Chapter 14
The restaurant’s got low lighting, white tablecloths, and some poor piano player in the corner trying to bring ambiance to a room full of hockey gremlins in matching black-on-black.
We’re not subtle. We’re not quiet. And we’re definitely not behaving.
The staff gave up five minutes in, after Cole climbed onto the booth to yell at Shane for eating all the breadsticks.
I’ve got one hand on Damian’s thigh and the other wrapped around Captain Jr., who’s seated proudly next to my water glass, his tiny Reapers jersey freshly stitched with C.J. across the back. Thanks to Viktor, who mumbled something about “branding” and then stabbed his steak like it insulted him.
Cole’s leaned across the table, eyes bright, voice loud.
“You realize you’re officially Reapers lore now, right?
” he says between sips of something suspiciously neon-colored.
“Like twenty years from now, they’re gonna have trivia nights, and one of the questions is gonna be ‘Who is Captain Jr. and who’s his slutty dad? ’”
I raise my glass. “It me.”
“Tragic,” Shane mutters. “The downfall of modern hockey.”
“You’re just mad I got a teddy bear and you didn’t.”
“Shane has a rabbit foot keychain,” Tyler pipes up from the next table.
“That thing is cursed,” Shane deadpans. “I won’t sleep with it in the room.”
Cole snorts soda through his nose. Damian sighs beside me like he regrets every choice in his life that led to this dinner, but I catch the twitch of his lips anyway. I squeeze his thigh under the table. He doesn’t say a word, just covers my hand with his, thumb stroking along my knuckles.
One more game—that’s all we need. Win the next one, and we’re in the finals.
I glance around the table—Cole still chirping, Shane muttering, Mats and Viktor sharing a plate like war buddies, even Tyler, for once, not looking like he wants to die. We’ve been through war together. Blood, broken ribs, bruised egos. I’ve bled on that ice for them. They’ve bled for me.
Cole’s glass is empty. I hear the slurp, the straw scraping desperate against ice. And the moment it happens, his eyes dart. His gaze lands on Viktor’s glass, half full, crystal-clear, sweating down the side.
He’s already leaning before anyone can stop him.
“Don’t—” I start, too late.
Viktor just arches one heavy brow, watches with the patience of a man who already knows exactly how this ends. Cole grins, holds eye contact, and grabs the glass.
“Cheers, Petrov,” he says. “Sharing is caring.”
Viktor says nothing. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t warn him. And that should’ve been the clue.
Cole takes a sip—a sip like he’s downing mango daiquiri #2.
Then it hits.
His eyes blow wide as he chokes—once, then again—and then the coughing starts, full-body and brutal, that lungs-on-fire kind of hacking usually reserved for near-drownings or melodramatic movie deaths.
He slams the glass down, grabs a napkin like it might save him, eyes watering, voice strangled beyond hope. “WHAT—IS—THAT—JET FUEL?!”
Viktor’s smirk could cut glass. “Vodka,” he says, like that explains everything. Which it does.
Cole’s still dying.
I lean into Damian’s shoulder, laughing so hard I might actually pass out. Shane’s wheezing across the table. Mats claps like he watched a circus act.
Viktor reaches calmly across the table, plucks his glass back, and finishes the drink in one smooth, unbothered sip. “Don’t steal from Russians,” he says. “Lesson one.”
“I could take you,” Shane says, chin tilted, cheeks already a little pink from whatever monstrosity he’s been drinking. His fork points across the table, wobbly but determined.
Viktor doesn’t even blink. “In a fight, yes. In drinking? No.”
“Oh-ho-ho,” Cole cackles, slapping the table. “You’ve doomed us.”
Shane straightens like he’s being knighted. “Bring it, comrade.”
Viktor raises one eyebrow and reaches under the table.
I freeze. Everyone freezes.
What emerges is a steel hip flask. Matte black. Heavy enough to kill a man. He sets it down between them with the weight of judgment day and unscrews the cap with a casual flick.
I lean toward Damian and whisper, “This is how Shane dies, isn’t it?”
Damian doesn’t answer. Just sips his water like he’s watching a car crash in real-time.
The first shot goes down easy…for Viktor. Shane wheezes, blinks hard, and thumps his chest. The second shot? Worse. By the third, his face has gone red, his pupils are on vacation, and his hair somehow looks drunk.
