Chapter 195: I see you, and your secret is safe

​From down the corridor, the heavy steel door swung open again, and the loud, boisterous sound of our teammates’ laughter spilled into the quiet hallway.

Russo and Miller stepped back inside first, both of them adjusting their collars and smoothing down their jackets with practiced, casual ease.

​When Russo’s eyes met ours across the hall, he paused for a split second, his sharp gaze flicking between my rigid posture and Reid’s arm anchored firmly around my waist. But true to form, he didn’t say a word. He just gave that same silent, unreadable nod of solidarity, nudged Miller toward the main dining room, and disappeared into the crowd.

​Reid let out a slow, quiet breath against my neck, his thumb smoothing over my cheek one last time before he stepped back, giving me space to straighten my collar.

​"Ready to go back in?" Reid asked softly, offering me his hand.

​I smoothed down the front of my shirt, pulled my chin up, and wrapped every layer of Captain Evans back around my shoulders. I took his hand, lacing my fingers firmly through his.

​"Let me finish my drink," I said, a sharp, lethal glint returning to my eyes. "And then we can worry about the rest tomorrow."

Reid gave my hand one last, grounding squeeze before letting go so we could step back into the roaring main dining room.

​The heat of the steakhouse hit us immediately—the smell of charred meat, sloshing ale, and twenty adrenaline-fueled hockey players shouting over a jukebox blaring in the corner.

​"Look who’s back!" Peter bellowed, raising his mug high. "Did you give the Cap a lecture on how to drink, McCoy, or did he give you a lecture on line discipline?"

​"Little bit of both," Reid drawled smoothly, sliding back into the booth beside me with an easy, unbothered grin that completely masked the heavy conversation we had just had in the dark corridor.

​I picked up my glass, taking a long, slow sip of the cold beer. Across the long table, Miller was sitting back with his legs stretched out, lazily swirling his drink while Russo sat beside him, rigidly dissecting a piece of sirloin.

​Russo’s bitter cedar scent was completely locked down now, wrapped up tight behind his usual veteran scowl. Miller, on the other hand, looked entirely too pleased with himself—his metallic ozone scent lingering light and quiet around his shoulders.

​Russo’s eyes flicked to mine over his fork. I didn’t smile. I didn’t smirk. I just lifted my glass toward him in a silent, unspoken toast.

​I see you. And your secret is safe.

Though he probably couldn’t read my eyes or know that I knew his secret for a fact, ​Russo’s jaw relaxed by a fraction of a millimeter, and he gave a slow, barely perceptible nod before cutting into his steak.

​"Alright, listen up!" Coach Devin suddenly yelled from the end of the table, slamming his empty pint glass onto the wood. The room quieted down, though a few drunken cheers still echoed from the back. "Enjoy tonight, boys! Eat, drink, and brag all you want! But tomorrow morning, the party is over!"

​Devin leaned over the table, his sharp eyes sweeping across every single one of us.

​"The Finals start in five days. We’re facing the Wolves, and they skate harder and hit dirtier than the Vipers ever could. I want everyone in the film room by 8:00 AM sharp tomorrow. Evans, McCoy, Russo—you three are leading the tactical breakdown."

​"Got it, Coach," I called out, my voice slipping back into that effortless, commanding tone that pulled the entire team into line.

​"That’s my Captain!" Devin smirked, pointing a thick finger at me. "Drink up, Evans! You earned it!"

​I let out a soft breath, leaning my back against the vinyl booth as the table devolved back into loud, chaotic laughter. Beside me, Reid’s hand slid under the table, his fingers finding mine beneath the white tablecloth and lacing firmly through them.

​His palm was hot, solid, and steady.

​The road ahead was a minefield. In five days, we were stepping onto the ice for the Finals—the absolute peak of our careers. Beneath my compression shirt, two adhesive patches were hiding a transformation that could ruin me, and inside my body, a tiny, fragile secret was growing amidst the violent, physical war of professional hockey.

​My career was hanging on a razor’s edge. My team was a circus of hidden secondary sub-genders, quiet alliances, and dangerous secrets.

​I looked down at our laced fingers, then up at Reid’s side profile as he laughed at a joke Miller made across the table.

