CHAPTER 20 #2
The captain of the Chicago Inferno looked entirely wrecked.
He was wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung, dark grey training sweatpants.
The sheer physical toll of Game 7 was mapped across his massive, towering frame in brutal detail.
A fresh, dark purple contusion covered the entire right side of his ribcage from a blocked slap shot.
A jagged, raw scrape ran along his collarbone.
His dark hair was a chaotic, sleep-mussed disaster, falling heavily over his forehead.
Everett didn't say a word. His dark eyes were half-open, clouded with deep exhaustion, but they locked instantly onto Dorian standing in the kitchen.
The captain didn't veer toward the coffee maker. He didn't alter his trajectory toward the living room couches. He walked directly, unswervingly toward his husband.
Dorian turned fully, his back pressing lightly against the edge of the marble island.
Everett closed the final three feet. He didn't slow down. He stepped entirely into Dorian’s personal space, utilizing his massive height and sheer physical density to completely engulf the goalie.
Everett’s heavy, heavily calloused arms wrapped around Dorian’s waist. He pulled Dorian forward, slotting their bodies together with a desperate, absolute finality. Everett dropped his massive head, burying his face directly into the curve of Dorian’s neck.
The physical impact was staggering.
The heat radiating off Everett’s bare skin was a heavy, suffocating blanket of protection.
Dorian felt the rough, abrasive scrape of the captain’s heavy morning stubble dragging against his collarbone.
Everett exhaled a long, deep, shuddering breath, the air rushing hot against Dorian’s pulse point.
Dorian didn't stiffen. The deeply ingrained defensive reflex to maintain his own perimeter was permanently dead.
He leaned back, entirely surrendering his physical weight into the embrace. He let his head fall against the thick, dense muscle of Everett’s shoulder. His hands came up, his long fingers wrapping around the thick, battered forearms locking him in place.
"Did he wake you?" Dorian murmured, his voice a soft, low vibration against Everett’s skin.
Everett grunted, a rough, sleep-heavy sound deep in his chest. He tightened his grip, his massive hands splaying wide across Dorian’s stomach, completely covering the oversized cotton t-shirt.
"Heard the door," Everett mumbled against Dorian’s neck, his lips pressing a slow, heavy, entirely uncoordinated kiss against the sensitive skin just below Dorian’s ear. "What did he want?"
Dorian looked down.
Everett’s left hand rested flat against Dorian’s stomach. The matching platinum band on the captain’s fourth finger caught the dawn light, identical to the one currently resting on Dorian’s own hand.
Dorian slowly opened his right palm. He pressed the laminated green card flat against Everett’s heavy knuckles.
Everett stopped moving. The slow, exhausted sway of his body ceased entirely.
The captain lifted his head just enough to look down at the plastic card resting on his own hand. He stared at the watermark. He stared at the bold, undeniable text granting permanent residency.
Everett’s chest expanded violently against Dorian’s spine. He dragged in a massive hit of oxygen, his heart rate visibly spiking, the heavy, steady thud accelerating into a rapid, intense rhythm against Dorian’s back.
Everett dropped his chin back to Dorian’s shoulder. He didn't say anything about the federal document. He didn't mention the legal victory or the international indictments.
He simply turned his left hand over, sliding his thick, scarred fingers entirely through Dorian’s.
He clamped down with a heavy, bone-crushing pressure, interlacing their hands directly over the center of Dorian’s chest. The two platinum rings scraped together, a sharp, metallic sound that echoed softly in the quiet kitchen.
"You're mine," Everett whispered fiercely. It wasn't the violent, territorial snarl he used on the ice. It was a raw, deeply fractured vow of absolute emotional dependency.
"I am yours," Dorian confirmed, his voice breaking entirely as a profound, overwhelming sense of fulfillment anchored his soul to the floorboards. "No more contracts. No more borders."
Everett pressed his mouth hard against the side of Dorian’s jaw, a slow, lingering brand of heat that promised a lifetime of violence against anyone who ever tried to disrupt their peace.
The morning sun finally cleared the edge of Lake Michigan, flooding the penthouse with a brilliant, blinding light. The harsh, fluorescent glare of institutional interrogation rooms and municipal offices was replaced by the warm, golden glow of their own home.
The cold draft from the massive terrace windows brushed against their legs.
Everett didn't let go of Dorian’s waist. He shifted his massive weight, keeping the goalie pinned securely against his chest, and reached out with his long right arm. His thick fingers caught the heavy brass handle of the sliding glass door.
He pulled it shut.
The heavy, reinforced glass slid along the tracks and locked into the frame with a sharp, final click.
The ambient noise of the Chicago morning—the distant sirens, the wind, the chaotic reality of the city—was entirely severed. The penthouse was sealed.
They stood together in the absolute silence of their shared home, the heavy, rhythmic beat of their hearts the only sound required.
The war was over. The crease was secure.
And as Dorian closed his eyes, leaning entirely into the unyielding heat of the man holding him, he finally allowed himself to breathe.