Private Meeting

Chapter 6: Private Meeting

The message sat on Callan’s phone like a live grenade.

Father wants a private meeting with the rookie. Tomorrow night. No captain allowed. Compliance or the next video drops with full audio.

I read it twice even though the words burned. My stomach twisted so hard I almost tasted bile. The link between us pulsed with Callan’s tension, mixing with my own fear until it felt like we were both drowning in the same cold water.

Callan’s arms were still wrapped around me, his bare chest warm against my back. For a second he didn’t move. Then his grip tightened, not in command this time, but like he was holding onto something he didn’t want to lose.

“They’re testing us,” he said, voice low and rough. “Trying to see if I’ll let you walk into that alone.”

I turned in his hold until I could look at him. Our faces were still close, breath mingling in the dark room. “What if I say no? What happens then?”

His jaw flexed. Those intense eyes searched mine for a long moment. “Then they drop everything. The hotel video. The basement. The live session from last night. Your career ends before it really starts. And mine… I lose the pension, the medical, everything I’ve got left after the injury.”

I swallowed hard. The link made me feel the weight of his fear like it was my own. “So I have to go.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” he growled, but there was no real bite in it. His thumb brushed my jaw the same way it had during the session. “But if you don’t show up, they win faster. We need time, Brooks. Time to figure out how deep your father’s involved and how to burn the whole thing down.”

I let out a shaky breath and rested my forehead against his collarbone. His skin smelled like sweat and the faint trace of arena ice. “He’s my dad, Callan. The man who raised me on lectures about legends and never being good enough. Now he’s watching me suck my captain’s dick on camera and calling it business.”

Callan’s hand slid up my back, slow and steady. “He’s not your father tonight. He’s Handler’s boss. Don’t forget that.”

We stayed quiet for a while. The link hummed between us, softer now, carrying his protectiveness and my exhaustion. Eventually he pulled the covers higher and tucked me against his chest.

“Sleep,” he ordered, but his voice was gentler than usual. “Tomorrow you go to the meeting. I’ll be close. Not in the room, but close enough. You feel me through the link, remember? If anything feels wrong, you squeeze that connection as hard as you can. I’ll know.”

I nodded against him. “Yes Sir.”

He made a low sound in his throat, almost like approval, but there was something heavier underneath it. That crack again. The one that made him feel dangerously human.

Morning practice was brutal. The link was stronger after last night’s dose. Every time Callan checked someone into the boards, I felt the impact echo in my ribs. When he shouted instructions across the ice, my body reacted before my brain caught up. It made me sharper in net, but it also made me hyper-aware of him. Too aware.

Tate skated up during a water break, helmet pushed back, chipped tooth flashing as he grinned. “You’re moving like you’ve got eyes in the back of your head today, rookie. Captain feeding you secret plays or what?”

I forced a laugh and took a long drink from my bottle. “Just been studying film like he told me.”

Tate’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t buying it. “Film doesn’t explain why you flinch every time he takes a hit. Or why he keeps looking over here like he’s making sure you’re still breathing. Something’s off with you two.”

Before I could answer, Beck glided past slow, that quiet perceptive stare landing on both of us. “League’s full of eyes, kid. Some of them aren’t friendly. Watch your back.”

Merrick blew his whistle from the bench. “Hydrate and focus! We’ve got a game in two days.”

Maren caught me after practice in the training room. Her hands were gentle but firm as she checked my shoulder. “You’re tighter than yesterday. Everything okay, Brooks? Not just physically?”

I kept my eyes on the floor. “Just adjusting to the NHL pace. That’s all.”

She didn’t push, but her voice softened. “If it’s more than that, my door’s open. No judgment. A lot of guys carry heavy things in this league.”

Elodie popped her head in, phone in hand. “Media wants another quick joint segment with you and the captain tomorrow morning. Fans are loving the captain-rookie story.”

I nodded, but my stomach sank. Another performance. Another lie.

Callan found me in the locker room after everyone else had cleared out. He stood close, voice low. “Meeting’s at nine tonight. Old warehouse district, south side. They sent coordinates. I’ll be two blocks away in a rental car. You feel me through the link the whole time.”

