Chapter 2
Artem could still hear the sports broadcast playing over the tv – could hear the anchors saying over and over again how unlike Rhys Thorne it was to get scrappy like that – especially
a match.
Everything was starting to make sense now.
Sutter was butthurt over a stupid fucking comment Artem had made and he took it out on Rhys because he knew if he swung at Artem then Artem would swing back.
He likely hadn't expected as much from the Forester.
The fog of panic gave way to clarity.
And rage.
"You give him easy chirp and he throws secret in your face?
In public?" The chill was starting to be replaced by heat.
"I-I'm sorry.
I don't know how he found out.
I didn't mean to antagonize him—"
"You did not antagonize.
He overreact.
"I should've just kept to myself.
It was mean."
"Is hockey.
Is part of game.
If Sutter cannot handle, then he should not play."
Artem set in motion again, taking his wallet out of his pocket and placing it back where it belonged, hanging up his coat in the closet.
He could find his keys in the morning, when his adrenaline had calmed down.
He wouldn't be fixing this right now, but he would be fixing this.
Rhys's crying had dissipated to the occasional sniffle, but he still sounded completely broken when he asked, "What if he – what if he tells?"
"Tells?
Who would he tell?" Artem tried to keep his voice calm, reassuring.
Rhys was still freaking out and this would only get worse if Artem succumbed to the panic too.
They needed damage control, not a wrecking ball.
Even if he wished he'd been the one swinging on Jonas fucking Sutter tonight.
"I-I don't know.
Anyone.
H-He knows.
He could.
What if he already has?
What if other people know?"
Artem pulled up maps, finding the drive time from Dunmore to Bromley.
Four to five hours.
That was doable.
"Do you think he would?"
"I-I don't know."
"Sutter does not seem like person who outs someone.
He does not seem bad like that." And Artem was going to give him a reminder to make sure.
"Right," Rhys sniffled again.
"But do you think other people know?"
And that was the really scary part of this.
Because if Jonas had figured it out, there was no telling who else might have noticed.
Who else might be waiting for the best moment to bring it up.
To ruin them.
Artem tried to stay calm.
Be the voice of reason.
"If others know then we would have heard already," or at least that was what he was telling himself to keep his heartrate in check.
"We have been careful." The clearly not careful enough went unsaid between them, ignored because that felt like too much to deal with right now.
Too much fear.
"B-But what if I pushed it too far?
What if he actually meant it as a threat?"
"Sweetheart, you do not chirp hard enough for threats," Artem said it like a joke, hoping to get a tiny chuckle out of Rhys, but the other man stayed silent.
Artem softened his tone, "Rhys, it will be fine.
I take care of it."
"You will?"
"You're not gonna like, hurt him, right?"
Artem hummed, calmly walking back to his bedroom, "Is option.
If necessary."
He could practically hear Rhys roll his eyes, "Artem."
Artem rolled his back, "No, Thorne, I do not threaten with fists.
Only words.
Will be fine."
"Will it?"
"Trust me.
Ok?"
"Ok."
Artem settled back on his bed, heaving a great sigh as he nestled into the pillows (he had too many now for one person, honestly too many for two, but it helped to make the bed feel less empty when he was alone).
He picked up the remote to mute the tv, watching Rhys try to fight through three full-grown men holding him back on the screen.
Artem smirked, dropping his voice low, playful, "Now tell me what else you say."
"Artem," Rhys sighed.
He wasn't crying anymore.
"Come on, is not everyday world sees Rhys Thorne bring out claws.
My little baby tiger."
"Are you watching the fight?"
Artem hummed shifting against the blankets, "I ever tell you, you look pretty all flushed?"
"Except you are not red for me.
That is problem."
"Artem, it was a just a stupid fight.
I don't even know what I said."
Do not tell me.
This is new Rhys; he fights, he is mystery."
"I am not—"
"Rhys Thorne; hockey bad boy."
"I am not."
"No," Artem hummed.
"You too much good boy."
Rhys's breath hitched.
Artem smirked, "Now be good boy and tell me about punching Jonas Sutter's face."
There was shuffling through the phone – Rhys likely settling into bed – before he let out a soft breath, "Ok."
Jonas Sutter lived in a rather nice apartment building.
It had a big lobby with a fancy elevator and a doorman.
A surprising lack of security though.
Oh well, not Artem's problem.
He knocked on the door to the apartment, the address of which he'd come by through semi-nefarious means.
He glanced down the hall – the next door over was pretty far away, it made sense that Sutter would have a big place – but it still felt too close.