Chapter Text
It was just after one in the morning when Brian finally pressed ‘call’. He sat hunched at the kitchen table, a half-empty mug of cold coffee at his elbow. The phone rang until, finally, a groggy voice answered.
“Brian?” Ghislain’s French-Canadian lilt was heavy with sleep. He groaned low, clearly just pulled from bed. “You realize what time it is?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry.” Brian’s voice cracked, quieter than usual. “I wouldn’t call unless it was important.”
There was a pause. A shift of fabric on the other end. “Is it Yuzuru?”
Brian pressed his hand against his forehead. “It’s bad, Ghis. Worse than I thought when I first called you after Boston. The scans came back. Lisfranc injury. They’ve got him in a boot, crutches, the whole deal. Two months minimum before we can even think about ice.”
Ghislain exhaled slowly, already analytical, already framing the problem in his head. “I figured. The way you described the swelling, the limp… it matched. But Lisfranc—” he cut himself off, unwilling to make it worse than it already was. “You know what that means.”
“He’s restless. Pacing around when I’m not looking. Already asking about programs and shows. I can’t get through to him.” Brian’s tone cracked open, unable to hide the frustration in his voice anymore.
“That’s not new.” Ghislain’s tone softened, almost sympathetic. “But Brian, this isn’t just about skating anymore. Lisfranc injuries are complicated. They don’t forgive shortcuts. He needs structure—real structure—or he’s going to lose more than one season.”
A long moment of silence passed.
“You’ve already done what you can as a coach, Brian.” Ghislain’s voice almost came as a warning. “You’ve kept him safe as long as possible. But you’re not a physiotherapist—and you’re not a shadow who can trail him everywhere he goes. You can’t be both. If you try, you’ll burn yourself out, and he’ll slip through your fingers anyway. You need another layer of help. Someone who can take on the parts you can’t.”
Brian dragged a hand through his short hair. “That’s why I was calling. It’s not just the ankle,” he admitted quietly. “The media’s already circling. They hounded us through the airport. He held himself together, but I could see it. It chipped away at him. He begged me to keep the compression wrapping as minimal as possible so no one would notice. Like the boot was a stain on his image. He wants to look invincible, even when he can’t walk without help.”
There was a pause on the line. Ghislain didn’t answer right away, and Brian could picture him frowning, weighing the words. Finally, he spoke, steady as ever. “That’s who he is, Brian. You know that. His pride is bound to his body, to what he can show the world. He’ll deny his own limits just to protect that image.”
“I know,” Brian muttered. “I’ve watched him do it before. Smile through pain, limp away when no one’s watching. This time… it’s worse. He’s already pushing against the doctor’s orders in his head, I can see it. And with the press closing in, I can’t keep him sheltered forever.”
“You won’t,” Ghislain said firmly. “Not alone.”
The call ended not long after, but Brian didn’t sleep. He stood in the kitchen, Ghislain’s words echoing through his head. He trusted him more than anyone when it came to the technical side of skating and injury prevention. But even Ghislain couldn’t provide what Brian was starting to realize Yuzuru needed most: protection beyond the rink.
・・・
The second morning, after Yuzuru finally drifted into a restless sleep, Brian made his move. He dug through his contacts quietly, calling an old friend in Toronto he hadn’t spoken to in years—someone who had once arranged discreet security for a professional hockey player after a scandal. They talked in low tones, cautious, knowing Yuzuru could overhear if Brian wasn’t careful. By the end of the call, he had a name. A trusted agency. Professionals who understood privacy, who had handled high-profile athletes before.
Brian didn’t tell Yuzuru. Not yet. The boy was already carrying the weight of his body failing him, his season slipping through his fingers. To add the idea of a bodyguard—an admission that he wasn’t safe, that he wasn’t in control—would only tighten the knot of shame he was already tangled in.
Brian had never imagined this would become part of his job—sifting through security firms like he was vetting new choreographers. Yet here he was, late at night, the apartment silent except for the hum of his laptop and the faint buzz of the city outside. He started with the agency his Toronto contact had recommended—a company known for discreet protection of high-profile clients.
He clicked on the first profile, skimming through the résumé carefully. Elias Callahan, former police officer, five years in corporate security, specialized in event crowd control and VIP transport. Skills listed included situational awareness, risk assessment, and emergency protocol.
Brian frowned.
