First Morning After

Chapter 3: First Morning After

The unknown text still glowed on my phone screen like a brand. Tell your father we said hello. I stared at those words until they blurred. Callan stood over me with his belt half undone. The room felt too quiet now. Just the low hum of the AC and my own pulse in my ears.

I stayed on my knees. Carpet digging in. Lips still parted from the order he gave before the message hit. “Callan. Sir. My dad. How does he know already?”

Callan snatched the phone off the nightstand before I could grab it. He read the text twice. His jaw worked tight. Then he powered the whole thing down and tossed it onto the bed. “Not now Brooks. They are testing us. Seeing if you crack on the first night.”

He reached down and caught my chin again. Tilted my face up so I had to look at him. His thumb pressed firm against my lower lip. “You still owe me. Open.”

My mouth moved before my brain caught up. “Yes Sir.”

He did not undo the belt the rest of the way. Instead he stepped back and pulled me up by my arms. Rough enough that I stumbled into his chest. “Not like this. Not with them watching through the walls. Get in the shower. Hot. Leave the door open.”

I hesitated for half a second. Long enough for him to notice.

His voice dropped. “Now rookie. Or I make the next order louder.”

I stripped fast. Shirt. Pants. Everything in a pile by the bed. The bathroom light flickered once when I flipped it on. Steam started rising quick once the water hit hot. I stepped under the spray and left the glass door cracked like he said.

Callan followed a minute later. Still mostly dressed. He sat on the closed toilet lid and watched me through the gap. Water pounded my shoulders. Ran down my back. I kept my hands at my sides even though every instinct wanted to cover up.

“Wash slow,” he said. Calm. Like we were talking about practice drills. “Tell me what you are thinking right now.”

I grabbed the hotel soap. It smelled cheap. Like fake lemon. “I am thinking this is insane. One game. One video. Now I am showering while my captain watches and some syndicate is texting about my dad. I feel like I am drowning Sir.”

He leaned forward. Elbows on his knees. “Good. Drowning is honest. Keep talking.”

I lathered my chest. The suds slid down fast under the water. “I hate that I still want this. Even after the basement room. Even after they touched me. Part of me keeps waiting for you to say it was all a joke.”

Callan stood up. He pulled his shirt off over his head and dropped it on the floor. Scars crossed his left shoulder from the old injury. Thick ones. “It is not a joke Brooks. But it is not simple either. Hands on the wall. Face the tile.”

I turned. Palms flat against the cool tile. Water beat down on my neck. “What happens tomorrow at practice? Tate is my roommate. He notices everything. If I look at you wrong…”

“You look at me like I am your captain.” He stepped into the shower behind me. Still wearing his pants. The fabric soaked through instantly. “You keep that smart mouth quiet and your eyes down when the coaches are around. At night you answer to me.”

His hands settled on my hips. Not gentle. Possessive. Fingers dug in just enough to remind me who held the power. I pressed my forehead to the tile. “Yes Sir.”

He moved closer. Chest against my back. The wet pants felt rough. “You sent that video because you needed someone to take control. I am that someone now. Every order. Every touch. You take it. And you thank me after.”

I nodded against the wall. Water ran into my mouth when I spoke. “Thank you Sir.”

Callan’s hand slid around to my stomach. Held me there. “Good. Now breathe through it. The syndicate wants us broken and obedient. We give them enough to stay alive. Nothing more.”

We stayed like that for a long time. Water turning cooler. His body heat the only steady thing. I kept waiting for him to push further. To finish what he started in the room. He did not. Just held me until my breathing evened out.

When he finally stepped back the cold hit hard. “Dry off. Bed. We sleep. Tomorrow is film review and you are not showing up wrecked.”

I shut the water off. Grabbed a towel. My hands still shook a little when I passed him one. He took it without a word and dried his chest. The scars looked worse up close. Puckered skin where they had put him back together after the hit that ended his fighting days.