Cole starts chanting, “Chug! Chug! Chug!” because he’s chaos incarnate and this is his fault.
Shane doesn’t chug. He sways. “I'm fine,” he slurs, elbow slipping off the table. “Just...adjusting my blood-alcohol... settings.”
“You look like you adjusted them into a coma,” I chirp, hand still warm against Damian’s thigh.
Viktor finishes his fourth shot, calm as the void, and says, “Done?”
Shane groans. “I concede. You’re terrifying. Take my liver. Take my soul.”
Viktor smiles. “Already have.” He doesn’t even blink. He tips his head slightly, watching Shane wilt like a dying flower, then says in that flat, knife-edged voice of his, “Now you can’t take me in a fight either.”
Shane groans louder and slumps over the table. “RIP me. Tell my hamster I loved him.” Cole starts giggling, head thrown back, until Viktor shifts his eyes ever so slightly, and that is when I see it.
Cole freezes—it’s subtle, barely there, but I know that look, that face, like someone just licked the rim of a live wire.
His eyes lock on Viktor with the kind of heat that says he’s ready to commit war crimes with his tongue, right here, under the tablecloth, in full view of Coach McClellan’s ancestors.
And Viktor? Stone cold. Absolute poker face. Still sipping death-vodka like he didn’t just send Cole’s hormones into a tailspin.
I narrow my eyes and slowly slide my foot under the table, kicking Cole’s shin with all the grace of a silent assassin.
He yelps quietly and jerks upright, grabbing for his fork and pretending to be fascinated by mashed potatoes. I lean into Damian’s side and smirk across the table when Cole finally dares glance up and glares at me.
Oh, it’s on, Hollywood. I see you. I see you.
I slide my phone out under the table like a spy and type with one hand, thumb flying while Damian’s fingers brush lazy patterns against the back of my neck.
Me: How long, Hollywood?
It takes all of five seconds before Cole's phone buzzes. I watch his soul leave his body. He doesn’t even try to hide it, just tilts the screen down and types like a man on trial for his life.
Hollywood: Shut your piehole, puppy.
I snort loud and inappropriate. Half a breath away from choking on my soda.
Damian’s fingers pause. “You okay?” he murmurs against my temple.
“Mhm,” I hum, hiding my grin behind my glass. “Just...thinking about pie.”
Cole kicks me under the table this time. It’s weak. Embarrassing. I kick him back harder.
He winces, flips me off from behind his water glass, then immediately tries to look innocent when Viktor raises one eyebrow.
I go back to sipping my drink, satisfied, watching Cole stew in awkward panic while Viktor slowly leans in to say something to Shane, not noticing, or maybe very much noticing, how Cole immediately turns into a human-shaped fire hazard.
God, this is better than Netflix.
Cole moves like a man possessed. Like shame and common sense have both packed their bags and left the country. He reaches across the table, full eye contact with me—me, not Viktor—and snatches the death-glass again.
“Don’t you fucking—” I hiss, but it’s too late.
Cole downs it. All of it in one go. His entire body convulses like a cartoon cat who licked an electric fence. He slams the glass down so hard the silverware jumps. Then he screams. Loud. Like, from-the-diaphragm screams.
“AUGHGHHHH FUCK ME SIDEWAYS WITH A SNOW SHOVEL!”
Everyone at the table freezes.
Viktor stares, both eyebrows actually rising. Which is, statistically, the most expressive I’ve ever seen him. There’s something almost reverent about the way he looks at Cole right now. Like he's watching an animal perform a particularly stupid mating dance.
Meanwhile, I’m losing my shit. “COLE!” I shriek. “I NEED YOU SOBER TOMORROW!”
He’s coughing. Dying. Red in the face and flailing for Shane’s water like a man five seconds from spontaneous combustion. “I’m FINE!” he croaks between gasps, eyes watering. “I’m building tolerance!”
“To what?! A cremation???”
“To Petrov!” he yells, pointing at Viktor.
Viktor stares at him. Just...stares. Then very slowly takes his drink back, shrugs one shoulder, and says, “Good luck.”
Cole groans and slumps against the back of his chair, steam practically leaking from his ears.
