Chapter 7
One week since Viktor pinned me against the shower wall, his hand around my throat, and his mouth on mine. One week since he pulled back, looked at me with that haunted expression, and said “I can’t…” before walking away like I was something that might break him.
One week since I have spoken a single word to him.
I am exhausted.
Not just the physical kind — though that is there too, from back-to-back games and travel and pretending I am fine in front of the team.
It is the bone-deep kind. The kind that comes from replaying the same thirty seconds in your head every night while lying in an empty bed that still somehow smells like him.
I am sprawled on my couch in sweats and one of Elias’s stolen hoodies, staring at the ceiling like it might give me answers.
My apartment is a mess of takeout containers and hockey gear, but I cannot be bothered to clean.
Not when my best friend is currently pacing my living room like a caged animal on the verge of a breakdown.
“Cole, please,” Elias begs, desperate as he spins on his heel for the hundredth time.
“It is two days before the Halloween party and I need this to be perfect. It is our anniversary. One year since Damian first fucked me senseless in that hotel room after the Wranglers series. I cannot mess this up.”
I drag a hand down my face and groan. “Curls, you are deranged. You know that, right? Most people celebrate anniversaries with dinner. You want to turn the team Halloween party into some kind of horny anniversary ritual.”
Elias stops pacing long enough to throw the full-force puppy eyes at me. The big green ones. The ones that have gotten him out of trouble since forever, probably. The ones that work on everyone except Damian (and even then, only sometimes).
“Please,” he says again, his voice going soft and pathetic. “You are the only one who gets it. Shane will just paint weird symbols everywhere, Mats will flirt with Zara until she threatens to murder him, and Viktor—” He cuts himself off, glancing at me carefully. “Well. You know.”
Yeah. I know.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my temples. My head is still pounding from the lack of sleep and the constant replay of Viktor’s mouth on mine, his hand on my throat, the way he looked at me right before he ran.
“Fine,” I say, already regretting it. “What do you need help with?”
Elias’s face lights up like I just handed him the Cup.
He launches into a rapid-fire list of decorations, themed drinks, and very specific ideas about how to make the party “romantic but also unhinged” because apparently that is their love language.
I nod along, half-listening, trying to ignore the way my chest aches every time my brain wanders back to the quiet Russian giant who has not looked at me properly in seven days.
I am so fucking tired.
But Elias is my best friend. And if planning a chaotic Halloween party that doubles as his anniversary celebration with Damian will make him happy, then I will help.
The Halloween game against the Bastards is over.
We beat them 4-2 in a messy, chippy, blood-and-teeth kind of win that felt exactly right for the night.
Now the arena has been transformed into something out of a fever dream.
The ice is covered in a thin layer of fog rolling from machines, orange and black lights pulse overhead, and half the fans who stayed after the game are out on the ice in costumes, laughing and skating like drunk idiots.
The team Halloween party is in full swing.
I am still riding the post-game high mixed with too much sugar from Elias’s latest “anniversary fuel” concoction.
My costume is simple but effective — a slightly unbuttoned black dress shirt, chains, rings, and fake blood splattered strategically across my neck and collar like some kind of glamorous vampire who just fed. It’s loud. It’s me.
But Viktor is nowhere to be seen.
I have not talked to him properly since the shower.
Not since he kissed me like he was dying and then walked away like I was the one who might destroy him.
Seven days of silence. Seven days of him avoiding my eyes in the locker room.
Seven days of me pretending it does not feel like a knife between my ribs every time he looks away.
I push the thought down and focus on the cute guy in front of me.
He is sitting on the bench at the edge of the ice, cheeks flushed under a messy brown fringe, wearing a half-assed werewolf costume that mostly consists of flannel and plastic fangs. He looks nervous as hell, holding a pair of rental skates like they might bite him.
“I’ve never done this before,” he admits with a shy laugh as I kneel in front of him.
I flash him my best Hollywood grin and take the skates from his hands. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ve got you.”
I help him lace them up properly, making sure they are tight enough but not painful. He watches me the whole time, appreciative. It feels… nice. Easy. The kind of attention that does not come with emotional warfare and Russian whispers in the dark.
