Chapter 13
Mina
I stepped into the arena and—whoa. Immediate chill. Like a slap of winter air to the face mixed with a haunted house draft. I tightened my grip on my hot cocoa (aka emotional support beverage) and let my eyes dart around, taking in everything all at once.
It smelled like… rubber and sweat and something else I couldn’t name.
Testosterone? Bravado? Hockey boy chaos?
I didn’t know, but it buzzed around the space like invisible glitter—aggressive, loud glitter.
My boots clicked on the concrete as I took slow steps toward the stands, heart doing that ta-thump-ta-thump thing like I was about to take the stage at a talent show I hadn’t rehearsed for.
Nikolai had gone ahead to gear up—so rude—leaving me to brave this frozen coliseum of masculinity by myself. And for a second, I felt very much like a girl in a cardigan at a gladiator match.
But then I remembered—he wanted me here. Me. The girl who sings to her plants and color-codes her phone apps. Nikolai Volkov, the Russian Reaper, brought me to his world. That thought wrapped around me warmer than my jacket, calming the fluttering in my chest just a bit.
I found a seat in the stands, carefully balancing my cocoa like it was a Fabergé egg, and sank into the cold plastic seat. The rink stretched out below me, all white ice and blinking scoreboard, and it was beautiful in that icy, intimidating kind of way.
And then I saw him.
Nikolai gliding across the ice, fast and lethal and so stupidly hot I nearly spilled my drink. He didn’t just skate—he owned the ice like it owed him rent. Every move he made was sharp, confident, and ugh, annoyingly elegant. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was showing off.
I smiled into my cup and took a sip, my nerves melting a little more with the chocolate. Okay. Maybe I didn’t quite belong here… but I wanted to.
And that had to count for something.
The moment Nikolai’s blades hit the ice, it was like flipping a switch. He wasn’t just skating—he was commanding. Every move was precise, deliberate, like he could predict the flow of play before it even happened.
I watched as he curved around a defenseman, his stick fluid in his hands, the puck never more than an inch away from total control. It was honestly hypnotic. Like ballet, but with more bruises and testosterone.
He didn’t talk much, but the other players clearly orbited around him like he was the gravity holding them in place.
Someone cracked a joke—I couldn’t hear it from here, but I saw the way Nikolai smirked, just a little.
One of the guys tossed a puck his way without looking, and Nikolai caught it with the smooth, lazy grace of someone who never fumbles.
My cocoa was now forgotten in my hands, growing cooler by the second as I leaned forward on the edge of my seat.
A few drills later, he dropped low into a sharp turn and sprayed ice like a blizzard in slow motion.
I literally flinched—and then caught myself and laughed quietly. I was so not cool right now, but I didn’t care. My heart raced every time he picked up speed, every time he darted across the rink like a storm in motion.
It hit me all over again—this was his element. His comfort zone. And somehow, he’d invited me into it.
Every so often, he’d glance up—just a flick of his eyes toward the stands.
Toward me.
I tried to act casual (read: didn’t spill the cocoa or do anything mortifying), but each time it happened, my heart did an embarrassing little somersault. He didn’t wave or grin or anything obvious—just that unreadable, almost smirking expression like he knew something I didn’t.
And I couldn’t help but think… maybe he liked having me here.
A few rows down, I caught snippets of conversation—sharp whispers punctuated by breathy giggles that made my ears perk up, despite myself.
“Ryker’s dating some blonde now, right?” one girl said, twirling a piece of hair around her finger like she was prepping for battle.
“Yeah, I saw them at that sushi place on Fifth,” her friend chimed in, voice high and full of judgment. “She looked like she was twelve. Definitely lying about her age.”
“What about Jared Crowder?” another asked, slurping loudly from an iced drink. “He’s single, right?”
“No, he’s with that girl from the gym. The one with the abs,” someone answered, the word “abs” practically dripping with disdain.
Then the tone shifted.
“Oh my god, the Russian Reaper,” a girl near the aisle whispered like she was invoking some forbidden name. “He’s so hot. Like—unfair hot. I’d risk it all.”
“I heard he doesn’t date,” one of them added. “Like, at all. Total loner vibe.”
“Whatever. I’d climb him like a jungle gym.”
