CHAPTER 7 #2
Sullivan gave a sharp, curt nod. "Understood, Captain."
The coach turned back to the front of the room. The heavy, oppressive pressure that had been crushing Dorian’s lungs vanished, completely dismantled by Everett’s intervention.
"Watch the weak-side winger on the breakout," Sullivan instructed the room, clicking the laser pointer back on, moving the focus entirely away from the goalie.
Dorian sat frozen in his seat. The video resumed, the digital players moving in slow, calculated patterns, but Dorian didn't see any of it. His vision was slightly blurred, the edges of the screen bleeding into the dark walls.
A profound, terrifying surge of heat bloomed in the dead center of his chest. It wasn't the raw, carnal spike of adrenaline from the morning’s encounter against the bedroom wall.
It was something entirely different. It was an intense, forbidden gratitude.
A deep, agonizing realization that for the first time in his twenty-six years of existence, someone was standing behind him, willing to absorb the institutional fire on his behalf.
Dorian slowly turned his head.
He looked back over his left shoulder.
Everett was standing right there. The captain was looking down at him, his expression stripped of the cold, public menace he had just directed at the coach. His dark eyes were fixed on Dorian’s face, entirely focused, entirely present.
The eye contact was a physical impact. It stripped away Dorian’s rigid mask, exposing the sheer, unadulterated vulnerability hiding underneath. Dorian’s lips parted slightly, a quiet, soundless exhale escaping him. He didn't have the words. His English, usually precise, failed him completely.
Everett didn't need words. The captain’s heavy jaw relaxed just a fraction.
He didn't smile, but a deep, protective possessiveness settled over his features. Everett shifted his weight, closing the remaining few inches between them until the side of his heavy knee bumped deliberately against the back of Dorian’s plastic chair.
A silent, physical anchor. I am here. Hold the line.
Dorian turned back to the front of the room.
He swallowed hard, forcing the massive, overwhelming knot of emotion down his throat.
He forced his eyes to track the glowing screen, but his entire nervous system was hyper-fixated on the solid, unyielding heat of the man standing directly behind his shoulder.
The betrayal of his past—the corrupt directors, the falsified documents, the sheer isolation of being a commodity—suddenly felt small, entirely eclipsed by the towering reality of his current protection.
Click.
The video monitor shut down with a loud, final snap.
The massive digital screen went completely black. Two seconds later, the harsh, fluorescent overhead lights slammed on, flooding the theater with blinding, clinical white light.
"Meeting adjourned," Sullivan called out over the sudden groans and rustling of the roster. "Gear up. I want everyone on the ice in fifteen minutes. Full contact drills."
The room erupted into the chaotic, dynamic noise of thirty athletes mobilizing. Chairs scraped harshly against the linoleum. Heavy gear bags were slung over broad shoulders. The low murmur of management resumed as they filtered out the back doors, completely avoiding Everett’s side of the room.
Dorian stood up. His legs felt strangely light, the heavy dread that had anchored him to the floor entirely burned away. He reached down and picked up his water bottle, his movements fluid and precise.
He turned around.
Everett was waiting for him in the aisle. The rest of the team flowed around them, heading down the concrete steps toward the locker room tunnel, giving the captain and his goalie a wide, respectful berth.
Everett looked at him, his dark eyes scanning the bruised exhaustion still lingering around Dorian’s eyes.
"You good?" Everett asked, his voice low, pitched so only Dorian could hear it over the noise of the exiting roster.
Dorian looked up at the massive defenseman. He thought about the federal agent waiting to tear their lives apart. He thought about the brutal playoff series starting in four days. He thought about the heavy, violent kiss that had permanently altered the trajectory of their fake arrangement.
Dorian gripped the plastic water bottle, his thumb pressing hard against the cap.
"Yes," Dorian said, his voice quiet, but entirely steady. The thick Eastern European accent wrapped around the single word, giving it a heavy, deliberate weight. "My perimeter is secure."
A dark, dangerous heat flared in Everett’s eyes at the repetition of his own words. The captain gave a slow, deep nod, the muscles in his neck flexing visibly under the collar of his hoodie.
Everett turned, gesturing toward the open doors leading to the ice tunnel. "Then let's go to work."
Dorian followed him out of the room. The harsh, refrigerated air of the rink corridor hit his face, smelling of ice resurfacer fumes and cold rubber. He walked slightly behind the captain's massive right shoulder, his spine perfectly straight.
The high-stakes reality of the playoff campaign was calling them to the crease, but as Dorian listened to the heavy, rhythmic thud of Everett’s boots echoing down the concrete hall, he realized he was no longer walking into the battle alone.