I zipped up my hoodie, fingers unsteady. “What if he tries to pull me deeper into it? What if he wants me to record you or something?”

Callan’s hand landed on the back of my neck, warm and steady. “Then you play dumb. You’re the anxious rookie who just wants to survive. Let him think he’s still in control. And Brooks…”

He tilted my chin up so our eyes met.

“If it gets too much, you say my name. Not Sir. My real name. I’ll come get you.”

The words hit hard. That wasn’t an order. That was something closer to a promise.

“Yes… Callan.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good boy.”

The rest of the day dragged. Evening skate felt endless. Every time I looked across the ice, Callan was watching me. The link kept feeding me little pieces of him: steady focus, simmering anger, and underneath it all, that quiet fear he tried to bury.

Tate cornered me in the showers. Water pounded around us as he lowered his voice. “I’m not stupid, Brooks. You and the captain disappear at the same time. You come back looking like you haven’t slept. He’s riding you harder than any rookie I’ve seen. If he’s crossing lines, you tell me. We protect our own on this team.”

I rinsed soap from my face and met his eyes. “It’s not like that, Tate. He’s just… intense about making sure I succeed.”

Tate snorted. “Intense. Right. Beck noticed too. He’s keeping quiet for now, but that won’t last forever.”

I didn’t answer. What could I say? That my captain was blackmailing me into submission while a gambling syndicate run partly by my own father watched every second? That we were linked by experimental drugs and I could feel his heartbeat during games?

No. I couldn’t say any of that.

At eight-thirty I left the hotel alone. Callan had given me the address and told me to take a cab. The ride felt too long and too short at the same time. When I stepped out in front of the old warehouse, the air smelled like rust and river water. A single light burned above a metal door.

I texted Callan the word *here*.

His reply came fast. I’m two blocks east. Feel me?

I closed my eyes and reached for the link. His presence answered immediately, solid and warm in my chest. Yeah. I feel you.

The door opened before I could knock. A man in a dark suit nodded once. “Rhys. He’s waiting.”

Inside smelled like concrete and old oil. My footsteps echoed as I followed him down a long hallway and into a large open room. A single table and two chairs sat under a hanging light. My father was already there, sitting with his hands folded like this was a normal business meeting.

“Brooks,” he said, voice calm. “Sit.”

I sat. The metal chair was cold through my jeans. “You wanted to see me alone.”

He studied me for a long moment. The same way he used to watch my games when I was a kid, looking for every mistake. “The syndicate is pleased with your progress. The link is performing better than expected. Your numbers are excellent.”

I kept my hands flat on my thighs. “Is that why you’re here? To congratulate me on being a good performing asset?”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile but colder. “I’m here because you’re still my son, whether you like it or not. And because Captain Lachlan is getting too attached. That’s dangerous for both of you.”

The link flared in my chest. Callan’s anger spiked sharp and hot. I breathed through it. “He’s just doing what you told him to do. Keeping me in line.”

My father leaned forward. “He’s doing more than that. I saw the footage. The way he looks at you when he thinks no one’s watching. The way he held you after the session. That’s not control, Brooks. That’s weakness. And weakness gets people hurt in this world.”

My throat felt tight. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to remember who you are. You were planted to help expose weaknesses in the league, not become one. The syndicate has plans for you and Lachlan. Big plans. The first openly gay power couple sells tickets. It sells bets. But only if you stay useful.”

I laughed once, bitter and sharp. “Useful. That’s all I’ve ever been to you.”

He didn’t deny it. “The next dose comes in two days. Stronger this time. It will deepen the link. You’ll feel everything he feels, even off the ice. Use it. Learn his weaknesses. Report back to me directly.”

The link surged again. Callan’s protectiveness mixed with something darker. Possession. Fear. I gripped the edge of the table. “And if I don’t?”

My father’s eyes went flat. “Then the videos don’t just leak. They get edited. Made to look like Lachlan forced you. His career ends. Yours ends. And the pension he’s been fighting for? Gone. Along with his medical coverage for that injury that left him sterile.”

The words landed like punches. I felt Callan’s pain echo through the link, raw and deep. For the first time I understood how much he had to lose.