More giggles. More casual cruelty masquerading as flirtation.
I blinked, heat rising in my cheeks—not from jealousy, not exactly. It was… weird. Hearing them talk about him like that. Like he was some untouchable fantasy, not the guy who let me steal his remote and kissed me so gently I forgot how to breathe. My fingers tightened around my cup.
The old me would’ve stayed silent. Would’ve shrunk down in my seat and pretended I didn’t hear any of it.
But not this version of me.
This version kind of wanted to lean over and say, “He likes girls who spill ice cream and steal his hoodies, actually.”
But something held me back.
That little voice in my head—the one that had grown up tiptoeing around tension and trained in the fine art of not making waves—whispered softly, He already invited you. You’re here. You’re enough. Don’t draw more attention to yourself.
So instead of clapping back with sass or planting a stake in the ice with a grand “he’s mine” declaration, I took a slow breath and sat up straighter in my seat. I wrapped both hands around my cup, letting the heat seep into my palms like borrowed courage.
And I looked back down at Nikolai.
He was slicing across the ice like it was nothing, like gravity had no hold on him.
Sharp, precise, focused. The Russian Reaper in all his terrifying glory—only I knew that under all that cold precision was a man who warmed soup for a girl having a breakdown and gave up his hoodie just to make her smile.
So I focused on him and ignored everything else. Let them talk. I already knew who he was coming home with.
By the time practice wrapped, I was pretty sure I knew more about hockey than I ever expected to.
I still wasn’t sure what an offside actually was, and some of the drills looked like synchronized chaos to me—but I’d learned enough to recognize who was good with puck control, who chirped too much, and how Nikolai’s skating looked different from everyone else’s.
He didn’t just move across the ice—he prowled it, like it was his kingdom and the puck owed him rent.
And I had been dating Mikel for a couple of years.
I stood, brushing cookie crumbs off my jeans—don’t judge me, hot cocoa calls for snacks—and made my way down toward the locker room hallway.
The halls echoed with the usual post-practice shuffle: skates clinking against rubber flooring, low voices, the occasional whoop from a shower joke I was very glad not to understand.
I found a little corner near a pillar to wait, out of the way but still close enough to see when he came out.
That’s when they arrived. The same girls from earlier, like a perfume commercial with legs.
One popped open a compact mirror, carefully applying gloss with surgeon-level precision while another tugged her already-tiny shirt a little lower.
The last one adjusted her ponytail, fluffed it like she was about to walk a runway instead of wait in front of a locker room filled with very sweaty men.
I told myself I didn’t care.
That I was secure.
That I had nothing to prove.
But the truth?
It stung.
I crossed my arms tighter over my chest and looked away, pretending I didn’t notice how sparkly their highlights were or how flawless their eyeliner was. I reminded myself that Nikolai had invited me.
I reminded myself of last night.
Of this morning.
Of his lips against mine and the way he said I was coming to skate like it was a given, not a question.
And then the locker room door opened—and there he was.
Still damp from his shower, his hair pushed back, jaw tight from whatever mental storm he’d wrestled on the ice. The girls straightened instantly, all fluttery lashes and flirty giggles.
But Nikolai didn’t even glance their way. His eyes found me in an instant, locked on like a heat-seeking missile, and without hesitation—without even slowing down—he walked straight past them and right to me.
“Hi,” I breathed, the word catching on the rush of butterflies dive-bombing my stomach like it was a war zone in there.
Nikolai didn’t say anything right away. He just reached out and took my hand—like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like we’d been doing it for years. Like I hadn’t just fought off a mini spiral of insecurity five minutes ago.
His fingers curled around mine, steady and warm, and suddenly, the chaos dulled. Just him. Just this.
We walked to the car in a silence that wasn’t awkward—it was full, charged, humming with all the things we didn’t need to say. My heart still fluttered like it didn’t get the memo that we were cool now.
Spoiler: we were not cool.
I was a flustered, pink-faced, internally-screaming wreck, but in a cute way.
Probably.
Hopefully.
A few minutes later, he pulled up outside a local café, one of those cozy-looking places with twinkly lights in the window and a chalkboard sign out front advertising sassy seasonal lattes. But just as I reached to unbuckle my seatbelt, two other guys stepped out of the car parked next to us.