We ended up in the bed. Me under the covers. Him on top of them fully dressed again. He did not touch me. Just lay there staring at the ceiling.

“Callan,” I whispered after the lights were out. “The drugs they mentioned. What do they do exactly?”

He turned his head toward me in the dark. “They link us. Heart rate. Arousal. Sometimes pain. Makes the power exchange sharper on the ice. They bet on whether we crack during games.”

I swallowed. “And my dad?”

“Sleep Brooks. Questions wait until we are off hotel property.”

I tried. Sleep came in pieces. Every time I drifted I saw the Handler’s cold smile. Felt the woman’s finger on my chest. Heard that text ping again.

Morning hit too early. Hotel alarm blared at six. Callan was already up. Standing by the window in yesterday’s suit. Wrinkled now. He tossed my phone at me. Powered on again.

“Check it. Delete anything suspicious. Then act normal when Tate knocks.”

I sat up. Sheets pooled around my waist. The screen lit up with missed messages. Mostly team group chat blowing up about the shutout. One from Tate.

Room service breakfast in 10? You alive after that game?

I typed back fast. Yeah man. Starving. Come over.

Callan watched me. “Good. Keep it light.”

A knock came exactly eight minutes later. Tate Ellison pushed the door open with his foot. Arms full of coffee trays and bags from the lobby. His chipped tooth showed when he grinned. “Rookie of the night. Figured you would be dead to the world but here you are looking fresh. Captain? What are you doing here?”

Callan turned from the window. Cool as ever. “Early film notes for the rookie. His positioning needs tightening before tomorrow’s practice.”

Tate set the food down on the small table. He shot me a quick look. Sharp. Observant like always. “Positioning huh. Must have been some deep discussion. You two look like you slept in those clothes.”

I forced a laugh and grabbed a coffee. Burned my tongue on the first sip. “Long night replaying the game in my head. Captain was just making sure I do not get a big head after one shutout.”

Tate dropped into the chair and started unpacking egg sandwiches. “Sure. Whatever you say. Just remember Beck and I have eyes everywhere. We protect our own around here.”

Callan picked up a coffee black. No sugar. “Appreciate that Tate. But the rookie is my responsibility on the ice. I will handle the off ice stuff too.”

The words hung there. Tate chewed slow. Eyes flicking between us. “Off ice stuff. Right. Well eat up Brooks. Film starts in forty. And captain if you need backup with the young ones just say the word.”

I kept my head down and ate. The sandwich tasted like cardboard. Every bite felt watched. Callan sat across from us like nothing was wrong. But his knee brushed mine under the table once. Deliberate. A reminder.

Tate finished first. Stood up and stretched. “I am hitting the gym quick before film. You coming Brooks?”

Callan answered before I could. “He stays with me. Extra notes.”

Tate paused at the door. That sarcastic edge crept into his voice. “Extra notes. Got it. Try not to break the kid on day two captain.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

I let out a breath I did not know I was holding. “He suspects something. Tate always does.”

Callan stood and pulled me up with him. Hands on my shoulders. “Let him suspect. As long as he does not know. Now get dressed for film. Normal. And tonight after practice we finish what they interrupted.”

I nodded. Pulled on fresh clothes. Suit again because media might be around. My reflection in the mirror looked the same as yesterday. But everything underneath felt cracked open.

We walked to the team meeting room together. Separate enough that it looked professional. Beck Thornton was already there leaning against the wall. Quiet. Perceptive. He gave us both a slow nod. “Captain. Rookie. Solid game last night Brooks. Keep that glove hand high today in review.”

Merrick Donovan waved from the back. “Hydration packets on the table kid. You look a little pale.”

Maren Emerson sat with her tablet. Hair back tight. “Shoulder still good Brooks? Any tightness after the shutout?”

Elodie Langley hovered near the projector. Phone in hand. “Footage is ready. That last save is getting league highlights. Nice work.”

I mumbled thanks and took a seat. Callan sat at the head of the table like always. Captain mode fully on. The lights dimmed and the film started rolling.

