Page 9

Chapter Eight

Viktor

Knight’s glower is instant the second I walk into the locker room. He’s got his gloves off, jaw working overtime, and I haven’t even taken off my jacket yet.

“You took her to the pregame dinner?” he says, no hello, no warm-up. Just the opening line of a brother ready to throw hands. “Seems like you and my sister are getting pretty cozy.”

“She wanted to come,” I say, keeping my tone casual as I stash my gear. “Not like I dragged her there by the ponytail.”

“Doesn’t mean you needed to sit next to her all couple-like.” His eyes narrow. “She could’ve sat with Sofia.”

“She did sit with Sofia. I just happened to be on the other side of her.”

“She was smiling,” he says like it’s a war crime.

“I’m aware.” And yeah, maybe I felt like the king of the fucking universe seeing her smile while sharing a plate of garlic mashed potatoes. Sue me.

Cam strolls in, interrupting the tension like he always does—loud and unbothered. “Yo, Vik. Word on the street is that Knova thinks you’re funny now. What’s that like?”

“She always thought I was funny,” I say, pulling off my hoodie. “She just hated herself for laughing.”

“Tragic. Star-crossed. Shakespeare would weep,” Cam deadpans.

Tristan passes behind us with a towel slung around his neck. “How many chapters into this frenemy thing are we now? Because from the outside, it’s reading like a romcom.”

“It’s not a romcom,” I mutter.

“It’s a slow burn,” Lenyx calls from his stall. “Like, twelve seasons on Netflix slow. Then the Mr. Darcy hand flex.”

“Jesus.” I tug my pads tighter. “You guys get bored this easily between games?”

Knight huffs and plops onto the bench like my face offends him. “You didn’t tell me she was coming.”

“Didn’t know she was until she said she was.”

“She’s wearing your jersey.”

I look up at that. “Nope. It’s not my jersey. It clearly has SAVAGE across the back.”

Tristan raises one eyebrow. “Same shit.”

I rub the heel of my hand over my chest, where my logo sits stitched to my heart. The idea of her walking around in something that matches this—it does something to me. Stirs something. Feeds the fire I’ve been choking down since the second we got fake-married in a haze of tequila and questionable decision-making.

“You should’ve seen his face when she showed up,” Knight says with a pointed look.

“And what did your face look like when she left your house in the middle of the night, Daddy?” I shoot back.

The chirping stops just long enough for Tristan to mutter, “Tension. So thick. I could cut it with a skate blade.”

I hit the ice with too much energy in my legs and not enough clarity in my head. When I glance at Knova, she gives me two thumbs up. Which is substantially better than two middle fingers, indicating she doesn’t hate the present I gave her.

I try to shake off the distraction during warmups. Focus on puck handling, stick work, edge control. But every time I coast near the boards, my eyes flick up, and sure enough—there she is.

Knova. VIP section. Right next to Sofia. Wearing the jersey.

Okay, I might have kissed it.

No name on the back. Just one word:

SAVAGE.

Goddamn right.

The puck drops, and I snap into motion.

Cam wins the first faceoff, and he’s off like a shot. Tristan dumps it deep, Cam chases it down, and Tristan takes a hit in the corner that leaves the crowd groaning—but he pops back up like a damn cyborg.

Shift change. My turn.

I take the ice with Knight and Lenyx, and the second the puck touches my stick, everything sharpens. The world goes still.

I see the seam. I split the D.

One fake.

One shot.

Bar down.

It’s so clean, so fast, I don’t even feel it leave the blade. Just hear the horn, see the red light, and get mobbed by my line like I just proposed to someone mid-game.

Knight slams into me from behind. “Tell my sister she can come to dinner anytime.”

“Yeah,” Lenyx laughs, “this goal’s on her. That jersey’s cursed or blessed, depending on your perspective.”

“Yay, Abbott and Daddy,” Cam yells from the bench.

I grin and point up to the box. I know she sees me. Hell, I hope she does.

The rest of the game is a grind. Milwaukee fights back hard, peppering our goalie with shots and getting chippy along the boards. Tristan draws a penalty in the second, and we capitalize—Knight buries a rebound and damn near takes the glass out celebrating. By the third, it’s a war of attrition. The energy’s high, the hits are harder, and I block a shot with my thigh that’s going to leave a bruise the size of my ego. But we hold the line. The chemistry’s clicking.

We win 2–1.