And—oh goodness. One of them looked exactly like an anti-hero superhero in a beanie, with a scowl that probably made small children cry.
The other had serious pirate energy—like early millennium pirates, with layered necklaces and a mischievous glint in his eye that screamed trouble with a capital T.
Nikolai noticed them too. “Perfect,” he muttered, clearly recognizing them.
“You know them?” I asked, heart already picking up speed.
“Teammates,” he said, opening his door. “Try not to let Kellen talk you into anything illegal.”
Oh boy.
Wyatt was the first to notice us. He gave the most adorably awkward wave I’d ever seen—like his hand couldn’t decide if it was saluting, high-fiving, or swatting a bug. I waved back instinctively, just as awkward, and instantly regretted it. Social grace? Never met her.
He looked like he’d walked straight out of a post-apocalyptic lab, grime and all, with a gnarly scar slashing from one cheekbone down toward his jaw and a generally “wounded hero with a tragic past” vibe.
If a Ghoul from Fallout had golden retriever energy and the tendency to trip over his own skate guards, it would be Wyatt. I liked him immediately.
Then Asher—who radiated chaotic pirate energy, like if Calico Jack had discovered protein powder—grinned and called out across the lot. “You his emotional support human?”
I snorted, half-choked on my own amusement, and waved him off. “Yup, complete with a comfort hoodie and emotional snack pouch.”
My cheeks burned pink anyway, and I could tell Asher caught it, because he winked like a menace and tipped his imaginary hat.
It was weird… in the best way. I’d expected icy stares or maybe even condescending smirks—some classic locker-room masculinity thing—but instead?
These guys were dorks.
Total lovable, chirpy, offbeat goofballs.
And somewhere deep in my stomach, where my anxiety usually lived, something fluttered that felt suspiciously like… relief.
We were barely inside the café when the chaos began.
“Careful, Reaper’s smiling,” Kellen called from behind the counter, his voice a perfect blend of mockery and theatrical dread. “We might not survive the season.”
I didn’t miss a beat. “You wish you were this intimidating.”
The guys cackled like it was the best thing they’d heard all morning.
Kellen clutched his chest dramatically like I’d just mortally wounded him. “She bites. I like her.”
Nikolai didn’t say much—of course—but his lips twitched, that rare almost-smile playing at the corners as he slid his hand against the small of my back and guided me toward the counter.
We ordered our drinks—some spiced latte situation for me and straight-up black coffee for him—plus a cinnamon pastry to split, even though I already knew I’d eat three-quarters of it. Then we settled into the booth tucked into the far corner.
We hadn’t even taken our first sip when Asher slid into the booth across from us, a devious grin stretching across his face like he’d been waiting all day for this moment.
“So,” he said, chin resting on his clasped hands. “Is it true you used to date Mikel ‘I-Tan-My-Knuckles’ Petrov?”
I blinked. “That is… an uncomfortably accurate nickname.”
Kellen swooped by, coffee cup in hand, and chimed in before I could defend myself. “You deserve hazard pay for that, sweetheart.”
Wyatt—sweet, scarred, and awkward as ever—tried to look scandalized. “Wait, for real? Like, willingly?”
My cheeks flamed. “Okay, okay! I was young and dumb, and he had biceps.”
Kellen cackled. “They all have biceps, babe. It’s the brain cells that are rare.”
I mock-gasped. “Wow. Are we roasting me now? Is that what this is?”
Asher leaned back smugly. “Not roasting. Gently sautéing.”
Nikolai’s arm stretched across the back of the booth, and his voice cut in like cold steel. “She’s not with him anymore. That’s what matters.”
That shut them up—for about three seconds.
Then Weston, who’d somehow appeared without making a sound like a hockey-playing vampire, muttered, “Still… Petrov. That’s a rough draft of a human being.”
“Thank you,” I muttered with mock reverence.
Nikolai stood, grabbing both our cups. “We’re going.”
I reached for our pastry, because priorities. “You say that like you don’t love this circus.”
He didn’t answer, but his hand found mine again—firm, steady, unapologetic—as he pulled me gently toward the door. And even with all the chirping, all the chaos, I realized something:
I kind of did love this circus.