CHAPTER 15 #2
"My family's lead counsel filed an immediate federal motion to dismiss the fraud case with the district court in Chicago twenty minutes ago," Everett informed him, delivering the legal execution with surgical precision.
"Attached to that motion is the verified, unredacted deposition you are currently holding. The assistant general manager of the Vladivostok club has officially confessed to forging the signatures on Dorian Pike’s contract extensions. "
Hawkins stopped reading. His hands, gripping the edges of the legal parchment, went completely rigid. The color rapidly drained from his face, leaving his skin a splotchy, uneven gray under the harsh fluorescent lights of the corridor.
"You're bluffing," Hawkins choked out, though his voice lacked any trace of conviction. He stared at the forensic handwriting analysis appended to the third page.
"I don't bluff," Everett corrected smoothly, a cold, utterly merciless smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
"The United States Department of State is already processing the retraction.
The international task force has verified the data.
Your entire investigation is based on manufactured, illegal evidence provided by a foreign gambling syndicate. "
Everett leaned his massive frame forward, dropping his voice to a rough, private register meant solely for the man who had spent the last week terrorizing his husband.
"The deportation warrant is dead, Hawkins," Everett whispered fiercely.
"The fraud allegations are dead. You have absolutely zero jurisdiction over my husband. You have zero authority to demand his passport. If you, or any of your liaisons, attempt to block his path to that bus, my father’s firm will personally file a civil rights lawsuit against you for illegal detainment. "
Hawkins stared up at him. The federal agent’s chest heaved in shallow, rapid increments. The smug, bureaucratic arrogance he had wielded like a weapon in the locker room and the hotel lobby entirely collapsed.
He was looking at a verified, iron-clad international confession. The paper shield he had dismissed as a fake marriage had just been backed by a multi-million-dollar forensic legal operation that entirely dismantled his entire career trajectory in a single morning.
Hawkins’ face tightened in pure, unadulterated frustration. The muscle in his jaw ticked violently. He looked at the two CBSA officers, who were already stepping back, entirely unwilling to involve themselves in a massive international legal liability.
"The paperwork will take days to clear the federal dockets," Hawkins forced out, a pathetic, desperate attempt to hold onto his crumbling authority.
"Let me be incredibly clear," Everett said, cutting the agent off entirely.
He pointed a thick, calloused finger directly at the center of the document.
"My husband’s name is entirely cleared. My marriage is absolute.
And you are going to turn around, walk out of my arena, and never come near my family again. "
The silence in the concrete tunnel was absolute. The idling engine of the team bus rumbled heavily through the floorboards.
Hawkins looked down at the parchment. He looked up at the towering, immovable mass of the Chicago captain. He realized, with a deep, sickening finality, that his investigative trap had been completely, utterly crushed.
The agent swallowed hard. He didn't say a word. He shoved the legal documents back into Everett’s chest.
Everett caught the stack effortlessly.
Hawkins turned on his heel. The sharp squeak of his dress shoes sounded frantic as he signaled the Canadian liaisons to stand down. The three men walked quickly toward the far exit, their posture rigid and entirely defeated, disappearing into the cold, sleet-filled morning.
Everett watched them go.
He didn't move until the heavy metal exit doors swung shut behind them, entirely severing the federal threat from the arena.
Everett exhaled. It was a slow, heavy release of oxygen that carried the weight of the last two weeks with it. He looked down at the sworn affidavit in his hand. The paper felt incredibly heavy. It was the physical manifestation of Dorian’s freedom.
He turned around.
The heavy steel doors of the visiting locker room were pushed open.
Dorian walked out into the corridor.
The goalie was wearing his tailored charcoal travel suit, his gear bag slung over his right shoulder.
His left hand, still heavily taped from the slash, rested carefully against his thigh.
He stopped in the center of the tunnel, his gray eyes immediately locking onto Everett’s massive frame standing alone in the shadows.
Dorian’s gaze darted past the captain, scanning the empty space near the loading dock doors. He saw no federal agents. He saw no Canadian border authorities. He saw nothing but the open path to the team bus.
Dorian looked back at Everett, a silent, desperate question burning in his eyes.
Everett closed the distance between them.
He didn't speak. He simply raised the legal documents, tapping the heavy parchment against the center of Dorian’s chest.
Dorian looked down at the paper. He saw the international seal. He saw the translated text. He looked back up at Everett, his breathing suddenly fracturing into short, jagged spikes as his highly tuned nervous system finally processed the absence of the threat.
Everett’s rough, split knuckles reached out, cupping the side of Dorian’s jaw. The touch was heavy, possessive, and radiating an intense, desperate warmth.
"They're gone," Everett murmured, his thumb brushing a slow, reverent path over the pale skin of Dorian’s cheekbone. "It’s over. The perimeter is clear."
Dorian closed his eyes, leaning entirely into the heavy, calloused palm. A violent, whole-body shudder tore through the goalie’s spine. The icy, unyielding armor he had worn his entire life was permanently stripped away, leaving only the profound, overwhelming reality of his absolute safety.
Everett pulled him forward, pressing Dorian’s face against his shoulder, entirely willing to absorb the weight of the goalie’s relief. The high institutional stakes had been met. The administrative net was destroyed.
They stood together in the cold, damp concrete of the service tunnel, the high-stakes away match behind them, fully prepared to take the long stride back home.