Chapter 1
"I'm mic'd up," Caleb warns as soon as Dmitri slides to a stop near him on the ice during warm ups, "so try not to be any more of an asshole than absolutely necessary."
It's a reminder.
Caleb already texted him before the game, as soon as management let him know he'd be broadcasting live today.
Not that Dmitri would say anything directly incriminating, of course.
Not during the game.
But ever since Caleb proposed a month ago, it's been harder and harder to ignore the double meanings in most of Dmitri's chirps.
There is something about knowing that Dmitri wants to be with him, permanently, that makes it nearly impossible for Caleb to resist responding with a pointed innuendo or two of his own.
"Me?
Asshole?
Never." Dmitri smirks.
"That's your job."
Case.
In.
Point.
Caleb bites his tongue and shoots his fiancé an unimpressed glare as Dmitri settles in to stretch just across the red line.
He continues with his own routine and tries to ignore the frankly pornographic way Dmitri moves, legs spread, rolling his hips towards the ice to stretch his groin.
Some days, it's a curse knowing what he looks like under the pads, especially considering their recent run of road trips.
They haven't seen each other in weeks.
It's basically torture, having Dmitri so close and not being allowed to touch.
It's fine, Caleb reminds himself.
They'll have tonight, and tomorrow, and maybe even tomorrow night, depending on whether or not Dmitri's willing to do an early drive on Thursday.
But that's all for later.
For now, well.
Caleb should really have his head in the game, and Dmitri is being a bit...
distracting.
"You gotta do that right here?" Caleb mutters as Dmitri gyrates unrepentantly.
"Yes," Dmitri replies.
"Is best spot."
"Why?" Caleb demands, then sees the mischievous glint in Dmitri's eyes as he opens his mouth to answer.
"Because—"
"Never mind," Caleb says, hastily cutting him off for the sake of his own sanity.
"I don't want to know."
Dmitri waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
"Then I will not tell you.
You will just have to guess."
"You're such a dick."
"Yes," Dmitri agrees.
"That is my job."
A huff of laughter escapes before Caleb can contain it.
He rolls his eyes and pushes himself up off the ice.
"You're ridiculous and I'm leaving."
"No, come back," Dmitri calls.
"I will be good.
Promise."
Caleb snorts.
"I'm not falling for that." He glances back in time to see Dmitri lying on the ice, smirking at Caleb through the V of his splayed legs.
The picture is only spoiled by the stupid Crestview Stallions logo on his chest.
It's hard to be sexy when your entire brand is an ice-skating horse-man.
"See you after we win!" Dmitri calls out with a wink.
And damn if he can't pull off sexy in spite of his mascot-related handicap.
"You wish," Caleb shoots back as he skates away, because honestly, he doesn't have a better comeback.
Northgate and Crestview are one-to-one in the second period.
Dmitri scored in the first two minutes with an assist from Marcus, so Caleb, in a fit of pique, scored twelve seconds later.
They've been deadlocked ever since.
Tension is crackling through the air.
As he waits for his next shift, chewing his mouth guard and jiggling his left leg, Caleb can't help but shoot a glance at the Crestview bench.
Dmitri's already looking at him.
Their eyes lock and Caleb feels electric.
On fire.
He wants to touch Dmitri, to fuck him, to win this fucking game.
Less than a minute later, they're both over the boards and Caleb has the puck.
Dmitri slams into him behind Crestview's goal and pins him to the boards.
They battle for the puck, adrenaline and sweat and curses flowing freely, and after a brutal eternity which probably lasts no more than ten seconds, Dmitri manages to wrench the puck away and pass it to Nico Brandt.
Caleb curses as Dmitri shoves free.
His left skate slips and he's down on one knee as Dmitri breaks away, racing back towards the Voyagers' goal.
Brandt sends a pass cross-ice back to Dmitri as he flies towards the blue line.
Caleb wrenches himself up and starts after him, skates digging into the ice, but Dmitri's almost impossible to catch when he's got a head start.
The bastard knows it, too, blazing ahead as he enters the neutral zone.
It's both beautiful to watch and an absolute fucking nightmare, because Koskinen's out with a lower back injury tonight, which means Fontaine's in goal, and he's not—
Caleb's thought derails as Donovan slams into Dmitri's path.
