CHAPTER 2
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
The rapid, metallic snapping of a ballpoint pen was exactly one second away from triggering a violent physical intervention.
Everett Kane operated his entire existence on the principle of absolute tactical superiority.
On the ice, he dictated the physical boundaries of the defensive zone.
He controlled the blue line. He neutralized threats before they ever reached his crease.
But standing here in the elite downtown Chicago penthouse suite of his family’s law firm, surrounded by fifty years of constitutional defense legacy, he was slamming into a bureaucratic wall that refused to break.
"Stop with the pen, Sterling," Everett commanded. His voice didn't rise above a low rumble, but it carried the heavy, unmistakable weight of a threat.
The clicking stopped instantly. The sudden silence in the corporate conference room was oppressive. It smelled of high-end espresso, aged leather upholstery, and the sharp, metallic tang of pure, unadulterated fear.
Everett turned his head just a fraction, catching the reflection of the room in the thick window pane.
His father’s senior partner, Marcus Vance, sat at the head of the long mahogany table, perfectly composed in a bespoke navy suit.
Opposite him sat Sterling Reid, Dorian’s agent, looking as though he might vomit on the Persian rug.
And then there was Dorian.
The goaltender sat in a high-backed leather chair, perfectly immobile.
He was wearing a dark charcoal suit that hung slightly loose on his broad, athletic frame, his spine completely straight, his hands resting flat on his thighs.
To a casual observer, he looked calm. Everett knew better.
He had spent two years reading the micro-movements of Dorian Pike’s body.
He recognized the trauma response. Dorian wasn't calm; he was locked in a state of terminal shock, bracing for the final blow.
It was the exact posture he took when a three-on-one breakaway crossed the hash marks and the defense had completely collapsed.
Everett hated that posture. He hated the invisible entities overseas that had forced it onto his teammate.
"The emergency injunction was flatly denied by the federal magistrate this morning," Vance stated, his tone devoid of any emotional inflection.
He placed a stack of manila folders onto the polished wood.
"The State Department is currently aggressively prosecuting international athletic fraud.
Given that the Vladivostok directors provided verified financial transfers—forged or not—the burden of proof is entirely on Mr. Pike.
A standard appeal will take six months to process through the appellate courts. "
"Six months?" Sterling shoved his chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the floorboards. "He has an active deportation warrant. ICE gave us a forty-eight-hour window before they execute a physical detainment. He’ll be on a federal transport plane by tomorrow night."
"That is correct," Vance replied smoothly. "By the time a federal judge even looks at our counter-brief, your client will be in Moscow."
Everett gripped the edges of the digital tablet. The aluminum casing dug into the calloused pads of his palms, the physical pressure barely registering over the violent spike in his blood pressure.
"There is a legal countermeasure," Everett said, turning away from the window to fully face the room. His six-foot-four frame dominated the space, casting a long, heavy shadow across the table. "You don't call me into this office to tell me we lost. Give me the tactical out."
Vance steeled his fingers, looking directly at Everett.
He understood the captain's demand for total control.
"Immigration law operates on a rigid matrix, Everett.
You want an immediate, airtight legal shield to block a federal deportation warrant?
You need an overriding domestic status. The only petition that forces an automatic, mandatory stay of removal is an I-130. "
"English, Vance," Everett demanded, tossing the tablet onto the table. It landed with a heavy, final thud.
"Marriage," Vance said flatly. "Immediate matrimony to a prominent, thoroughly vetted, and financially insulated United States citizen.
If an alien relative petition is filed by a spouse of high social standing, the federal government is legally obligated to halt the deportation pending a full, multi-agency domestic audit.
It buys us a minimum of two years. Enough time to dismantle the Russian fraud allegations completely. "
A harsh, jagged sound ripped through the quiet luxury of the suite.
It was Dorian.
The goalie let out a dark, bitter scoff, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair so hard the leather groaned under the pressure. He shoved himself to his feet. His chest heaved inside his tight dress shirt, the stoic mask shattering to reveal the raw, deeply guarded panic boiling underneath.