Impressive on paper, but too reactive—this was the kind of person who solved problems with force, not subtle control. Yuzuru didn’t need someone who would bark orders and push him around; he needed someone patient enough to notice when Yuzuru’s pride was leading him into danger, and capable enough to intervene without shaming him.
He had sat there skimming through multiple other profiles before another had caught his attention.
The second profile was slightly closer to what Brian had in mind: Andre Dubois, ex-military, trained in personal protection and surveillance, experience with international travel, and fluent in multiple languages.
The resume included notes on techniques and long-term protective assignments for high-profile clients. Brian’s eyes lingered on the phrase “able to blend into the client's environment, unobtrusive yet authoritative.” That was closer, but the personality fit was still off. The notes emphasized discipline, yes—but there was an edge of rigidity, a kind of commanding presence that might make Yuzuru feel trapped instead of guided.
Brian leaned back, rubbing his eyes. He scribbled notes on a pad: Patience? Check. Discreet? Almost. Comfortable with travel and public attention? Yes. Calm under pressure? Needs more evidence.
He closed the tab, feeling the weight of the decision pressing on him.
At this point, an hour had passed, and Brian thought about retiring for the night, but a name caught his attention:
Shohei Ohtani:
Former JSDF, three-year maritime contract, trained in crisis management, situational awareness, and protective strategy. Brian always considered military experience a strong asset, but this one was freshly out of the navy—he hadn’t spent much time outside that structured environment. Would that make him rigid, untested in chaotic civilian situations? Or maybe too cautious, unsure how to read a high-profile athlete like Yuzuru?
Brian had also skimmed past other Japanese candidates and thought it over carefully. Yuzuru’s English was functional, but he still spoke more naturally in Japanese. Having someone who could communicate effortlessly, without forcing translation or hesitation, might make a subtle but important difference—helping Yuzuru feel understood and less frustrated, especially in moments of pain or stubborn defiance.
Brian made a mental note to remember that for later. He scrolled down further, eyes reading over Ohtani’s list of skills: patience, discretion, reading body language, anticipating risky behavior before it escalated…
He leaned back in the chair, back stiff and legs numb. Notes and scribbles were scattered around him. Brian reopened the agency’s page. Shohei’s profile was still there, calm and precise, almost too perfect on paper. Brian reread it a third time. His eyes kept catching on Ohtani’s previous experience. Compared to the other candidates that were worth jotting down, Shohei was clearly the better option.
It didn’t hurt to try. It was possible this wouldn’t work out at all, but Brian had to take a stand to make that first step.
The coach closed his eyes for a moment, imagining Yuzuru pacing the apartment, trying to test the ankle, fighting against the crutches and the boot, ignoring the swelling and the pain. He pictured the media flashes, the fans pressing too close, the subtle hints of frustration Yuzuru buried behind a polite smile. How much longer could he stay in Yuzuru’s kitchen to prevent him from hurting himself further?
The answer was clear. Not much.
・・・
By the third morning, Yuzuru was holding up—but barely. The swelling hadn’t gone down; if anything, the angry puff around his foot seemed worse. Every time he lowered himself into a chair, his jaw tensed like he was biting back a curse. He kept the boot on, but only when Brian or the trainers reminded him.
He tried to keep busy.
His desk was a mess of notebooks and headphones, his laptop glowing late into the night as he rewatched old programs—pausing, rewinding, scribbling notes, muttering choreography counts to himself under his breath. If the fall had rattled him, he wouldn’t show it.
Outwardly, he looked like he was already planning the next comeback. Inwardly, Brian knew it was the same spiral: perfectionism fed by fear, denial masking pain.
“I’ve got a meeting this afternoon,” he said casually, sliding his phone into his pocket. Yuzuru just nodded without looking up, distracted by whatever notes he was scribbling at the desk. He didn’t ask for details.
By early afternoon, Brian was sitting in a quiet café a few blocks away, laptop open, phone pressed to his ear. The number he’d saved the night before rang twice before a professional voice answered:
“This is Sentinel Protective Services. How can we help you today?”
Brian cleared his throat and kept his tone neutral. “Yes, hello, this is Brian Orser calling. I was given your agency’s contact by Mark Davies. He mentioned you’ve handled discreet assignments before?”
There was a short pause, then a measured reply. “Yes, that’s correct. Confidentiality is standard for us. What sort of assignment are you inquiring about?”
