey or not, it wasn’t really a choice at all.
Which meant the next time Zoey laughed at something he said, her hand brushed his arm, or her eyes lingered a beat too long…he wouldn’t be an innocent bystander anymore. He’d call it ‘care.’
He’d chosen this fucking cliff. Now, he just had to figure out how not to fall off it.
Assuming he hadn’t already ruined everything out on the terrace…and assuming she’d even look at him again.