Afterward, the locker room is chaos—half chirping, half bragging, a little too much deodorant in the air. I’m still buzzing with adrenaline and Knova’s laugh echoing in my head when I sit to untie my skates.

Knight’s sitting beside me now, calmer than before.

He nudges me. “I don’t get it, man.”

“What?”

“You two were toxic for years. She hated your guts.”

I shrug. “She still does. Just slightly less.”

“She wore the jersey without complaint.”

I glance down, smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Yeah. She did.”

Knight studies me for a long moment. Then, finally: “Don’t screw it up.”

I nod. “Trying not to.”

Trying not to want her too much. Trying not to need something I know I can’t keep.

But as long as that piece of paper exists? She’s mine.

And I’m going to let myself believe that’s enough. Just for now.

* * *

“We’re going for the Cup this year,” Knight says, raising a glass of limoncello at the Puck Drop. We’ve ordered carafes for the table. Coop makes all the limoncello in-house, and it’s both delicious and dangerous.

“Hell, yes!” Lenyx pumps both arms over his head. “That Cup is ours! ”

“We are having a solid season,” Camden admits. He’s pretty reserved, unlike Lenyx, who definitely takes after his dad. When Lenyx shouts about how well we’re doing, the rest of us know to take it with a grain of salt. Camden’s quiet calculations wouldn’t hype up an arena, but his words carry more weight. “The problem is, we haven’t gone up against the other teams who are having good years of their own. We can’t let ourselves get complacent…”

I reach over to slap his shoulder. “Now you sound like Coach. We get plenty of lectures on the ice already. Let’s celebrate the win tonight and worry about our strategy at the next practice. After two back-to-back games, I’m about done for.”

Cam nods, like he’s calculating odds in his head. “We’ve got a good shot. But let’s not forget—we haven’t faced the other big dogs yet.”

“Which is exactly why we should party while we still feel invincible,” I say, clinking his glass with mine. “Coach’ll crush our souls tomorrow at the film review meeting either way.”

We all agree that we could use a night off. Maybe that’s why we all let loose a little when it comes to the evening’s drinking. Before I know it, I’m three beers and a shot in and feeling fine.

Or at least I was.

Because that’s when the door opens. I don’t even need to look. I feel her before I see her—like the air shifts just from her being in the room. When I do glance up, my stomach goes tight.

Knova steps into The Puck Drop like she owns the place, which, to be fair, she kind of does. She’s in jeans, hair pulled up, neck bare. Her dog tags aren’t visible, but I know they’re there.

She sees the table, sees me, and for a second—I swear she hesitates. My heart stutters. But then she walks toward us. Toward me. And when she slides into the chair next to mine, the ache behind my ribs dulls just enough to breathe.

When Tristan offers to buy another round, I wave him away. “Nah, thanks, but I should get going. I’m already a little buzzed.”

I rise to stand, only to sway and catch myself on the edge of the table.

“Whoa, there.” Knova catches my shoulder to steady me. “Deep breaths, buddy. I think you’re more than a little buzzed.”

Oh, goddammit, not this again. I didn’t mean to drink so much tonight. I meant to be smooth. Maybe slip in a compliment, flirt a little, get that pity kiss she promised for a Venom win. But no—I’m three drinks past clever and one shot away from needing subtitles.

Although, to be fair, Knova wouldn’t have agreed to marry me if she’d been sober after the team party. I was hoping that if I played my cards right, she’d agree to stay married, though. Dammit. I’ve blown it for the night. And things were going so well!

Knova’s still holding my arm. “Got everything with you, Abbott? Phone? Wallet? Testicles?”

I choke on a laugh, glancing down like a guy who’s just been asked to locate his soul. I’ve got my phone. My wallet. My—yeah, they’re still there. Unfortunately, not in any mood to help me out.

“Pretty sure I do.” I almost ask her if she wants to double-check that last one, but no, that will not win me any points tonight. Maybe she can check my balls another time.

This presents a new problem. The thought of Knova caressing my balls has no effect on my junk. It should be hot. I should be turned on. But nothing. Oh, God, what if I’ve given myself alcohol-related ED? Knova will think I can never get it up, and then she’ll divorce me and never talk to me again, and she’ll marry someone else—

“I’m gonna walk this knucklehead home,” Knova tells the guys. “As fun as it would be to watch him crawl back, I think your chances of winning the NHL’s top prize would drop significantly without your first-line right wing.”

