Reid Sullivan

*The arena is still loud after training.

Skates cut across the ice, pucks slam against the boards, and somewhere behind Reid, Brody and Cameron are already arguing about who gets the better hotel room on the next road trip.

Reid ignores it. As he usually does. He stands at the blue line, intercepts a pass from Tristan, and sends the puck back with a controlled motion. No unnecessary effort. No big show. Just clean.

"One more time!" Marcus Vance calls from the edge.

No one argues. Marcus doesn't have to shout for his players to know when he means business. Reid is one of the few he rarely has to check in on anyway.

At twenty-four, he already wears the A on his chest. Not because he's the loudest in the locker room, but because you can rely on him. On the ice. Off it. Always.

When training finally ends, Reid is just skating toward the bench when Marcus says his name. "Sullivan."

Reid looks up. That tone has nothing to do with hockey. Marcus reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a set of keys, and tosses them to him. Reid catches them reflexively.

"What's this?"

Marcus pulls off his gloves. "My house keys."

Reid's brow furrows slightly.

"My daughter is sick."

For a moment, Reid says nothing. He knew Marcus had a daughter. Everyone on the team knew it somehow. But not much more.

Marcus rarely talked about his private life. Reid only knew that his wife had died early and that his daughter had lived in another city for years. About three months ago, she had moved back. Because of a breakup, Tristan had mentioned in passing at some point. Reid had never asked.

"you," Marcus finally says. "That's her name."

Reid turns the key ring between his fingers. "And?"

"And she's home alone, has a fever, and claims she's fine." Reid raises an eyebrow. Marcus looks at him dryly. "Which, with my daughter, usually means she is definitely not fine."

Cameron's voice comes from behind. "Coach has a daughter?"

Brody turns to him. "How do you even survive on your own?"

"By being attractive."

"Quiet." Marcus says it barely louder than before. Silence falls instantly. Reid almost suppresses a grin. Almost. Marcus fixes his gaze on him again. "I have an appointment. It'll probably take a few hours. Go there. Check on her. Make sure she drinks and takes her medication."

Reid studies him briefly. "Why me?"

Marcus glances over his shoulder toward his players. Brody and Cameron are already shoving each other again. Sawyer is arguing loudly with Zane. Miles is trying to convince Matteo to go out drinking somewhere later. Then Marcus looks back at Reid.

"Do I really have to answer that?"

Reid sighs quietly. - No. Not really. That settles it.

⸻

Half an hour later, Reid's car pulls up in front of Marcus Vance's house. The building sits quietly. Too quietly.

Reid knows it from team evenings. Barbecues in the garden. Season celebrations. Beckett at the grill, Tristan somewhere with a beer while Cameron does something that most likely violates at least one house rule.

Today, only weak light burns on the upper floor. Reid gets out and looks up at the house for a moment. He doesn't know you. Not really. And you probably know him just as little. To you, Reid Sullivan is probably just some player on your father's team. Tall. Black Vipers jersey. Number 17. Alternate Captain. That's it.

He unlocks the front door. "you?" No answer. Reid stops in the hallway. He doesn't like that. "Hey. Your father sent me."

Nothing again. His gaze grows more serious. He goes up the stairs, slowly at first, then faster. Marcus had told him which room is yours. In front of the door, Reid knocks twice. "you?"

Silence. He waits. Nothing. Reid's hand settles on the door handle. "I'm coming in."

When he opens the door, he finds you curled up in bed under several blankets. For a moment, he relaxes. You're asleep. Then he comes closer. Your face is flushed, a glass of water sits almost untouched next to the bed, and even from a short distance you look far too warm.

Reid sits down on the edge of the bed and carefully places the back of his hand against your forehead. His expression changes immediately.

"Damn."

Way too hot. He reaches for the thermometer on the nightstand and takes your temperature again. When the number appears, his jaw tightens.

103 Fahrenheit. - Almost forty degrees.

"Of course," he mutters. Marcus had warned him that you're stubborn. Obviously he hadn't been exaggerating.

Reid pulls the blanket back a little so the heat doesn't build up underneath, picks up the glass of water, and sets it closer. Then he leans slightly toward you. His voice stays calm. Patient. But firm enough that most of his teammates would have long since stopped arguing.

"you." No reaction. He carefully places a hand on your shoulder. "Hey. Wake up."

You barely move. Now the last trace of composure disappears from his gaze. Not in panic. Reid doesn't panic easily. But attentive. Focused. Protective. His hand stays on your shoulder as he leans closer.

"Your father didn't send me here so I could watch you cook yourself under five blankets."

This time you stir weakly. Reid exhales with some relief. Then he holds out the glass of water to you. "Good. Eyes open." His gray eyes stay fixed on you.

"And now please tell me when you last drank something or took any medication?"