18. Chapter 18
“And then Cole comes flying in like a goddamn missile—” Elias is saying, standing up to demonstrate the play with wild hand gestures.
I grin and cut in, “—and I roof it right over the goalie’s glove! Bar down, baby! You should’ve seen their faces!”
The table erupts again. But every time Nico opens his mouth to add something, I shoot him a sharp glare across the table. The rookie has the decency to look uncomfortable now, but I’m not ready to let it go just yet. Not after that locker room bullshit.
Then Viktor, who has been mostly quiet beside me with his hand resting possessively on my thigh under the table, reaches into his jacket and pulls out the infamous flask.
My eyes narrow immediately. I know exactly what’s in there.
That Russian vodka is straight poison — I learned that the hard way last season when I made the mistake of taking a sip.
It could probably strip paint off a car.
Shane, the chaos gremlin, lights up like Christmas morning. “Ooh, is that the good stuff? Hook me up, Petrov!”
Viktor levels him with a flat, terrifying glare. Last season that same vodka put Shane completely under the table, and he spent the rest of the night trying to kiss Mats. Mats still hasn’t fully recovered from the trauma — he visibly tenses up at the memory.
Before anyone else can comment, Roman — our quiet Russian rookie — eyes the flask with clear interest. I watch, amazed, as Viktor’s entire demeanor shifts.
The tension in his shoulders eases, the constant low-level glare softens.
For the first time tonight, he does not look like he is one wrong word away from throwing someone through a wall.
He grunts, almost approvingly, and pours two glasses — one for himself and one for Roman.
I smirk into my own fruity drink, swirling the straw lazily, but I don’t say a word.
Seeing Viktor relax even a little because he is no longer the only Russian at the table does something warm and dangerous to my chest. He catches me watching and raises an eyebrow, silently daring me to comment.
I just grin wider and take another sip, letting the team’s laughter wash over us.
The table is loud and chaotic in the best way, exactly how I like it. Elias, Mats, and I are in full chirp mode, going back and forth like we’re still on the ice trying to get under each other’s skin.
“You gonna keep hiding behind your husband’s bad leg all season, Curls?” I fire at Elias, grinning like an idiot. “Or are you actually planning to score more than two goals this year?”
Elias gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Says the man who ghosted his own team for a week and a half because he couldn’t handle getting dicked down properly. At least my man doesn’t need to take my jewelry out before every practice like I’m his personal Barbie doll.”
Mats nearly chokes on his drink, laughing. “Bro, you walked right into that one. Hollywood’s been getting maintenance checks from Petrov every night. We all saw the hickeys. Man’s wearing a turtleneck in December.”
“Fuck both of you,” I laugh, flipping them off while leaning back in my chair. Viktor’s hand is still heavy and warm on my thigh under the table, thumb stroking slow circles that keep me grounded even as the chirps fly.
Across from us, Roman says something in Russian, low and casual, and Viktor answers in the same language.
The shift in Viktor’s voice is immediate — smoother, more relaxed, the words flowing freely in a way I rarely get to hear.
I catch a few words here and there — something about the game, about the cold weather, about home — and it hits me like a weird little punch to the ribs.
Seeing him speak so easily with Roman, no walls up, no careful restraint…
it makes me jealous in a stupid, soft way.
I want that. I want him to talk to me like that too.
Maybe I should learn more Russian. Not just the dirty stuff. All of it.
My shoulders deflate a little without me meaning to.
Elias, the perceptive little shit, notices instantly.
His hand slides under the table and grabs my other thigh — the one Viktor isn’t already claiming — and gives it a gentle squeeze, pushing me closer into Viktor’s side.
I glare at him hard, but Elias just grins like a menace, all feral golden retriever energy, and immediately turns to his husband.
“Damian,” he purrs, batting his lashes dramatically and leaning into the older man’s space, “have I told you lately how hot you look when you’re yelling at us from behind the bench? Sir.”
Damian snorts, one eyebrow raised, but there’s clear fondness in his eyes as he drapes an arm around Elias’s shoulders. “Flattery won’t get you out of bag skates tomorrow, pup.”
I roll my eyes at Elias’s obvious distraction tactic, but I still let myself lean into Viktor’s solid warmth, his hand tightening possessively on my thigh like he knows exactly what just happened.