Brian leaned back, scanning the notes he’d scribbled on Shohei’s profile the night before: Twenty-one years old, recently discharged after a three-year contract with the Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force. His file read like a checklist of the things Brian hadn’t even known he needed: trained in advanced security response, crisis management, and close-quarters defense. Certified in medical aid.
It was the balance Brian had been searching for. Someone who could blend into the background until the exact moment he couldn’t.
“I’m inquiring on behalf of a client,” Brian said carefully. “High-profile, frequent international travel, some existing medical limitations. Privacy is critical. We’re not looking for visible intimidation—we need someone who can be trusted in close quarters, someone adaptable. I’ve reviewed a few candidates, but one in particular stood out to me. Shohei Ohtani.” The coach kept it brief, listing everything critical first. They could discuss other things later on.
The line went quiet. Brian could hear the faint clicking of keys on the other end before the woman spoke again.
“Mr. Orser, one moment please—I’ll need to access our personnel files.”
A few minutes stretched out. Brian shifted in his chair, glancing toward the café door as if expecting Yuzuru to suddenly appear, crutches clattering against the floor.
Finally, the representative returned.
“Thank you for waiting. I’ve pulled up Mr. Ohtani’s file.” Papers rustled, or maybe it was the sound of her scrolling. “Age twenty-one. Recently completed a three-year contract with the Japan Maritime Self-Defense Force, discharged in good standing. Trained in crisis response, close protection, and advanced medical aid. References from his commanding officers are… exemplary. He’s currently available for specialized assignments,” the woman continued.
“Would you like me to walk you through the next steps—background confirmation, contract length, or an introductory meeting?”
Brian rubbed a hand over his face. This was real now. No longer late-night notes scribbled in secret, no longer just an idea to protect Yuzuru from himself and the world.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Let’s move forward.”
The representative’s tone shifted, more businesslike now that she knew Brian meant business.
“Here’s how the process works, Mr. Orser. First, we’ll conduct a background confirmation—criminal record checks, financial vetting, health clearance. For Mr. Ohtani, most of that is already complete given his recent discharge, but we’ll update the file with our own records.”
Brian nodded along, taking all of the information in.
“Next, contract length. Our standard minimum is three months, but we’ve had high-profile clients request longer. Six months to a year is typical for someone in your student’s situation. We’ll also draft confidentiality clauses to protect your skater’s privacy. Everything discussed remains strictly between the agency, the contractor, and you.”
“Finally,” she continued, “we arrange an introductory meeting. This can be in person or virtual. The client meets the candidate, and both sides confirm they’re a good fit before any signing. If you’d like to move quickly, Mr. Ohtani can be available within the week.”
Quickly was the safer option, Brian thought. Shohei Ohtani—twenty-one, just out of service, with clean records and specialized training. Someone who could be at Yuzuru’s side before the world closed in again.
Brian cleared his throat. “Let’s move forward with the confirmation and… let’s prepare for that introductory meeting.”
The line crackled softly as the representative typed something in the background.
“Alright, Mr. Orser. I’ll file this under priority status. Again, Mr. Ohtani has already completed most of his clearances within the last quarter, so it’s mainly updating medical and contact information. We’ll confirm his availability directly with you no later than Thursday at 10 a.m. EST. At that point, we can arrange the introductory meeting.”
Brian pinched the bridge of his nose. Thursday. That was only three days from now. It felt both like a lifeline and a deadline he hadn’t prepared for. He’d have to tell Yuzuru sooner or later.
“Understood,” he said. His voice was even, though his chest was tight.
“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Orser. Thank you for trusting us.”
The call clicked off, leaving only the quiet hum of the apartment.
Brian slipped his phone onto the table beside his untouched coffee, staring out the café window at the gray Toronto street. Thursday, he repeated in his head. It was only three days away, but it carried the weight of a season. Three days to prepare Yuzuru, who was already bristling at crutches and the boot, who hated the idea of being seen as anything less than indestructible.
When he pushed open the apartment door, the sound of papers rustling reached him first. Yuzuru was at his desk again, scribbling with his head bent low, his ankle propped awkwardly on a pillow. He didn’t look up, too focused—or too stubborn—to acknowledge Brian’s return.
Brian shut the door quietly, set his coat on the rack, and leaned against the wall for a beat. He’d have to tell him. Maybe not tonight. But soon.