3. Chapter 3
I’m fucking exhausted. My body feels like it got run over by a Zamboni, then backed over again for good measure. The flight, the long practice earlier, the constant buzz of travel—it should’ve knocked me out the second my head hit the pillow. But sleep? Yeah, that’s not happening.
Not with Viktor Petrov taking up half the damn bed like some massive, brooding mountain of quiet tension.
I lie on my back, staring at the dark ceiling, every nerve in my body painfully aware of the man lying less than two feet away.
His breathing is steady, deep, controlled—like even in sleep he refuses to lose that iron grip on himself.
The heat from his body radiates across the sheets, and every time the mattress shifts the tiniest bit under his weight, my brain short-circuits.
Four years ago.
The memory hits me. The way he looked at me that night after the win. The way his hands felt—rough, desperate, nothing like the careful distance he’s kept ever since. The way he—
Shit. Calm down, Hollywood.
I roll onto my side, facing away from him, making sure there’s a solid stretch of empty mattress between us.
I’m not an idiot. I know exactly how much space Viktor needs.
He made that abundantly clear the last time this kind of situation happened.
No blurred lines. No second chances. Just cold shoulders and silence that lasted years.
I flip again, this time onto my other side, punching the pillow like it personally offended me.
The movement is careful. I’m not trying to invade his space.
God knows I’d love nothing more than to close the distance, climb on top of him, and see if that same fire is still there under all that control.
But I won’t. Because Viktor doesn’t want that. He never really did.
I flip back again, restless energy crawling under my skin like ants. The hoodie I’m wearing feels too warm now, the sheets too tight. Everything is too much and not enough all at once.
Viktor doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything.
He’s probably asleep, or pretending to be, that perfect stillness he’s mastered so well.
Meanwhile I’m over here losing my mind because the one person I’ve wanted for years is lying right next to me, close enough to touch, and I know better than to reach out.
I turn again, curling up slightly, knees drawn toward my chest. My heart is beating too loud. My thoughts are too loud. The room is too quiet except for the occasional sound of rain against the window and Viktor’s even breathing.
Just sleep, you idiot.
But I can’t. Not when every inch of me is tuned to the man sharing this bed. Not when years of almosts and what-ifs are screaming in my head louder than the crowd at a home game.
I flip onto my back for what feels like the hundredth time, letting out a frustrated breath that’s way too loud in the quiet hotel room.
The sheets are tangled around my legs, the pillow feels wrong no matter how I punch it, and my brain won’t shut the fuck up.
I’m so tired my bones ache, but sleep is nowhere in sight.
The mattress shifts slightly. Then Viktor’s low, gruff voice cuts through the darkness like it was waiting for me to lose the fight.
“You are restless as hell, Hollywood. Stop moving so much.”
My heart stutters. I didn’t think he was awake.
I turn my head toward him slowly, trying to keep my expression casual even though I can barely make out his face in the faint light coming through the curtains.
He’s lying on his back, one massive arm tucked behind his head, staring up at the ceiling like it personally owes him money.
“Sorry,” I mutter, forcing a smirk even though it feels thin. “Didn’t mean to disturb your beauty sleep, big guy. I’ll try to keep the dramatic tossing to a minimum.”
Viktor doesn’t laugh. He never does. But he exhales through his nose, that familiar sound that’s half annoyance, half something I can never quite read. “You have been flipping like a fish for twenty minutes. What is wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I lie easily, rolling onto my side to face him fully now. I prop my head up on my hand, trying to play it cool. “Just not used to sharing a bed with a human skyscraper. You take up half the damn room, Petrov. It’s like sleeping next to a very judgmental wall.”
He turns his head slightly, finding mine across the space between us. The look is heavy. Too heavy. “You are lying.”
I open my mouth to fire back something funny, something light, but the exhaustion is making everything harder to hold together. The old hurt is creeping in at the edges, the same ache that’s lived in my chest for so long.
I let out a soft, tired laugh instead, rubbing a hand over my face.
“Jesus, you’re really gonna make me say it?
Fine. It’s… weird, okay? Being in the same bed as you after everything.
My brain won’t shut up about it.” I try to keep my tone light, teasing, but my voice cracks just a little on the last part.
“You’re the one who made the rules last time.
I’m just… respecting them. Keeping my distance. Being a good boy and all that.”
The words taste bitter coming out, even though I’m smiling. I hate how easily the exhaustion pulls the truth to the surface. I hate that he can probably hear the old rejection still sitting under every syllable.
Viktor stays quiet for a long moment. The silence stretches until I almost wish I’d kept my mouth shut and just pretended to sleep.
Finally, he speaks again, voice even lower than before. “You think this is easy for me?”
My breath catches. I don’t know how to answer that, so I don’t. I just lie there, staring at him across the bed, heart hammering too hard for someone who’s supposed to be exhausted.
The silence after my last words feels like it’s pressing down on my chest. I watch Viktor’s face in the dim light, waiting for something—anything. Then I see the slightest shift in his expression, that tiny crack in the armor, and I can’t help myself. The teasing slips out before I can stop it.