A general murmur of assent greets her words, and that’s it. There’s no argument, no funny looks, no question about why we’re leaving together. The team is used to us hanging out.

As friends.

Is that what we are now? Friends who happen to be married? Or is there any chance of her falling for me, too?

I live in the same development as the Puck Drop. It’s not a long walk, although it’s made longer than usual by my weaving and meandering. I do a little more weaving than necessary because it encourages Knova to hold my arm.

“How are you so sober?” I ask.

She smirks up at me. “It’s called impulse control.”

I shake my head. “Never heard of it.”

“I know.”

“Impulse her? I don’t even know her!”

“Oh my God, stop. ” She punches my arm. “You’re cancelled.”

“Nuh uh. You bought a lifetime subscription.” Midway through that sentence, I realize that I’ve made a terrible mistake, that I want to convince her to stay, not drive her away.

Knova shakes her head at me. “Sure, I did.”

That’s not a no. Is it? Dammit, why did I drink that last beer?

Back at my place, Knova deposits me on the couch. I sink into the cushions with a sigh and close my eyes.

“I’m getting you some water,” she tells me.

I hear her footsteps patter away, followed by the hiss of the faucet. I like the sound of her in my house. When I moved in, I loved how quiet it was without Mom or Dad or my sisters hovering around all the time. I could watch TV in my underwear and nobody would complain. I could jerk off in the living room if I wanted. Not that I ever have, because the couch would be hard to clean, and I hate the idea of my naked butt touching my nice leather sofa, but the point is, I could .

I love my family, but I don’t miss living with them. When Knova leaves, though, I will miss her. Even if she makes me sleep on the couch. Which means sleeping in PJs at all times, because, again, butt + leather = no.

Knova walks back to me. Halfway here, she pauses, and the quality of her footsteps changes. She’s kicked off her shoes.

“You look nice tonight,” I say with my eyes still closed.

“I always look nice.”

I smile at her spikiness, which is one of my favorite things of all time. I love when Knova’s crabby. I love when she’s nice.

I love Knova, end of sentence.

Don’t you dare say that aloud.

“You looked extra-nice,” I say instead. “You did your makeup differently.”

“Because my old makeup kit was destroyed. Here, I’ve got your water.”

I open my eyes at last and take the glass she’s holding out with both hands. I take small sips, eyeing Knova over the rim. She’s watching me with her arms crossed, with her weight shifted onto her back leg. I know that expression. I know all her expressions. This one is her thinking face.

“I can’t leave you out here,” she says. “You’re all drunk and pathetic. I can’t ditch you on the couch. If I let you into the bed, you promise you won’t do anything… nefarious?”

“In the bed?” I repeat. “With you? ”

“That’s the idea.”

I chug the rest of my water and deposit the glass on the side table. “Yes. I swear I will be so well-behaved. Let’s do this.”

Easier said than done. The couch, which I purchased because it is so very comfortable, has me in its clutches. I make two failed attempts to get up before Knova takes pity on me and pulls me to my feet. She keeps holding my hand as she leads me upstairs to the bedroom. Her hand is small in mine, but her grip is solid. Familiar. It feels weirdly natural—like we’ve done this a thousand times. Like this is what home’s supposed to feel like. And that scares the shit out of me.

I feel both instantly sober and, simultaneously, as if I’ve drunk three flutes of champagne. I’m all bubbly and light.

In my room— our room??? —Knova releases me and reaches for her sleep set. “I’ll be in the bathroom for a bit,” she says. “I need to wash my face.”

Left to my own devices, I change into my pajama pants, pulling them low enough so you can see my happy trail—I mean… if you really wanted to—and stumble into bed to wait for her. The pillows smell like her shampoo, with a faint scent of smoke mixed in. I bury my face in them and breathe deep.

The sound of the bathroom door opening yanks me from the edge of sleep like a slapshot to the face. I don’t move, don’t speak—I just pretend to sleep and listen. The quiet pat of her bare feet on the floor. The soft rustle of fabric. The light citrus scent of her moisturizer that wafts across the room and wrecks me.

Peeking at her, I notice my reluctant wife is wearing silky sleep shorts and a top that somehow accentuates her nipples. A sliver of her firm stomach is visible between the hems and I have the strange urge to lick her there.

Which is definitely not something I should be thinking about right now. But I am. Loudly. With every single goddamn nerve ending.

