CHAPTER 23 #2
"I own the paint," Dorian continued, his voice dropping into a dark, rough cadence that commanded the empty stadium. "I track the geometry. I secure the net."
Dorian lifted his chin, his gaze boring directly through Everett’s arrogant facade, striking the raw, deeply dependent man underneath.
"And I will never," Dorian vowed, the words hitting the frigid air with the heavy, absolute force of a legal edict, "let another puck, or another threat, break past our defense line. Ever again."
The statement hit Everett’s central nervous system like a direct injection of adrenaline.
It wasn't just a hockey analogy. It was a permanent, iron-clad guarantee.
Dorian was officially taking his place. He was no longer the liability Everett had to shield from the front office and the federal government.
He was the equal, unchallenged partner willing to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the crossfire and execute anyone who tried to breach their perimeter.
A slow, profoundly cocky grin broke across Everett’s face.
The heavy, dark arrogance of the elite defenseman completely resurfaced, but this time it wasn't fueled by a need to intimidate the press. It was fueled entirely by the staggering, mind-altering pride of possessing the most dangerous goalie in the league.
"Is that a promise, Pike?" Everett challenged, his voice dropping to a harsh, territorial rasp.
"That is a fact, Kane," Dorian breathed.
Everett’s grin vanished.
He didn't wait for another syllable. Everett ducked his head, completely abandoning his executive restraint.
He crashed his mouth down onto Dorian’s.
The kiss was heavy, wet, and absolutely punishing.
Everett drove his tongue past Dorian’s parted lips, entirely consuming the gasp that tore out of the goalie’s throat.
The collision lacked the frantic, terrified desperation of their earlier encounters.
It was a deep, calculated claiming, a physical manifestation of their total, unchallenged sovereignty over their own lives.
Dorian moaned, a loud, unfiltered sound that escaped his throat and bounced sharply off the high, steel rafters of the empty arena.
The goalie’s heavy leather gloves completely abandoned their grip on Everett’s shoulders.
Dorian let the massive catcher and blocker drop, the heavy equipment falling uselessly to his sides.
He drove his bare, taped fingers up the back of Everett’s neck, tangling violently in the dark hair at the base of the captain’s skull.
Everett tightened his right arm around the thick hockey pants, hauling Dorian’s hips flush against his own.
The heavy, rigid foam of the chest protector dug painfully into Everett’s sternum, but he entirely ignored the discomfort.
He deepened the angle of the kiss, his tongue sweeping the hot, slick interior of Dorian’s mouth, tasting the salt of the exhausted sweat and the dark, overwhelming reality of total victory.
The loud, wet sound of their mouths sliding together was the only noise in the massive, sixty-thousand-square-foot building.
They were entirely alone. The media couldn't touch them. The immigration officers couldn't audit them. The opposing forwards couldn't crash them.
Everett broke the kiss, dragging a massive, ragged hit of oxygen into his burning lungs. He didn't pull his face away. He rested his forehead hard against Dorian’s, his broad chest heaving in a chaotic rhythm that perfectly matched the goalie’s.
He dragged his thumb slowly across the high, pale arch of Dorian’s cheekbone, wiping away a streak of cold sweat.
"Get your gear off," Everett ordered. The command was rough, heavily saturated with the lingering carnal heat of the embrace. "We’re going home."
Dorian didn't argue. He offered a slow, deeply satisfied nod, his gray eyes shining with an absolute, unshakeable peace.
Everett finally released his grip on the goalie’s waist. The sudden loss of body heat left a cold, localized patch of air between them. Everett bent down, scooping his discarded composite stick off the scarred ice.
Dorian turned, picking up his heavy fiberglass mask from the top of the netting.
They didn't execute a rapid, hurried exit. They skated toward the heavy steel door of the player bench at a slow, methodical pace.
They moved side-by-side. The towering, heavily muscled defenseman and the lean, heavily armored goaltender. Their strides were perfectly, instinctively synchronized, the heavy rip-rip of their carbon steel blades carving a unified path through the neutral zone.
Everett pushed the heavy latch of the bench door.
As Dorian stepped off the ice, his heavy skates hitting the black rubber matting of the concrete corridor, Everett looked up.
High above the practice rink, suspended from the massive steel rafters, hung the heavy fabric banners detailing the multi-decade history of the Chicago Inferno franchise. The dates of past division titles, conference victories, and league championships.
Next week, the management staff would raise a new, stark white banner into the rafters. The metric proof of the war they had just won.
Their names were permanently bound to the fabric of the city.
The history books would record the shutout, the defensive blocks, and the ultimate victory.
But the history books would never comprehend the massive, violent, beautiful lie that had forged the greatest defensive pairing the league had ever seen.
The official training camp for the upcoming season was rapidly approaching. A new wave of rookies, a new schedule of away games, and a new gauntlet of physical violence waited for them in the fall.
Everett followed his husband off the ice, the heavy steel door slamming shut behind them with a loud, absolute finality.
Let the league bring whatever they had. The perimeter was entirely secure, and the captain was ready.