The Russian conversation continues beside me, and even though I don’t understand most of it, the sound of Viktor’s voice like that — open, comfortable — settles something warm and greedy in my chest. I want more of it. All of it. All of him.
I end up sitting next to Viktor for a while, just listening to the chaos around the table while my mind drifts.
Viktor eventually notices my silence and turns toward me, concerned. “You okay, Hollywood?”
“Huh?” I blink, snapping out of my little dissociative spiral.
Viktor asks again, this time in Russian, soft and careful. “Ty v poryadke, soroka?”
The words pull me back instantly. I answer without thinking, the Russian clumsy but genuine. “Da… ya v poryadke.” Yeah. I’m okay.
Roman’s head snaps up so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t get whiplash. “Wait. You know Russian?” he blurts, his eyes wide with excitement.
Then he starts talking to me—fast, enthusiastic Russian that might as well be machine-gun fire.
My eyes bug out as I try to keep up, catching maybe every third word.
Something about me understanding, about how cool it is, and possibly a question about how long I’ve been hiding this from everyone.
Honestly, at this speed, he could also be asking me to help him rob a bank.
Viktor smirks beside me but doesn’t help. He just waits, patient and far too amused, while I mentally scramble to translate what the hell Roman just said. Eventually, I piece together enough to answer and look up at Viktor for courage.
He gives me a small nod, encouraging, like he actually believes I can do this.
I try my best, the words slow and awkward. “Ya… russkiy… nemnogo uchil. Govoryu… ne ochen’ horosho.”
Viktor’s mouth twitches, but he corrects me gently, quiet enough that only I—and probably Roman—can hear. “Ya nemnogo uchil russkiy,” he murmurs. “I studied a little Russian.”
My cheeks burn, but I repeat it carefully. “Ya nemnogo uchil russkiy.”
“Good,” Viktor says, pride tucked into that one quiet word like a secret. “And then: ya ne ochen’ horosho govoryu po-russki. I don’t speak Russian very well.”
I stare at him. “That is so many words.”
Roman, the bastard, wheezes.
Viktor’s smirk deepens. “Try.”
I take a breath, focusing so hard my brain nearly catches fire. “Ya… ne ochen’ horosho… govoryu po-russki.”
“Better,” Viktor murmurs, and the softness in his voice does something deeply inconvenient to my chest.
The entire table has gone quiet by then, everyone staring at us like we just grew extra heads.
Roman looks stunned. Elias has stopped mid-chirp, mouth open. Even Damian looks mildly surprised. Shane’s eyes are sparkling like he just witnessed magic.
I sink a little lower in my seat, but Viktor’s hand squeezes my thigh under the table, warm and steady. For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m performing. I’m just… trying. For him.
Viktor leans in just a fraction closer. “Good boy.”
My brain short-circuits. I gape at him, mouth falling open, heat exploding across my face so fast I’m surprised I don’t combust right there at the table. He said it so casually, so quietly, but the praise hits me like a fucking truck. My stomach flips hard and I forget how to speak for a second.
At the exact same moment, Elias — who was apparently close enough to catch it — yelps surprised like someone just shocked him. “OH MY GOD—”
The sound is so sharp it makes Damian jolt beside him, nearly spilling his drink. The entire table turns to look at Elias, who is now staring at us with wide, delighted eyes, one hand dramatically pressed over his heart like he’s witnessing history.
I’m still gaping at Viktor, who looks far too smug for his own good, the tiniest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he takes another sip of his vodka like he didn’t just ruin me in front of half the team.
Elias recovers quickly, leaning forward with pure menace. “Did you just— Viktor Petrov, you absolute sap—”
“Shut up, Curls,” I hiss, kicking him under the table while my face burns hotter. Viktor’s hand squeezes my thigh again, steady and possessive, and I have to fight the urge to hide my face in his shoulder like a coward.
The rest of the table is now watching us with varying levels of confusion and amusement, clearly sensing they missed something juicy. I’m going to kill both of them. Slowly.
Before I can think better of it, I snatch Viktor’s glass right out of his hand and down the rest of the vodka in one desperate gulp.
Big mistake.
The liquid burns like battery acid going down.
I immediately start coughing like a dying man, eyes watering, chest heaving as I slam the empty glass back on the table.
