CHAPTER 10 #2
The cold, administrative reality of what they were facing had entirely crushed the fragile, burning unity they had forged in the locker room this afternoon.
"Dorian," Everett said, his voice dropping the smooth corporate facade entirely, reverting to the rough, gravelly rasp that belonged only to them.
Dorian didn't respond. His long fingers slipped out of Everett’s heavy grasp under the table. He stood up, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, entirely lacking the fluid grace of his athletic conditioning. He took a step backward, his hip knocking hard against the side of his chair.
"I cannot do this," Dorian whispered. The words were a frantic, broken rush of sound.
He shook his head, retreating another step toward the dark corridor.
"Toronto. The team... the entire roster will see.
The management will know we are sharing a room.
The press will find out. He is going to catch us, Everett.
He is going to find one mistake, and he is going to put you in a federal cell. "
Dorian’s hands flew up, his fingers digging into his own dark hair. The trauma response was fully activated. He was pacing now, his breath fracturing into short, panicked gasps.
"I should pack," Dorian choked out, his eyes darting frantically toward the foyer. "I should call Sterling. I will sign the voluntary departure form. If I leave now, they cannot charge you with conspiracy. The fraud report will be dropped. You will be safe—"
Everett stood up.
The heavy oak chair scraped violently against the floorboards, a harsh, abrasive sound that entirely silenced Dorian’s frantic rambling.
Everett didn't walk around the table. He moved with a terrifying, predatory speed, closing the distance between them in two massive strides.
Dorian tried to back away, but the edge of the dining table blocked his retreat. Before the goalie could pivot, Everett was there.
Everett’s heavy arms reached out, completely engulfing Dorian’s rigid, panicking frame.
He pulled the goalie flush against his massive chest. The physical collision was hard, completely devoid of hesitation.
Everett wrapped his thick arms around Dorian’s waist and shoulders, locking the goalie in a suffocating, unbreakable perimeter of sheer, heavy heat.
"Stop," Everett commanded. The word vibrated directly against Dorian’s ear, a deep, resonant rumble of absolute authority.
Dorian gasped, his hands coming up to push against Everett’s chest. "Everett, you have to listen to me—"
"I am not listening to you," Everett growled, his grip tightening until Dorian’s ribcage was pressed completely flat against his own. "You are not calling Sterling. You are not signing a departure form. And you are sure as hell not getting on a plane to Russia."
Dorian struggled, a brief, frantic surge of resistance driven by pure terror. He twisted his shoulders, trying to break the hold. "They will destroy your career! Your family—"
"I do not care about my career!" Everett roared.
The sheer volume and violence of the statement shocked Dorian into absolute stillness.
The quiet penthouse seemed to echo with the magnitude of the confession. Everett Kane, the untouchable captain, the heir to a constitutional legacy, the man who breathed and bled for the Chicago Inferno, had just declared his entire existence secondary to the man currently shivering in his arms.
Everett’s chest heaved. He dragged in a ragged breath, forcibly lowering his voice, though the dark, desperate intensity remained entirely intact.
He slid his right hand up, his wide palm cupping the back of Dorian’s neck. His rough fingers wove deeply into the dark, damp hair at the base of Dorian’s skull, pressing the goalie’s face securely into the curve of his own neck and shoulder.
"I do not care," Everett whispered fiercely, his lips pressing hard against the side of Dorian’s head. "They can strip my 'C'. They can void my contract. They can drag my name through every tabloid in this city. I will burn it all to the ground before I let them take you."
Dorian’s entire body went limp.
The icy, defensive walls he had spent years reinforcing completely collapsed.
The fight drained out of his muscles, replaced by a profound, agonizing wave of surrender.
He sagged against Everett, his full weight supported entirely by the captain’s massive frame.
Dorian’s arms, previously trapped between them, slowly wrapped around Everett’s waist. He buried his face into the heavy cotton of Everett’s henley, breathing in the deep, grounding scent of rain, skin, and expensive soap.
A violent shudder tore through Dorian’s spine. He wasn't crying, but the dry, fractured sound that escaped his throat was identical to a sob.
Everett held him. He absorbed the violent tremor, his own massive body acting as an unyielding shock absorber.
He shifted his stance, widening his base to carry Dorian entirely.
He dragged his heavy hands up and down the rigid line of Dorian’s back, mapping the dense, athletic muscle, offering a desperate, consuming warmth that proved his absolute devotion.
"We are going to Toronto," Everett murmured, his voice a steady, rhythmic anchor in the dark room. He pressed his jaw firmly against the top of Dorian’s head.
"We are going to walk into that hotel. We are going to share that room.
And when Hawkins knocks on that door, he is going to find a man entirely obsessed with his husband. "
Dorian’s fingers dug fiercely into the fabric at Everett’s back, a desperate, silent confirmation that he was no longer running.
The federal net was closing tightly around their secret sanctuary.
The entire weight of the United States government and the international sports press was bearing down on their fragile, violently passionate lie.
But as Everett stood in the dim dining room, holding the man he was supposed to be faking a life with, he realized the ultimate truth.
The lie was over.
The war had just begun, and Everett Kane was fully prepared to leave bodies on the ice to win it.