​I wasn’t standing alone in the storm. Whatever came next—the Wolves, the League, the media, or the truth—we were going to take it head-on together.

By the time the team finally stumbled out of the steakhouse into the cool night air, the adrenaline had completely faded, leaving behind a wave of violent, bone-deep nausea.

​I barely made it to the passenger side of Reid’s car before my knees buckled.

​"Kain!" Reid’s voice snapped with instant panic. His arm caught me around the waist before I hit the pavement, effortlessly supporting my weight as he yanked open the door and helped me collapse into the leather seat.

​My head was spinning in sickening, violent loops. I leaned over the open door, dry-heaving into the gutter as a hot, bitter surge burned the back of my throat. Sweat broke out across my forehead, cold and clammy against the night breeze, while my stomach twisted itself into agonizing knots.

​Reid dropped to one knee beside the open door, his large, warm hand rubbing firm, grounding circles over my upper back, his other hand holding my forehead to keep me steady. His pine scent flared thick and frantic, laced with terrified Alpha pheromones.

​"I’ve got you, Kain," Reid rasped, his voice tight and shaking. "Breathe. Just breathe."

​I clutched my chest, my fingers digging into the front of my shirt as I gasped for air, tears of frustration stinging the corners of my eyes.

​Why was I like this? Reid had drunk just as much draft beer as I had—if not more—and he was standing there completely fine, steady as a rock. Yet here I was, an absolute dry-heaving mess after just a few glasses.

​Then the answer hit me like a physical blow to the sternum before the question could even fully form in my mind.

​The baby.

​My system was already hanging on by a fragile, razor-thin thread—battered by ten years of synthetic blockers, recovering from severe deep-tissue strain, and trying to nourish a high-risk pregnancy taking root inside my core. My breaking body couldn’t handle the alcohol. My system was rejecting every single drop I had forced into it.

​A wave of profound, suffocating vulnerability washed over me. A pathetic, helpless feeling clawed at my chest. I was Captain Evans—the unyielding anchor of the Seattle Serpents, the man who skated through torn ligaments and fractured bones without making a sound. And now, I couldn’t even handle a victory drink with my team without my body betraying me.

​"I’m sorry..." I rasped out into the quiet night, my voice small, ruined, and completely stripped of its usual authority as I leaned my head heavily against Reid’s broad shoulder. "I’m... so pathetic."

​"Don’t you ever say that," Reid growled softly, his arms tightening around me as he gently lifted my legs into the truck and swung the door shut.

​He climbed into the driver’s seat in a blur of movement, immediately turning the heater on low and pulling a cold bottle of water from the center console. He opened it, holding it to my lips so I could take a tiny, careful sip to wash away the bitter taste in my mouth.

​"You’re not pathetic, Kain," Reid murmured, his thumb catching a stray tear on my cheek and gently brushing it away. His grey eyes were soft, filled with an aching, unyielding tenderness as he reached out to press his broad palm flat over my lower stomach beneath my jacket. "Your body is fighting for two right now. You’re allowed to be exhausted."

I closed my eyes, letting my head fall back against the leather headrest, my hand resting over his on my abdomen as the car pulled out into the quiet streets.

Then, I got a text on my phone. It was from Marina.

She apologized for not coming to the game. She couldn’t just afford to watch me struggle if I was and win if I wasn’t struggling. Said it was something about her conscience not being okay with any of this since I only grew even more... Fragile. She hoped I was okay and congratulated me for winning with a bright smiling emoji.

A single tear rolled down from my eyes and landed on the phone screen before I even realized it, blurring the bright white letters of her message.

​Marina had been my rock for ten years—the only sibling who knew the brutal truth, the fiercely protective big sister who had taken it upon herself to look out for me when I chose a path that could have destroyed us all.

For years, she had leveraged every contact she had in the dark to help me lie to the world and keep my secret safe, purely out of love for her younger brother.

​She wasn’t wrong. I was fragile. I was a ticking time bomb wrapped in synthetic compression gear and hidden behind medical patches, holding on by a thread that grew thinner with every single period we skated.

Hearing her admit that her conscience was breaking—that she couldn’t even bring herself to sit in the stands because watching me get battered on the ice made her feel like she was watching me shatter—cut straight to my core.