Knova slips into bed and lies, stiff as a two-by-four, with her arms at her sides.

She’s all sharp lines and tension, like someone expecting a bomb to go off. Spoiler alert: the bomb is me.

Despite the water I just drank, my mouth is dry. I’m watching her through my lashes like a man about to commit a sin.

“You gonna turn off the light?” I ask, voice low.

She doesn’t move. “I should.”

No one moves. No one breathes. And I’m very aware I’m between her and the wall. Which means the only way out is over her.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? There is no way out. Not from this. Not from her. I’ve been in love with Knova Hale since I was thirteen years old, and somehow, I’ve survived it. But this? Her here, in my bed, close enough to kiss? That’s not survival. That’s slow-motion implosion.

I could straddle her. Pin her wrists. Tell her she’s mine and mean it.

My cock twitches. Yeah, I’m not going anywhere.

“Oh,” I whisper. “I didn’t get my kiss.”

Knova turns her head. Her eyes find mine in the low light, and they’re already dark with something I really, really hope is want. “You did earn it,” she murmurs. “I suppose it’s only fair.”

“What if one kiss isn’t enough?”

Knova’s mouth twitches, caught between emotions. “You know how your mom likes to overshare?”

I nod.

“You know her favorite story about you as a baby?”

I groan. “Knova—”

“Given any opportunity, she always complains that you chapped the hell out of her nipples. You were a biter, too, allegedly. Apparently, you were as obsessed with nipples as Dante is with bringing back the magic.”

“Oh my God.” I smush my face into the pillow so I won’t have to see her anymore. She’s positively gleeful.

“I’m of two minds about biting, but I hope your technique has improved since then, is all I’m saying.” Her fingers brush the back of my neck. “That is if one kiss isn’t enough.”

My heart slams against my ribs so hard it might crack. Her fingers curl into my hair and tug, gently but firmly. I roll toward her, unable to stop myself…

It starts out soft—just lips brushing lips. But Knova doesn’t do anything halfway. One second, I’m tasting her Chapstick, and the next, she’s climbing on top of me.

Her lips meet mine before I can beg.

And this is the part where I break. Because I know how she kisses when she wants to make a point. When she wants to win. This isn't that. This is… careful. Tender. Like she’s not sure if this is goodbye or the start of something. And that kills me.

Her thigh slides between mine, her hips over mine, her body settling like she’s trying to break me with the weight of her want.

I moan. She swallows it. I tilt my head and open to her, and her tongue flicks into my mouth like a promise I’m not allowed to keep. My hands go to her hips—meant to steady, but they grip. They drag. I’m not gentle. I can’t be. She’s moving against me, and I’m so hard it hurts.

She gasps into my mouth and rolls her hips again. My cock pops out of the fly of my pajama pants, my head engorged and leaking precum, and notches along her slit. I can feel her silk-covered pussy lips wrap around me, gliding back and forth, drenching the fabric with her juices. The sensations of Knova bucking against me almost cause me to come.

“Knova,” I whisper. “God.”

She leans back just enough to look down at me, chest heaving. “Still just a kiss?”

“That depends,” I rasp. “Are you done, wife?”

“Not even close.”

Her mouth crashes onto mine again, and she’s kissing me like I’m air. Like she needs me to live. My hands find her thighs, then the edge of her shorts, and I hold them like an anchor.

Her center rocks right over my cock and I swear I see stars. It’s filthy. It’s desperate. It’s us.

I bite her lip. She claws at my shoulders. I mouth along her throat and feel her whole body stutter when I whisper her name into her skin.

And then she freezes. Just for a second. And I know the moment’s turning. The weight of it is settling over us like smoke.

“Vik…” she breathes, and her voice sounds too close to breaking. “We should stop.”

I nod, forehead pressed to her shoulder. “Yeah.”

But neither of us moves. Not for a while.

Eventually, she shifts off me, curling against my side. I’m still rock hard, still burning, but I don’t touch her again. I don’t dare.

“Goodnight, Viktor,” she says softly.

“Goodnight.” My voice cracks. “Knova…”

She doesn’t answer but reaches for my hand under the covers and laces our fingers together.

I fall asleep like that. A little undone. Holding on to something that was never mine to begin with.

And still hoping—like an idiot—that maybe she’ll stay. Not just the night. Not just the week. But for good. Because every time she’s near me, I remember how much I loved her then and realize I never stopped.