Every clip of me in net felt exposed now. Like they could see the cracks. Callan’s voice cut through during pauses. Calm commands about angles. Positioning. Footwork. But under the table his shoe pressed against mine once. Held there.

Halfway through Beck leaned over. Voice low. “You good Rhys? You seem off.”

I forced a smile. “Just tired. First game crash.”

He did not look convinced. “If the captain is riding you too hard say something. We have all been there.”

The meeting dragged. My mind kept drifting to the basement room. The drugs. That text about my dad. When it finally ended Callan dismissed everyone but kept me back with a look.

“Stay Brooks. Quick word.”

The others filed out. Tate gave me one last glance over his shoulder. Beck and Merrick talked low in the hall. Maren and Elodie headed toward the physio area.

Once the door closed Callan walked over. Crowded me against the table. “Tonight. My room. After curfew. You bring nothing but yourself. Understood?”

I nodded. Heart already kicking up. “Yes Sir.”

He stepped back right as the door opened again. Elodie poked her head in. “Captain the media wants a quick captain and rookie joint quote downstairs. Five minutes.”

Callan’s face stayed neutral. “On our way.”

We walked out together. Professional distance. But his hand brushed my lower back for half a second in the empty hallway. “Remember Brooks. Eyes down in public. Mouth only for me later.”

The elevator ride down felt endless. When the doors opened cameras flashed. Microphones pushed forward.

Elodie steered us smooth. “Captain Lachlan and rookie goalie Brooks Rhys after last night’s shutout.”

Questions flew. I answered on autopilot. Yes the team looked strong. No I was not thinking about records yet. Callan fielded most of it. Calm. In control.

One reporter leaned in. “Any special mentorship happening between captain and rookie?”

Callan smiled that sharp half smile. “Rhys has talent. I make sure talent gets what it needs.”

My stomach flipped.

We escaped after ten minutes. Back upstairs for practice gear.

In the locker room the guys joked loud. Tate slapped my back again. “Ready to show us that shutout was not luck?”

Beck nodded from his stall. “Keep it tight today kid.”

Merrick tossed me tape for my stick. “Focus on recovery. Do not push the shoulder.”

I changed fast. Kept my head down. But every time Callan walked past my stall his presence felt like a hook in my chest.

On the ice the drills started normal. Skating. Puck handling. Then goalie specific. Callan ran the defensemen hard. Shouting commands. But his eyes kept finding me in net.

During a break he skated over. Voice low so only I heard. “Tonight Brooks. You will kneel properly. No interruptions. And you will tell me everything you are afraid of.”

I swallowed. Nodded once behind my mask.

Practice ended. Showers. More small talk I barely followed.

Back in my room alone for a few hours before evening skate I finally checked my phone again. Another unknown text waited.

Dose one arrives tomorrow. Captain will explain. Do not disappoint your father.

I deleted it fast. Heart hammering.

When curfew hit I slipped out quiet. Down the hall to Callan’s room. Knocked soft.

He opened the door wearing only sweatpants. Chest bare. Scars on full display.

“Inside.”

I stepped in. Door locked behind me.

Callan pointed to the floor in front of him. “Knees. Start talking. What scares you most right now rookie?”

I dropped. Looked up at him. Voice rough already. “Everything Sir. The syndicate. The drugs. My dad being involved. Losing control completely. And the worst part… wanting you to take it all anyway.”

He stepped closer. Hand in my hair. Not pulling. Just holding. “Good. Honesty gets rewarded. Now show me how grateful you are for that honesty.”

My hands moved to his waistband.

Right then his phone buzzed on the dresser. Loud. Insistent.

Callan glanced at it. His grip tightened in my hair.

The screen showed a video call request. Unknown number. But the contact name that popped up made my blood freeze.

Handler.

And below it a preview frame. Me. On my knees in the basement room last night.

Callan’s voice came out flat. Dangerous.

“They want to watch the first real session live.”

My mouth went dry.

He answered the call anyway.