Chapter 3
It’s been six days since Nikolai arrived back in the States after his father’s funeral, and there’s another week before Chicago comes to Toronto for their last game of the regular season.
They’ve been texting constantly since January, since the Star Showcase that Daniel’s taken to calling their turning point in his head.
He can’t think of a better name for it.
For that night when Nikolai found him on the beach, when he walked into Nikolai’s hotel room in Miami and left a few hours later with the bone-deep certainty that he was in love with Nikolai Volkov.
Their turning point.
Daniel’s, at least.
So it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have Nikolai Volkov laugh at him, not anymore.
Daniel sort of loves the sound of his laugh these days.
It’s really stupid and all kinds of pathetic, but it’s the truth.
Like he knows Daniel’s thoughts have strayed to him, Daniel’s phone vibrates in his pocket.
It could be his mother.
Or Lucas.
Or Mara.
Or Ty.
Or anyone else.
But it could be Nikolai, and so his heart picks up its pace the way it always does when his lock screen lights up with a notification from Daisy.
His fingers itch to check immediately, but that’s rude and Daniel’s been raised better than that.
So instead, he carefully works his shoe off his foot and reaches out to tap Kozlov on the shoulder.
“You can workshop it then,” he says.
“Let me get changed and I’ll be out on the ice in a second, Koz-Mix.”
Kozlov’s grin is bright and boyish.
There’s not a single shadow on his face.
“Yes, Captain,” he tells him, leaning back into his stall to grab his helmet from his bag.
He pauses, gets a sly look on his face that just looks out of place on the guy.
“In Russia, maybe it is Danya. If you like.”
Daniel blinks.
At least it’s not Hollandaise.
Or kotik.
“Sure,” Daniel shrugs.
And then, because he’s been burned before, he asks, “What’s that mean?
Like, in Russian?”“Is nothing,” Kozlov says.
“Is just Russian little name.
For friends and teammates and annoying sisters to use.”
“I’m an only child,” Daniel says blankly, and Dovonchezy just grins at him, gap-toothed and young and hopeful.
Dream so close to his fingers.
His first practice in the PHL, and he beat Daniel to the locker room.
Fuck, he can call Daniel whatever he wants if he’s as good on the ice as he is eager to be there.
Daniel nods him off and then waits until the Russian’s safely out of the room before he tugs his phone out of his pocket.
It is a text from Nikolai, which does nothing to calm Daniel’s heartrate.
It’s nothing important, just llya wondering how much bad luck it would be to skip growing the playoff beard this year.
Apparently, it’s a pain to groom, and Nikolai’s very confident that the Bandits will make it all the way, which would be almost four whole months from now.
Four whole months of keeping his beard presentable.
Daniel pauses, thinks about it.
His playoff beard is infamously patchy and horrible and can hardly be called a beard at all, which everyone loves to remind him about.
Give the chance, he’d skip the humiliation ritual of growing it in a heartbeat if he thought his team would let him get away with it.
But…
He sends two thumbs down emojis to Nikolai, because he has very strong feelings about seeing Nikolai grow out his facial hair—all of which consist mostly of fantasies about how the short hairs would feel running over the insides of his thighs and along the sensitive skin of his throat.
After a moment with no forthcoming reply from Nikolai, he puts his phone down on the bench next to him so he can start changing out of his sweats and into his gear.
He only checks the message thread twice in between getting his pads on and yanking his jersey over his head.
It’s ridiculous, the way being in love with Nikolai Volkov has reduced him to a middle schooler with a crush.
After every practice, and even during intermissions of actual games, Daniel’s checking his phone to see if he has a text waiting.
And every time he does, it’s like he’s just gotten a shock to the heart with a pair of charged defibrillator pads, even if all Nikolai’s texted is something small and stupid.
Like a smiley face or a meme or a random thought that’s entered his mind.
It’s just—after so many years of having Nikolai’s body, of kissing him and fucking him and sharing late nights and shadows with him, Daniel’s unused to how it feels to see the rest of Nikolai.
To see Ilya.
He likes it.
Every small piece of him he gets, everything he’s learned about him since the All-Star Weekend in Miami.
His knees feel all bruised from how quickly and totally he’s tumbled into loving Nikolai Volkov.
Eight years of fucking him beforehand, aside.
In the Express’ locker room, Daniel sits down on the bench to force his skates on.
He checks his phone again—no text, which is only a very small let-down.
Ilya is probably on his way to his own practice with the Bandits.
And if he’s not, it’s not as if Daniel’s left much of an opening for conversation anyway.
Two thumbs down?
That’s only a little better than just leaving him on read.
He pauses with his right skate half-on, half-off and rereads Nikolai’s last message, running his hand over his cheek.
His face feels warm.
He must look like an idiot, sitting alone in his locker and blushing.
Like a damn middle schooler with a fucking crush.
He wants to say something about how much he likes Nikolai’s playoff beard, but it’s not that easy.
On one hand, he actually really hates Nikolai’s playoff beard, because if Nikolai’s growing out his beard then that means the Express will probably have to face the Bandits, and that’s always a tough series of games.
Especially considering that they’re both too competitive to allow sex during the playoffs, so all of the on-ice tension has nowhere to go for months afterwards.
On the other hand, he really likes Nikolai’s playoff beard because Nikolai Volkov is maybe the most handsome man Daniel’s ever laid eyes on, and he could get a buzz-cut for the playoffs or a mohawk or one of those triangle-shaped goatees that only ever look weird and greasy, and Daniel would still love it.
So for obvious reasons, Daniel’s not really going to text him that either.
He knows, logically, that he has to do something about his growing feelings for Nikolai now that he's admitted them to himself.
But he also knows he’s not going to do anything over text.
He’s been thinking, you know.
Maybe after the season is over.
Whichever way the playoffs end, whenever they end, maybe Nikolai can come with Daniel to his cottage for a few weeks.
He thinks that would be…
nice.
He thinks it would be really, really nice.
And then he could tell him.
About his feelings.
And they could—
Daniel doesn’t know.
His imagination has only ever gotten him so far.
He can picture Nikolai in his cottage, wrapped up in one of the throw blankets that Daniel’s grandmother crocheted and then ran out of space for in her own house.
He can picture Nikolai out on the dock, shirtless with the soles of his feet just kissing the top of the water.
He can picture them together in his bedroom, between the sage green sheets and with the light from the windows spilling over their named skin.
He just can’t picture what Nikolai would say, if Daniel ruined everything by asking for more.
His knee bounces.
Still no text.
Not even a bubble.
Daniel bites his lip and looks around the empty locker room for inspiration.
His eyes fall on Kozlov’s bag, stuffed into Lucas’s empty locker.