"No," Dorian said. The word was a weapon—sharp, defensive, and desperate.
He started pacing. Long, agitated strides across the expensive rug.
"I am not doing this. I will not use a stranger for legal convenience.
Paying someone to lie to the federal government?
Fabricating a life? That is exactly what the Vladivostok directors accused me of doing in the first place.
You are asking me to prove my innocence by committing actual fraud. "
"Dorian, you need to look at the reality of the board," Sterling pleaded, standing up and holding his hands out in a placating gesture.
"It’s a transaction. A purely administrative contract.
We find a discreet professional, we pay them a lump sum from your signing bonus, and you get to stay in the league. "
"No!" Dorian snarled, pivoting violently on his heel.
His ice-gray eyes were wide, flashing with the ghosts of past betrayals.
"I trusted my management back home, and they sold me to the highest bidder to cover their own gambling debts.
Now you want me to sign my life over to some American I do not know?
To let them hold my freedom over my head?
" Dorian shook his head, his breathing shallow and rapid.
"I will pack my bags. I will take the flight. I am done."
He reached for the heavy brass handle of the suite’s double doors.
Everett didn't think. He didn't weigh the legal ramifications or the public relations fallout. He reacted with the sheer, territorial instinct of a defender watching his home lines get breached.
Two massive strides closed the distance between them. Everett stepped directly into Dorian’s path, interposing his towering, muscle-dense frame between the goalie and the exit. Dorian let out a frustrated breath and tried to sidestep him.
Everett reached out.
His large, heavy hands clamped down hard onto both of Dorian’s shoulders.
The impact was immediate. It stopped Dorian dead in his tracks, the physical collision forcing the remaining air from the goalie’s lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp.
Everett didn't let go. He dug his thick fingers into the tight, knotted muscles at the base of Dorian’s neck, pinning him entirely in place against the polished mahogany of the doorframe.
The heat of Dorian’s skin bled straight through the thin wool of his suit jacket.
Everett felt the frantic, erratic hammering of the goalie’s pulse vibrating directly into his own palms. The physical proximity was overwhelming.
Up close, Dorian looked exhausted, his face completely pale, shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes.
"Let go of me, Kane," Dorian breathed, a harsh tremor bleeding into his thick Eastern European accent. He pushed his hands against Everett’s chest, trying to break the hold, but Everett was a literal wall of unyielding bone and muscle.
"You aren't getting on a plane," Everett stated. His voice didn't rise. It pitched downward, dropping into a dangerous, quiet register that vibrated through his arms and directly into Dorian’s collarbones.
"I am not marrying a stranger for a visa," Dorian hissed, his chin tilting up defiantly to maintain eye contact.
Everett’s grip tightened, his thumbs pressing firmly against the rapid pulse point on the side of Dorian's neck.
"You aren't marrying a stranger."
Dorian froze.
The frantic, desperate shifting under Everett’s hands stopped completely. The silence in the room returned, but this time it was heavy, suffocating, completely devoid of oxygen. Even Sterling stopped breathing, the agent’s mouth falling open in shock.
Everett looked down, his dark eyes mapping the sharp angles of Dorian’s face.
He felt a profound, overriding surge of possessive authority flood his system.
For months, he had watched Dorian maintain a strict, icy distance in the locker room, refusing to let anyone in, refusing to trust the franchise.
Now, Dorian’s walls were crumbling under the weight of a federal warrant, and Everett was the only structure large enough to shield him from the fallout.
"We are going to City Hall tomorrow morning," Everett said, his tone absolute, offering no room for negotiation or debate. "We will execute a legal, same-sex marriage of convenience. Vance will file the I-130 petition before noon. The deportation warrant will be frozen permanently."
Dorian stared at him. His lips parted, a quiet, broken sound slipping out as the sheer audacity of the captain's words finally registered in his brain.
"You..." Dorian shook his head, a microscopic, jerky movement of pure disbelief. "You are insane. You are the captain of this franchise. Your family... your father is a political figure. You cannot do this."
"My family protects its investments," Everett interrupted smoothly, though his own heart was slamming heavy and hard against his ribs.