“Oh, so you do like me,” I say, playfully, even though my heart is hammering against my ribs.
Viktor’s eyes narrow. “Shut up and go to sleep, Vance.”
I bite back a grin, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
“Tough crowd,” I pout, dragging the words out dramatically as I flop back onto my pillow.
I turn onto my side again, facing him, curling up under the covers while still keeping that careful distance between us.
“Here I am pouring my exhausted little heart out and you’re telling me to shut up. Rude.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Just lies there like a statue, one arm still tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it’s safer than looking at me.
I should let it go. I know I should. But the exhaustion is making me reckless, peeling back all the usual layers I keep so carefully in place. Four years of this back-and-forth—him watching me like I matter, then pulling away like I’m dangerous—has left scars I don’t talk about. Not even to Elias.
“You know,” I murmur after a minute, voice quieter now, the teasing fading into something more raw, “it’s actually kinda funny.
All this time I thought I was the only one losing my mind over that night.
But you just admitted it’s not easy for you either.
” I let out a tired huff of laughter. “Progress, I guess.”
Viktor shifts slightly, the mattress dipping under his weight. I feel the movement like a live wire. He still doesn’t look at me, but his jaw is tight, that controlled stillness he’s famous for starting to fray at the edges.
I swallow hard, the old hurt creeping into my voice despite my best efforts. “I’m not trying to make it weird, Vik. I just… I don’t know how to be around you anymore without remembering how it felt when you wanted me. And then decided you didn’t.”
The words hang there in the dark between us. I didn’t mean to say that much. Not tonight. Not when I’m this tired and he’s this close. I turn my face into the pillow. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. I’ll shut up now like a good little Hollywood.”
I roll over sharply, turning my back to Viktor, pulling the covers up higher like they can shield me from the mess in my head. Just sleep, asshole. Force it. My eyes squeeze shut, but my body stays wired, heart still hammering like I just finished an overtime shift.
Before I can even settle, a large, warm hand reaches across the bed and wraps gently around my wrist firm enough to stop me.
Viktor’s grip is careful, his calloused thumb brushing once over the inside of my wrist, right where my pulse is racing.
Heat floods up my arm like liquid fire and my body betrays me with a full-body shiver I can’t hide. I don’t pull away. I can’t.
Slowly, I turn my head back toward him. Our eyes meet in the dark, and neither of us says anything.
It’s a quiet, intense stare-down—his near-black eyes locked on mine, like he’s trying to read every thought I’m desperately trying to hide.
My breath catches. I don’t know what to say. I don’t think he does either.
I roll back over to face him fully. I tuck my arm under the pillow, trying to look more relaxed than I feel. “You know Damian and Elias placed bets on us, right?”
Viktor’s expression doesn’t change much, but his voice comes low and steady in the darkness. “Yes. I know. Elias already lost. Soon so will Damian.”
The words hit like a slap shot to the ribs.
Elias had said preseason games. Damian had said Halloween. It’s almost Halloween now. And if Viktor is saying Damian is going to lose too… that means he thinks nothing is going to happen between us. Ever.
“Right.” My voice comes out flat, smaller than I want it to. That weird stinging sensation spreads across my entire body. It knocks the air out of me for a second. I swallow hard, forcing the corners of my mouth up into something that might pass for a smile. “Good night, Petrov.”
I turn away again, curling in on myself, back to him. The space between us feels wider than ever now, even though we’re still in the same bed. I close my eyes tight, willing the sting behind them to fuck off. I’m still letting him break my heart in new ways without even trying.
I lie there pretending to sleep, eyes closed, breathing slow and even like I’ve drifted off. Better to just shut down. Better to let the silence win.
Minutes drag by. Maybe ten. Maybe twenty.
The rain taps steadily against the window, and Viktor’s breathing stays deep and measured beside me.
I’m almost convinced he actually fell asleep when I hear it—his voice, barely a whisper, so low it almost blends with the rain as he says in Russian “…you know I can’t… soroka…”
My eyes stay closed, but my heart kicks hard against my ribs. I catch the words in fragments. You know I can’t… and then that one word again. Soroka. Something about a bird?
I keep perfectly still, forcing my breathing to stay steady, pretending I’m dead to the world.
Inside my head, though, my brain is wide awake and spinning.
I’ve been secretly grinding Russian on those weird apps for years—Duolingo at 2 a.m., random YouTube channels, flashcards I delete the second I close them.
I know enough to get by in basic conversations, but right now my mind is scrambling.
I know it’s a bird. I know it. But which one? Pigeon? Crow? Some kind of noisy scavenger? Why the fuck is he talking about a bird in the middle of the night while I’m lying right here?
The question loops in my head like a bad TikTok. What the hell is a soroka? I’m too tired to remember properly, but the word feels familiar in a way that tugs at something I can’t quite reach. He said it like it meant something. Like it hurt to say it.
Great. Just great.
Now I’m never going to fall asleep. I’m just going to lie here all night wondering why Viktor Petrov is whispering about birds in the dark.