Page 9 of The Hockey Stud

I nod, trying to brace myself for whatever is coming. “I understand,” I reply, though my voice is quieter than I intended.

He hesitates for a moment, as if weighing how best to break the news. “Someone is gunning for Dover.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. “Explain?” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

He draws in a long, deliberate breath. When he finally speaks, his tone is unwavering and calm, yet there is a distinct weight behind each word, an undercurrent of seriousness that instantly puts me on edge and makes my shoulders stiffen with anticipation. “Early this morning, a letter—fan mail, to be specific—was intercepted and was subsequently handed over to me,” he explains, his gaze unwavering. “I have reason to believe that this message is a direct consequence of the recent photographs that have been circulating widely and rapidly across various social media platforms, causing quite a stir and attracting a great deal of public attention.”

“Someone is threatening Dover?” A cold, uneasy sensation twists in my stomach, anxiety tightening its grip.

“The world is now aware that Dover is gay. As a gay man myself, I don't give a shit about anyone’s sexual preference. This threat could be dangerous, which is why I went to Rosie first. I wanted to make sure you have recovered enough to handle this. She informed me that you wouldn’t let anyone else. So, here I am.”

Wyatt’s tone is sharp, edged with frustration as he begins to pace the length of the room. He runs a hand through his hair. “Dover’s life is in serious danger right now—he’s being threatened because of his sexuality. I’m guessing it’s a fan who’s taken things way too far, but honestly, I can’t be sure. Regardless, I believe it’s a real threat. That’s why I want you to move in with Nash and Dover. I need someone on the inside, someone I trust, to keep an eye on things from within their home. I realize you’re not ready to be out in the field handling active threats yet, so Weston will be responsible for protecting Dover whenever he’s traveling with the team. Your job will be to watch over him while he’s at home, to notice anything out of the ordinary, and to keep me updated.”

A dull ache throbs behind my eyes as the weight of Wyatt’s words settles in my chest. I had more or less decided to stop being a jerk and go after what I want, or rather whom I want. So, what’s the problem? Dammit, I can’t be involved with Dover if I have to protect him. I’d be distracted.

“Have you asked Dover about it? He might have some idea where it’s coming from.”

“Not yet,” Wyatt admits, glancing down at his watch as if calculating the time in his head. “He’s currently at practice. Or rather,” he corrected himself, “he will be in about an hour. I’ve already told Ethan to send him up to my office as soon as he arrives. I want you there as well, so we can discuss this together.”

Sitting forward in my chair, I let out a slow breath and wipe a hand down my face, bracing myself for what is to come. “I’ll be there,” I say, my voice steady, even as my thoughts race ahead to the meeting that awaits me.

Wyatt grimaces, his expression tightening with concern and frustration. “I'll see you in my office in an hour,” he says, his voice clipped and serious. Rising from his seat, he pulls a single sheet of paper from a folder and places it deliberately on the desk between us. “This is a copy,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for doubt about the gravity of the situation. He meets my eyes, his gaze steady. “I think this is serious, Dodge.”

Without another word, Wyatt turns and leaves the office, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. I sit in silence for a moment, feeling the weight of his words settle over me. Slowly, I reach out and pick up the piece of paper, my hands trembling slightly. I unfold it carefully, my eyes immediately drawn to the jagged, hurried handwriting that sprawls across the page.

You think you can get away with coming out as gay? I don't think so. There are consequences for sick people like you. Don't get too comfortable because I'm coming for you.

My breath catches in my throat as I read the threat, my eyes tracing the hateful words again and again. No matter how many times I read the message, the meaning remains the same—cold, menacing, and deeply personal. The threat is unmistakable, and the fear it stirs in me is immediate and visceral.

Wyatt seems convinced that the letter must have come from a fan—someone on the outside looking in. But what if it isn’t a fan? The thought gnaws at me, refusing to be dismissed. I know Dover has a close-knit group of friends, people who have known about his sexuality from the beginning and have always supported him. But there are also other teammates, ones I’ve noticed he keeps his distance from. They tend to avoid him as well, their interactions strained and awkward. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything sinister, but I can’t help but notice the tension.

Beyond my own team, there are players on other teams to consider—people with their own prejudices and secrets, any one of whom could have written the note. McKenzie was a problem during last night’s game. The possibilities swirl in my mind, each one more unsettling than the last. I’m not willing to dismiss any of these suspicions, not yet. The threat feels too real, and the danger too close. For now, all I can do is hold the letter in my hands and try to steady my breathing, knowing that everything has changed.

As luck would have it, I manage to arrive in Wyatt's office before Dover does, giving me a few precious moments alone with Wyatt before the meeting begins. The anticipation and unease swirling inside me make it difficult not to betray my agitation by pacing nervously around the room. Determined to maintain my composure, I instead walk over to the large conference table, which is currently covered with a number of letters spread out in a somewhat haphazard fashion.

As I approach the table, my eyes are drawn to Wyatt, who is standing nearby and visibly uneasy. He winces slightly when our eyes meet, as if bracing himself for what is to come. “I asked the mail office to bring up any letters they'd kept with reference to Dover,” he explains, gesturing broadly at the scattered correspondence on the table. “That,” he continues, waving his hand to encompass the mess, “is what they brought to me.” His posture is tense, and he stands beside me, letting out a long, tired sigh that seems to carry the weight of recent revelations. “I wasn't aware there had been other threats,” he admits, his voice tinged with frustration and concern.

I press him for more information, trying to understand how such important details could have slipped through the cracks. “Your staff kept the notes but didn't show you. Why?” I ask, my tone a mixture of curiosity and disbelief.

Wyatt runs a hand through his hair, looking weary. “Fan mail comes in daily,” he explains, offering some context. “Both good and bad. The really bad, like what you're looking at now, comes in rarely. I review them once a month unless the threat appears serious or imminent. In those cases, I look at them the same day they arrive.” He exhales sharply, the sound betraying his exasperation with the situation. After a moment, he picks up one of the letters from the table and hands it to me, his expression grave as he waits for my reaction.

You are about to lose a player, Wyatt Peters. How do you feel about that?

I frown. “This sounds like it's directed at you.”

“Read this. Same person.” He passes me another.

Gayboy won't be on the team for long.

I draw another toward me.

Have you realized who I'm after yet?

“I don't think they're directed at me,” Wyatt says, his voice quiet.

“I don't either.” Ethan’s response is just as subdued, as he joins us. I notice the tension in his jaw as he speaks. I rub at my forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache pulsing at my temples. Before I can dwell on it, there’s a sharp knock on the door, the sound echoing through the small room. Although I tense involuntarily, my posture remains unchanged, and I make a conscious effort to hide any sign of the dread that washes over me at the thought of seeing Dover again.

Taking a slow, steadying breath, I force myself to turn and face the man who enters the room. Dover steps inside, his eyes carefully avoiding mine, his expression unreadable. Ethan glances briefly in my direction, his gaze flickering down to the table between us as if searching for answers in the grain of the wood.