“There,” I say, patting his ankle once I’m done. “Stand up slowly. I’ll hold your hands until you get the hang of it.”
He stands, wobbly, and I take both his hands, skating backward slowly to guide him onto the ice. The fog swirls around our legs. He laughs nervously when he almost tips over, gripping my hands tighter. I laugh with him, loud and bright, the way I always do when I am performing.
“You’re doing good,” I tell him, flashing my brightest smile. “Just small pushes. Don’t lock your knees.”
He laughs nervously, his cheeks pink under the arena lights. “This is insane. I can’t believe I’m skating with Cole Vance right now.”
I tilt my head, still skating backward like it’s nothing. “Yeah? You a fan?”
He nods quickly, almost tripping over his own skates before I steady him. “For years. Since your rookie season. I… I’ve watched every game I could. You’re kind of my favorite player. Sorry, that sounds creepy when I say it out loud.”
He looks mortified the second the words leave his mouth. It’s actually kind of adorable — this shy, flustered guy in a half-hearted werewolf costume, fang slipping off one tooth, staring at me like I hung the moon.
I grin wider, squeezing his hands. “Not creepy at all. What’s your name, man?”
“Alex,” he says.
“Nice to meet you, Alex.” I let go of one of his hands so I can skate beside him instead, keeping the other for balance. He’s getting the hang of it faster than most first-timers. “You from around here?”
We chat easily as we make a slow lap. He’s shy but sweet — a graphic designer who’s been following the Reapers since he was a teenager. Every time I laugh at something he says, his cheeks get redder. It feels good. Light. No heavy silences. No Russian whispers haunting the back of my mind.
After a few more laps, I nod toward the makeshift alcohol table set up on the ice — a bar on wheels with glowing bottles and fog swirling around it like some kind of Halloween fever dream.
“Come on,” I say, tugging him gently. “Let’s get a drink. You’ve earned it for not falling on your ass yet.”
Alex laughs, still holding my hand as we glide over. I order two strong cocktails — something sweet and dangerous with orange glow sticks in them — and hand him one. He takes it carefully, like he’s still processing that I’m real.
“Thanks,” he says, taking a sip. “Seriously. This is… this is the coolest night of my life.”
I clink my cup against his, forcing my usual bright grin even as my eyes scan the edges of the ice again. Still no sign of Viktor. The absence gnaws at me more than I want to admit.
Alex is sweet. Really sweet. He laughs at my stupid jokes, blushes when I tease him, and keeps looking at me like I’m the most interesting person he’s ever met. After we finish our glowing orange drinks by the bar on the ice, I feel a reckless little spark of warmth in my chest. Why the hell not?
“Come on,” I say, grabbing his hand again. “I’ve got something for you.”
I lead him off the ice and through the tunnel toward the locker room. The party is still raging behind us, but the hallway is quieter, the fog thinning out. Alex’s eyes go wide when I push open the door to the Reapers’ locker room.
The second he steps inside, his nose scrunches up at the smell — sweat, gear, hockey tape, and that unmistakable post-game funk that no amount of cleaning can fully erase. It’s so genuine and adorable that I burst out laughing.
“Yeah, it smells like regret and victory in here,” I say, still chuckling as I head to my stall. “You get used to it. Sort of.”
I grab one of my spare #91 jerseys from my bag, the black and red one with the raven logo. I sign it quickly across the nameplate with a Sharpie — To Alex, thanks for skating with me tonight. - Hollywood Vance — then turn back to him.
“Here,” I murmur, stepping close. I unfold the jersey and carefully pull it over his head, tugging it down over his flannel werewolf costume.
My hands linger on his waist a little longer than necessary, smoothing the fabric over his sides, thumbs brushing his hips.
He’s warm. Looking up at me with those shy, hopeful eyes.
For a second, it feels good. Then the locker room door opens and Viktor walks in.
He stops dead the second he sees us. His eyes flick from my hands on Alex’s waist, to the signed jersey now hanging on Alex’s frame, to my face.
For one heartbeat, something raw and painful flashes across his expression.
He closes his eyes for a second, jaw ticking hard enough that I can see the muscle jump from across the room.
When he opens them again, the mask is back in place.
He gives us a single, curt nod — the same nod he’d give any teammate after a game — like I’m nothing more than another guy on the roster.