The hit starts clean, his shoulder coming up in a legal check, then his elbow follows and the butt end of his stick, straight into Dmitri's jaw.
Dmitri's momentum carries him forward, up and over the massive defenseman, and then he's somersaulting through the air, skates above his head.
Caleb inhales sharply and holds his breath for the agonizingly long second that Dmitri's airborne.
Then he hits the ice headfirst and crumples in a motionless heap.
Caleb's mind stops, but his body reacts.
He's at Dmitri's side before he registers he's moving, knees thudding against hard ice.
He's vaguely aware of noise behind him, people yelling, the familiar sounds of a scrum, but Dmitri is still.
So still.
And Caleb can't breathe.
"Dmitri?" His voice is a wretched thing, the syllables clawing at his throat, and Dmitri doesn't move.
Is he even breathing?
That was a bad hit.
Hard enough that his helmet is skewed, and one glove fell off.
What if he broke his neck?
What if there's brain damage?
What if—
Caleb reaches towards him, afraid his touch might do damage, but unable to resist.
Where is the damn medical team?
Why isn't someone helping him?
Before his hand makes contact, there's a groan and Dmitri rolls towards him, and thank fucking god he's breathing and blinking his eyes open in a pained squint.
"Caleb?" The way Dmitri says his name, it's little more than a groan, but Caleb's never heard anything more beautiful in his life.
"I'm here," he says, and Dmitri angles his head towards Caleb's voice, though he seems to be having trouble tracking.
There's a small cut on his forehead and bruise swelling under his left eye that's going to be really impressive in an hour or two.
"Caleb?" Dmitri asks again.
"What happened?" His gloveless hand twitches and he lifts it a fraction of an inch towards Caleb.
Caleb tosses his own gloves to the ice and reaches forward, lacing their fingers together.
"You took a bad hit," he says, gritting his teeth against the fear clawing at his guts.
"Flipped headfirst into the ice.
Are you okay?"
Dmitri groans in answer and squeezes his hand, though Caleb can't tell if he meant to do that or not.
Suddenly, there are people all around them.
Caleb shifts protectively close before he realizes it's the medical team.
"WHITMORE, get back to your bench," someone says, but there's no way Caleb's going.
Even if he wanted to, Dmitri's gripping his hand like a lifeline, eyes finally locked on Caleb's face.
Caleb isn't leaving him.
The medics are working around them, and Caleb does his best to stay out of their way without letting go.
"WHITMORE, back off."
Caleb looks helplessly at Dmitri's face, at their linked hands, and turns towards the voice.
"I can't.
I..."
It's one of the refs gripping Caleb's shoulder, tugging him gently backwards, and for the first time something other than pure panic about Dmitri registers.
They're in public.
People will see.
People will know.
Still, he doesn't let go of Dmitri's hand.
The battle between fear and hope that's been raging in his mind for over a decade suddenly crystallizes into a rock hard certainty.
He is not leaving Dmitri alone.
"You need to go back to your bench, WHITMORE," the ref says again.
"They have to get VOLKOV to the hospital."
A stretcher has been brought out onto the ice, and Caleb tightens his grip on Dmitri's hand.
"I have to go with him," Caleb hears himself say.
"Go with him?" The ref is understandably confused.
It's the middle of a game, and without context, this must seem insane.
"Don't go," Dmitri interrupts, words a little slurred.
He's still gripping Caleb's hand, teeth gritted in pain as the paramedics work around him.
Then Dmitri mumbles something in Morvanan.
Caleb's been studying, but he's nowhere near fluent.
The best he can translate is I want you to meet Caleb, which makes terrifyingly little sense, then he lets out something like a sob, and says, in English again, "Don't go."
"WHITMORE," the ref says, more insistent this time, the grip on his shoulder turning into a shove.
"We've got to get him off the ice.
Let the paramedics deal with this."
"I have to go with him," Caleb repeats as he shrugs off the ref's hand.
"I'm sorry, sir," a young looking medic says as she grabs a neck brace out of her kit.
"You'd have to be family to go with him."
Even in the midst of the chaos, Caleb can see the line he's about to cross, the cliff he's about to step off.
But he can't leave Dmitri's side.
He'd promised himself when they really started this thing, their thing, that Dmitri wouldn't ever be truly alone again.
Caleb takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and leaps.
"He's my fiancé."