Damian’s shaking with silent laughter beside me, biting his knuckle to keep it in. I lean over and mutter, “Do we tell him he’s already drunk?”
Damian grins, still biting his fist. “Let him find out in the morning.”
Shane slams both palms on the table and howls. “I WANNA KISS SOMEONE TOO, GODDAMMIT!” Even though nobody kissed.
Half the restaurant turns. The waiter drops a fork. Cole, already half-melted from the vodka, chokes on what’s probably his own tongue. Viktor doesn’t even blink.
I groan. Long and loud. Dramatic as hell. “Oh my god, I am surrounded.”
I slump forward, forehead hitting the table with a thunk while the rest of the team descends into chaos. Cole’s yelling “NO TONGUE, SHANE,” which is hilarious because nobody offered, and Shane’s now screaming, “I HAVE NEEDS!” while reaching blindly toward Mats.
Mats dodges him, throws a napkin in Shane’s face, and deadpans, “Consent is sexy, bro.”
“SO IS DESPERATION,” Shane wails, flinging the napkin across the room.
Damian sighs beside me, places a calming hand between my shoulder blades, and leans in close. “Should I bench them all tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I say without lifting my head. “Yes, please. Bench them all. Bench me too. Bench the whole team. Tell the league we died of embarrassment.”
He chuckles—smirks, more like—and kisses the top of my head. “Sorry, pup,” he murmurs. “You’re still playing. Captain's orders.”
I groan louder. Cole starts singing. Shane’s arguing with a breadstick. And Viktor finally, finally, lifts his glass again and mutters, “I’m too sober for this shit.”
Shane lunges, mouth open, war cry locked and loaded, going straight for Cole’s lips like he’s about to seal a demonic blood pact.
Cole screams. High-pitched and horrified.
But then Viktor, calm as sin, lifts a single hand and plants it right between their mouths, fingers spread like a goalie glove, catching Shane mid-flight. The kiss of doom stops inches short.
Cole’s eyes are wide, shiny and wild.
Viktor doesn’t even blink. “Time for bed, Vance,” he says flatly.
Shane makes a noise like a dying trumpet and slumps against the table. Viktor gently pushes his face away and twists him toward Mats.
Mats yelps. Full-body flinch, then bolts from his chair with the survival instincts of a man who’s seen shit. “Nope. No. Absolutely not,” Mats yells, dodging around the table as Shane wails and reaches for him like a rom-com heroine.
Cole’s head turns slowly back to Viktor, mouth opening, then snapping shut as his nostrils flare—once, twice—like he’s fighting a full-body reaction.
He’s trying so hard not to grin it looks physically painful, lips twitching, lashes fluttering, until it all breaks and a single, breathless laugh escapes.
Viktor stares, cool and unbothered, unreadable as ever.
And Cole? He’s looking at him like maybe he wants to hear time for bed again—just in a very different tone.
I groan into my hands and hiss at Damian, “They’re gonna bang in the playoffs. We’re gonna lose the Cup because they’re gonna bang in the playoffs.”
Damian chuckles darkly beside me. “If they do, they’ll need new knees after.”
Cole glances at Viktor—imposing, stoic, a silent wall of get your shit together.
Then at Damian—who’s swirling his whiskey like a Roman emperor, entirely content to watch the chaos unfold with that slow, terrifying smile.
The smile that says I’ve ended men for less than what you’re thinking right now, Vance.
“Bed, Vance. Now,” Viktor repeats—same calm tone, same unreadable face, just louder this time. Final. No room for argument.
Cole’s gaze jerks to me, desperate and pleading, like I might save him.
I grin and give him a lazy little wave, wiggling my fingers. “Night-night, Hollywood.”
He glares—actually glares—but still shoves back from the table with a dramatic groan, stalking off toward the elevators while muttering curses and slurred threats under his breath like a man being sent to execution.
We don’t even get two full minutes of peace before Viktor’s chair scrapes quietly against the floor. He stands, smirking, and follows without a word.
Nobody says anything. Except me. I lean over to Damian and murmur, “You think he’s gonna—?”
“Yes,” Damian says immediately. “Without question.”
I grin. “Do we take bets on who begs first?”
Damian just takes a long sip of his drink, eyes locked on the elevator like it’s a live feed.