10. Levi #2
Wyatt seems convinced that the letter must have come from a fan—someone on the outside looking in.
But what if it isn’t a fan? The thought gnaws at me, refusing to be dismissed.
I know Dover has a close-knit group of friends, people who have known about his sexuality from the beginning and have always supported him.
But there are also other teammates, ones I’ve noticed he keeps his distance from.
They tend to avoid him as well, their interactions strained and awkward.
It doesn’t necessarily mean anything sinister, but I can’t help but notice the tension.
Beyond my own team, there are players on other teams to consider—people with their own prejudices and secrets, any one of whom could have written the note.
McKenzie was a problem during last night’s game.
The possibilities swirl in my mind, each one more unsettling than the last. I’m not willing to dismiss any of these suspicions, not yet.
The threat feels too real, and the danger too close.
For now, all I can do is hold the letter in my hands and try to steady my breathing, knowing that everything has changed.
As luck would have it, I manage to arrive in Wyatt's office before Dover does, giving me a few precious moments alone with Wyatt before the meeting begins.
The anticipation and unease swirling inside me make it difficult not to betray my agitation by pacing nervously around the room.
Determined to maintain my composure, I instead walk over to the large conference table, which is currently covered with a number of letters spread out in a somewhat haphazard fashion.
As I approach the table, my eyes are drawn to Wyatt, who is standing nearby and visibly uneasy.
He winces slightly when our eyes meet, as if bracing himself for what is to come.
“I asked the mail office to bring up any letters they'd kept with reference to Dover,” he explains, gesturing broadly at the scattered correspondence on the table.
“That,” he continues, waving his hand to encompass the mess, “is what they brought to me.” His posture is tense, and he stands beside me, letting out a long, tired sigh that seems to carry the weight of recent revelations.
“I wasn't aware there had been other threats,” he admits, his voice tinged with frustration and concern.
I press him for more information, trying to understand how such important details could have slipped through the cracks. “Your staff kept the notes but didn't show you. Why?” I ask, my tone a mixture of curiosity and disbelief.
Wyatt runs a hand through his hair, looking weary.
“Fan mail comes in daily,” he explains, offering some context.
“Both good and bad. The really bad, like what you're looking at now, comes in rarely. I review them once a month unless the threat appears serious or imminent. In those cases, I look at them the same day they arrive.” He exhales sharply, the sound betraying his exasperation with the situation.
After a moment, he picks up one of the letters from the table and hands it to me, his expression grave as he waits for my reaction.
You are about to lose a player, Wyatt Peters. How do you feel about that?
I frown. “This sounds like it's directed at you.”
“Read this. Same person.” He passes me another.
Gayboy won't be on the team for long.
I draw another toward me.
Have you realized who I'm after yet?
“I don't think they're directed at me,” Wyatt says, his voice quiet.
“I don't either.” Ethan’s response is just as subdued, as he joins us.
I notice the tension in his jaw as he speaks.
I rub at my forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache pulsing at my temples.
Before I can dwell on it, there’s a sharp knock on the door, the sound echoing through the small room.
Although I tense involuntarily, my posture remains unchanged, and I make a conscious effort to hide any sign of the dread that washes over me at the thought of seeing Dover again.
Taking a slow, steadying breath, I force myself to turn and face the man who enters the room.
Dover steps inside, his eyes carefully avoiding mine, his expression unreadable.
Ethan glances briefly in my direction, his gaze flickering down to the table between us as if searching for answers in the grain of the wood.
Dover hesitates for a moment before moving to stand beside me, his presence both reassuring and unsettling.
“What’s going on?” he asks, his voice low and uncertain, as if he’s bracing himself for whatever news or confrontation might follow.
The room feels charged with anticipation, each of us waiting for the other to speak first.
“You need to be made aware of some unsavory fan mail that has been received,” Wyatt says, his voice low and serious, the weight of his words hanging in the air.
Dover’s brow furrows in concern, and he turns his gaze toward me, searching my face for any sign of reassurance.
“Wyatt brought these to my attention today,” I explain, my tone grave as I hand over the stack of letters I’ve been holding tightly in my grasp.
I watch closely as Dover takes them, his fingers trembling slightly, and I can see the blood drain from his face as he reads the disturbing contents.
Without a word, I guide him into a nearby chair, practically pushing him down to make sure he sits, and then force myself to take the seat beside him, trying to steady my own nerves.
Determined, I lean closer and speak firmly, “I'm not going to let this asshole anywhere near you.” My voice is unwavering, leaving no room for argument or doubt about my intentions to protect him. I ask Wyatt, “These letters came in before the social media shitshow, right? So, it’s someone who already knew Dover was gay.”
Dover, however, shakes his head, his expression hardening with a mix of resignation and resolve.
“He'll find a way. If he's determined enough, nothing will stop him.” With a practiced motion, Dover tosses the letters aside, letting them scatter across the table, and a strange calmness seems to settle over him, as if he’s accepted the danger but refuses to let it control him.
“I'm not being benched,” he states flatly, his tone brooking no opposition.
Ethan, who has been watching the exchange with a deepening frown, finally speaks up.
“I'm not benching you,” he assures Dover, his voice firm, making it clear that he respects Dover’s wishes.
He then glances over at Wyatt, seeking confirmation and support.
“I'm assuming you agree with me?” Ethan asks.
“Ethan, you’ve officially taken over from Van as head coach,” Wyatt says, his tone firm and confident.
“I trust you to make the necessary decisions regarding the team. However, I agree with you—there’s no way I would bench Hilton, either.
That stalking bastard isn’t going to dictate how this team is run, not now and not ever.
” Wyatt’s eyes narrow with determination as he turns to face Dover, shifting the conversation.
“Dodge is going to stay with you and Nash for the time being,” Wyatt continues, his voice steady.
“While you’re here at the arena, and even when you’re traveling for away games, arena security will be on high alert.
They’ll have your back at all times, making sure you’re protected both on and off the ice. ”
Dover’s expression twists with frustration and concern. “I thought you were still recovering from being shot,” he practically snarls, his words sharp and cutting toward me, interrupting whatever else Wyatt was about to say. The tension in the room thickens as Dover’s accusation hangs in the air.
I let out a weary sigh, feeling the weight of the conversation pressing down on me.
“Not anymore,” I reply, trying to sound convincing, though I can’t help but wonder if both Dover and Wyatt can hear the lie in my voice.
My recovery is far from complete, but I don’t want to admit it—not now, not in front of them.
Dover snorts in response, his skepticism clear, making it obvious he doesn’t believe a word I just said.