I swallowed hard. “You really hate him that much?”

“I don’t hate him. I just need him controllable. And right now, you’re the key to that control.”

He slid a small black phone across the table. “This is encrypted. Use it only to contact me. One message every three days. Tell me what Lachlan says when you’re alone. What he fears. What he wants.”

I stared at the phone but didn’t touch it. “You want me to betray him.”

“I want you to survive,” he said flatly. “And to make sure the syndicate keeps paying both of us.”

The link pulsed again, louder this time. Callan was close. Closer than two blocks. I could feel his heartbeat racing to match mine.

My father stood up. “Think about it, Brooks. Legends don’t fold under pressure. They use it.”

He walked toward the door, then paused. “One more thing. If Lachlan tries to interfere with this meeting again, the next video drops immediately. No warnings.”

The door closed behind him with a heavy clang.

I sat there for a long minute, chest heaving. The encrypted phone sat on the table like a loaded gun. My hands shook when I finally picked it up and slipped it into my pocket.

The moment I stepped outside, Callan was there. He pulled me into the shadows between two buildings, hands gripping my shoulders.

“What happened?” he demanded, voice low and urgent. “I felt it. All of it. Your fear. His words. Tell me.”

I leaned into him, letting the solid wall of his chest ground me. “He wants me to spy on you. Report everything. He says the syndicate has plans for us as the first gay power couple. And if I don’t… they’ll destroy you. The pension, the medical, everything.”

Callan’s breath hissed out. His forehead dropped to mine. “Fuck.”

We stood like that in the cold night air, frost forming on our jackets. His hands moved to my face, holding me steady.

“I’m not letting them take you from me,” he said quietly. The words sounded like both a promise and a threat. “Not after everything.”

The link sang between us, raw and bright. Desire. Fear. Anger. And underneath it all, something warmer. Something that felt dangerously like care.

I swallowed. “He gave me a phone. To contact him directly.”

Callan’s eyes darkened. “We’ll use it against him. Feed him what we want him to hear. But Brooks…”

His thumb brushed my bottom lip.

“Tonight you’re mine. No syndicate. No father. Just you and me and the link. I need to remind you who you really belong to.”

I nodded, already feeling the pull. “Yes Sir.”

He kissed me then. Hard. Hungry. Like he was trying to erase my father’s words with his mouth.

When we broke apart, his voice was rough. “My car. Now. We’re going somewhere private.”

We drove in silence for twenty minutes until we reached a small private rink on the outskirts of the city. Callan had keys. The place was empty, lights low, ice gleaming under emergency spots.

He locked the door behind us and turned to me.

“Gear off,” he ordered. “Everything except the gloves. Then get on the ice.”

I stripped quickly, the cold air raising goosebumps on my skin. When I stepped onto the ice in nothing but my gloves and boxer briefs, the link flared hot. Callan followed, still mostly dressed, jersey open.

He skated up behind me and pressed me against the boards. One hand on my throat, the other sliding down my stomach.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he growled against my ear.

“You, Sir.”

His teeth scraped my neck. “Louder. Let the link hear it.”

I gasped as his hand slipped lower. “I belong to you, Callan.”

The link burned brighter, pleasure and possession twisting together until I couldn’t tell whose feelings were whose.

He spun me around, pressing my back to the cold glass. His eyes were dark, intense, that human crack showing again.

“No more meetings without me knowing every word,” he said. “No more secrets between us. Understand?”

I nodded, breathing hard. “Yes Sir.”

His mouth crashed down on mine again.

But even as heat flooded through the link, a new fear settled in my chest.

My father wasn’t done. The syndicate wasn’t done.

And tomorrow the stronger dose was coming.

Callan pulled back just enough to look at me, forehead resting against mine, breath visible in the cold air.

“We’re in this together now, rookie. No matter what it costs.”

I wanted to believe him.

But as the link sang between us, bright and dangerous, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the next move would break one of us.

Right then my new encrypted phone buzzed in my discarded jacket.

A single message from my father.

Good boy. First report due in 72 hours. Make it count.

Callan saw the screen light up.

His grip on me tightened.

The game had just changed again.