CHAPTER 13 #2
The linesmen rushed in, inserting themselves between the furious players, blowing their whistles frantically to prevent a full-scale line brawl. The referee skated hard toward the penalty box, his arm aggressively signaling a major penalty for boarding.
Dorian was still kneeling in the blue paint. He dragged his heavy mask up, flipping it to rest on the top of his head. His left hand throbbed with a sickening, heavy pulse, the knuckles already beginning to swell beneath the leather catcher glove.
He didn't look at the referee. He didn't look at the screaming fans banging their fists against the glass behind the net.
He looked entirely at Everett.
The linesmen were actively pushing the captain backward, trying to force him away from the Toronto bench. Everett allowed himself to be moved, sliding backward on his skates, but his attention was completely severed from the opposing team.
Everett shoved a linesman’s arm away, his massive chest rising and falling in deep, ragged spikes. He skated deliberately toward the crease, ignoring the chaotic screaming of the stadium.
He stopped directly in front of Dorian.
The physical contrast was stark. Dorian was kneeling on the ice, entirely exposed, nursing a slashed hand, the vulnerable, human core beneath the goalie armor visible for the world to see.
Everett towered over him, radiating a dark, terrifying heat, his knuckles scraped and raw from the fight, his jaw locked in a posture of absolute, unyielding defense.
Everett reached down. His bare, calloused hand bypassed the heavy padding of Dorian’s shoulder.
He tapped his thick fingers firmly against the fiberglass jawline of Dorian’s raised mask.
It was a slow, deliberate touch. The contact lingered for two agonizingly long seconds.
Everett’s dark eyes locked onto Dorian’s.
The look was devoid of the professional distance required on the ice.
It was entirely saturated with a dark, territorial pride.
A silent, violent communication that entirely transcended the chaotic noise of the arena.
No one touches you.
The message crashed into Dorian’s bloodstream.
The sheer, intoxicating reality of Everett’s protection burned away the agonizing pain in his left hand.
The icy, guarded isolation he had worn his entire life permanently melted under the heat of the captain’s stare.
The fake contract, the legal maneuvering, the federal audit—none of it mattered in this exact second.
Everett had just sacrificed a major penalty, risked his captaincy, and invited the hatred of twenty thousand people simply because a man had hurt him.
Dorian’s gray eyes darkened. He didn't nod, but his jaw locked in a fierce, absolute confirmation. The intense, unbridled devotion expanding in his chest electrified his nerves, forcing the adrenaline to override the trauma.
He wasn't a scapegoat anymore. He was the heavily guarded center of the most dangerous man in the league.
Everett slowly pulled his hand back. He turned his broad shoulders, presenting his back to the hostile crowd, and skated slowly toward the penalty box, his posture projecting nothing but cold, aristocratic arrogance.
An Inferno defenseman skated over, retrieving Dorian’s dropped stick and handing it back to him.
"You good, Pike?" the defenseman asked, his voice tight with the residual adrenaline of the scrum.
Dorian grabbed the thick composite shaft. His left hand screamed in protest, the swollen joints screaming against the pressure, but he didn't loosen his grip. He pulled his mask back down over his face, the metal cage snapping securely into place.
"I am perfect," Dorian stated, his voice a low, heavy rasp echoing inside the fiberglass shell.
The referee blew the whistle, directing the players to the face-off circles for the penalty kill.
Dorian centered his crease. He dropped into his stance, ignoring the burning agony in his hand. He looked down the ice, past the blue line, past the opposing forwards, until his gaze found the glass box on the far side of the rink.
Everett was sitting on the wooden bench inside the penalty box. The captain’s arms were crossed over his massive chest, his dark eyes staring directly back at the crease.
The Toronto arena roared, demanding blood for the next five minutes of the power play.
Dorian tracked the puck in the referee's hand. He was going to face a five-on-four barrage from the most aggressive offensive line in the Eastern Conference. He was going to face it with a damaged glove hand and a hostile crowd screaming for his deportation.
But as the puck dropped, hitting the ice with a sharp, decisive crack, Dorian didn't feel a single ounce of fear.
The heavy, punishing blocks he executed over the next five minutes were entirely flawless.
He moved with a violent, chaotic grace, his pads slamming against the ice, his blocker deflecting high-velocity slap shots into the safety netting above the glass.
He sacrificed his body, throwing his heavy frame across the crease to intercept cross-ice passes, completely nullifying Toronto’s numeric advantage.
He defended the net with the exact same ferocious, territorial desperation that Everett had displayed along the boards.
The period drained down. The frantic, high-speed collisions multiplied as Toronto realized they couldn't break the goalie.
The digital clock above center ice hit zero.
The second intermission horn blared loudly through the rafters, a massive, vibrating blast that signaled the end of the frame.
The crowd’s screaming devolved into frustrated, exhausted murmurs. The players immediately skated toward their respective benches, the heavy scrape of forty pairs of blades filling the air.
Dorian pushed himself up from the crease. His legs burned. His left hand was entirely numb, the adrenaline keeping the worst of the structural pain at bay. He skated slowly toward the Inferno bench.
Everett was already there, the penalty having expired right at the buzzer. The captain stood by the heavy door leading to the player tunnel.
As Dorian approached, the rest of the roster parted, allowing the goalie to pass.
Everett fell in step right behind him. The massive defenseman provided a solid, heavy rearguard as they stepped off the ice and onto the black rubber matting of the concrete corridor.
They marched down the brick tunnel toward the visiting locker room. The tactical pressure in the air was absolute. The game was still tied. They had twenty minutes left to secure a road victory, and they had a federal agent waiting to execute a spot audit back at the hotel suite.
Dorian walked silently, his heavy pads clicking rhythmically. He felt Everett’s large, hot hand reach out, the thick fingers gripping the heavy nylon fabric at the back of Dorian’s jersey.
A silent, physical tether. A demand to hold the line.
Dorian didn't shrug the grip off. He leaned his weight back just a fraction, trusting the captain to carry him through the concrete dark, entirely prepared to face the third period.