Then he walks past us to his stall without a word, grabbing something from his bag like we’re not even there.
The hurt rises up so fast and so hard it feels like someone punched me in the sternum.
I force a bright smile anyway, turning back to Alex and squeezing his waist once more before letting go. “You know what?” I say, louder than necessary, the performance mask snapping firmly into place. “Wanna get out of here?”
Alex blinks, surprised but clearly pleased. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
I don’t look at Viktor again as I steer Alex toward the door. I can feel those eyes on my back the entire way out, burning holes through me, but I keep walking.
If he wants to pretend I mean nothing, then fine.
Alex stays close as we leave the locker room, his hand brushing mine every few steps like he’s still not sure this is real.
The arena hallways are quieter now, the party on the ice slowly winding down, but the energy still hums in the walls.
I keep my usual bright smile plastered on, even though my chest feels like it’s full of broken glass after Viktor’s cold nod.
We turn the corner toward the exit and nearly walk straight into Damian.
He’s standing there like a wall — tall, broad, cane planted beside him, sharp even in the dim hallway lighting.
Alex makes a small, startled sound and immediately tries to hide behind me, blushing hard enough that I can feel the heat coming off his face.
I don’t blame him. Damian Kade in coach mode is terrifying on a good day.
Damian looks at me, taking in the signed jersey now on Alex, and the way I’m clearly dragging a fan out of here like it’s the only thing keeping me standing. His mouth twitches once. Then he reaches out to pat my back with one massive hand. It’s almost gentle. “Go on,” he says. “Get out of here.”
“Night, Coach,” I grin, forcing it wider than it wants to be. I give him a mock salute as I steer Alex past him.
Damian doesn’t say anything else, but I feel his eyes on my back the whole way down the hall.
Outside, the night air is cold and crisp.
I flag down a cab, and we slide into the back seat together.
Alex is still blushing, glancing at me like he can’t believe any of this is happening.
I keep the conversation light during the ride — teasing him about his skating, asking about his favorite Reapers moments — and he laughs softly, relaxing a little more with every block we pass.
By the time we get to my apartment, the alcohol and the long night have settled into a warm, hazy buzz. I let us in, flick on a couple of lights, and kick off my shoes. Alex hovers near the door for a second, looking around my messy living room with wide eyes.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I tell him, already heading toward the kitchen. “Want water? Or something stronger?”
He follows me, looking shy and sweet and so damn uncomplicated it almost hurts. I pour us both glasses of water and hand him one. When our fingers brush, he smiles at me.
For a second, I let myself lean into it. The easy warmth. The way he looks at me without baggage and fear and silence. I step closer, letting my fingers graze his waist again where the jersey hangs loose on him.
We end up on my couch, drinks forgotten on the coffee table. Alex is sweet and a little nervous, telling me stories about his favorite Reapers games, how he cried when we won the Cup last season, how he never thought he’d actually meet me. His voice is soft, genuine. No games. No walls.
I like the way he looks at me like I’m someone worth wanting without complications.
So when the conversation lulls and his eyes linger on my mouth, I lean in, and kiss him.
It’s soft at first — warm lips, tentative, tasting like the sugary cocktail from the party.
Alex makes a surprised little sound and then kisses me back, his hands coming up to rest lightly on my chest. It should feel good.
It does, in a distant sort of way. He’s gentle. Eager. Real.
But Viktor flashes in my mind anyway. The way he pinned me in the shower. The growl in his voice. The desperate press of his mouth before he ripped himself away like I was poison.
I shove the image down hard and kiss Alex harder. Deeper. I thread my fingers into his hair and tilt his head, pouring all the frustration and hurt and need into it. Alex whimpers softly against my lips, melting into me, one hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck. It’s easy.
But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.
Still, I don’t stop. I kiss him like I can erase the memory of Viktor’s hand around my throat, like I can drown out the sound of him saying “I can’t…” and walking away. Alex responds beautifully, pressing closer, breath catching when I nip at his bottom lip.
For a few minutes, I let myself pretend this could work. That a sweet, shy fan who looks at me like I’m his hero could be the thing that finally pulls me out of Viktor Petrov’s orbit. A guy can dream, right?