“Holy fuck— that tastes like paint thinner and broken dreams!” I wheeze, pounding my own chest. “Why the hell do you drink this shit? It’s evil!
” As if I didn't pull this last season also.
Viktor stares at me, eyebrows raised, clearly caught off guard. The entire table has gone quiet again, watching the disaster unfold.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, still coughing, and shove the empty glass toward him. “Another. Please. I need to erase that taste from my soul.”
“No,” Viktor says flatly, already reaching to take the glass away.
“Daddy, pleaaaaseee!!” I whine, dragging the word out dramatically and giving him the biggest, most pathetic puppy eyes I can manage.
Viktor’s jaw ticks hard. He stares at me for a long second, clearly fighting some internal war, before he groans like I personally aged him ten years.
With obvious reluctance, he picks up the flask and pours again — only halfway this time, giving me a warning look that says this is all you’re getting.
I grin triumphantly, even as my throat still feels like it’s on fire, and snatch the glass before he can change his mind.
Elias is cackling across the table. Damian looks like he’s regretting every life choice that led him here.
And Viktor… Viktor just shakes his head, but his hand finds my thigh again under the table, squeezing like he can’t quite help himself.
I down the second half-glass like an idiot who has not learned his lesson, the vodka burning all the way down and spreading that dangerous warmth through my chest. It tastes like regret and rocket fuel, but I still push the empty glass back toward Viktor with a hopeful little grin.
“Another?” I ask sweetly, batting my lashes and giving him the full puppy eyes treatment.
Viktor looks at me for a long second. “No,” he says firmly, already moving the flask out of reach. “We have game two against Halifax tomorrow. You are not showing up hungover.”
I pout dramatically, leaning into his side. The puppy eyes usually work. Not this time. He is annoyingly responsible when it counts. I huff and settle for stealing sips from my own overly sweet drink instead, grumbling under my breath about Russian killjoys.
But not fifteen minutes later, the vodka I did manage to drink starts creeping up on me.
It hits subtly at first — a warm buzz under my skin, making everything feel a little softer, a little hotter.
My hand moves on its own, sliding over Viktor’s where it rests on my thigh.
Slowly, I start dragging his hand higher, guiding those big, rough fingers further up under the table until they’re dangerously close to the seam of my sweats.
Viktor’s head turns sharply. He stares at me, his eyes narrowing in warning. Then he leans in close, his breath warm against my ear. “Keep it up, Vance. See what happens.”
The threat should probably scare me. Instead, my brain immediately lights up with curiosity and pure, chaotic want.
What exactly will happen? I want to know.
I really, really want to know. So I keep going, sliding his hand even higher, fingers brushing teasingly over the growing bulge in my sweats while I smile innocently at the table like nothing is happening.
Viktor tries to keep it cool. His face stays mostly neutral, eyes fixed somewhere across the table like he’s listening to the conversation. But I can feel the tension in his hand on my thigh, the way his fingers flex like he’s fighting the urge to do exactly what I want.
I don’t stop. I’m too far gone already — the vodka, the praise, the way he’s been touching me under the table all night — it’s all mixed together into something desperate and stupid.
I press his hand harder against my bulge, grinding subtly into his palm through my sweats.
I’m already rock hard, aching, breathing way too fast for someone just sitting at dinner.
My heart is hammering because I’m nervous as fuck about what happens when you push the Russian wall too far…
but I want to find out. I really, really want to find out.
Viktor turns his head toward me slowly. And then he gives my cock a firm, deliberate squeeze through the fabric.
I bite down hard on my own tongue to keep from moaning out loud, a sharp little sound escaping anyway as my hips jerk into his grip. Heat floods my face. My dick twitches hard under his hand, leaking into my sweats.
Viktor leans in close, his lips brushing my ear. “Room. Now.”
That’s all it takes. I shoot up from my chair so fast it topples backward with a loud clatter, startling Elias beside us.
“Shit— sorry, I— uh— bathroom,” I stammer, already moving, face burning as half the table turns to look at me.
Viktor stands up smoothly behind me, calm as ever, but I can feel the heat rolling off him as he follows me out of the restaurant.
My legs feel shaky the entire walk to the elevator. I’m so fucking turned on I can barely think straight, and the way Viktor’s hand stays possessively on my lower back the whole time only makes it worse.