Page 41 of For Pucking Ever

I sigh, carefully wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic mug, soaking in the comforting heat against my palms. The mug has tiny painted vipers around the rim. "I just feel. . .exposed. Like people are watching everything. Speculating. Drawing conclusions about us that aren't theirs to make."

"They are," he confirms without sugar-coating it, settling his weight onto the couch beside me, his solid thigh nudging against my knee. The contact grounds me. "But they don't matter. We do. What happens in this house stays between us."

That shuts me up. The simple certainty in his voice wraps around me like a blanket, more comforting than he could possibly know.

Later, after dinner, after the couch cuddles and the silence that only comes with real comfort, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. The ache behind my eyes is dull but present. A reminder. The ghost of the injury I still haven’t beaten.

Fear, the stealer of joy, creeps in like fog. What if I can’t do this? What if I can’t get back? Toronto gave up on me. Just gave up. And now Seattle’s taking a chance. Torrance Bailey pulled strings. Coach Lennox believed in me. Bast vouched for me. What if I fail them? What if I never step into the crease again without flinching? What if I can’t be who I was?

I roll over and bury my face in Bast's chest, inhaling the warm, cedar-sweet scent of him mingled with the faint salt of honest sweat. His skin radiates heat against my cheeks, the coarse hair tickling my lips as I press closer. His arms come around me without question, strong and certain, one palm splaying possessively against the small of my back while the other cups my neck, thumb tracing small circles at the base of my skull.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice a deep rumble I can feel vibrating through his ribcage against my ear.

"No," I admit, my voice muffled against him. I relish the closeness, how his body yields just enough to cradle mine. "But I will be." My fingers trace the ridges of his obliques, mapping territory that still feels new and thrilling despite our familiarity, seeking comfort in the solid reality of him beneath my touch.

It’s the most honest answer I have, and maybe, for now, it’s enough.

SEVENTEEN

SEBASTIAN

Sleep evades me, as it often does the night before training camp. I stare at the ceiling, counting the familiar shadows cast by streetlights filtering through my blinds. Next to me, Derrick's chest rises and falls in a peaceful rhythm I envy. His return to Seattle after weeks of being away has been anything but peaceful. The Toronto buyout left him reeling, questioning his worth, his career, his future, and now he's here, back in my bed, in my life, with barely any time left in summer to prepare for what's coming.

Carefully, I shift onto my side to look at him. Moonlight catches his profile, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, now relaxed in sleep. I reach out, stopping just short of touching him, not wanting to disturb the rest he desperately needs. The medical reports from the hospital were concerning. His post-concussion symptoms lingered longer than they should have. Symptoms I noticed have resurfaced since his return from Toronto: the subtle wincing when lights are too bright, the stiffness in his neck when he turns too quickly, the occasional tremor in his hands when he thinks I'm not looking.

My chest tightens. I told myself I could protect him, that bringing him to Seattle was the right call. Now I'm not so fucking sure.

Three days ago, Coach Lennox confirmed what Tor and I had been pushing for. The memory surfaces with perfect clarity:

"He'll be on the roster as our third string," Lennox said, leaning back in his chair, eyes flicking between Tor and me. His office smelled of coffee and the faintest hint of cigar smoke—a vice he'd mostly given up but occasionally indulged in after particularly stressful games.

"With potential rotation to the AHL affiliate if needed for conditioning or ice time," Tor added, arms crossed over his chest, captain's authority evident in his stance. "It's the perfect setup."

Lennox's gaze settled on me. "You're sure about this, Bergeron? We're bringing him in based largely on your recommendation. If his medical doesn't check out⁠—"

"It will." The words came out sharper than intended. I moderated my tone. "His last evaluations were clear. The buyout was financial, not medical."

A lie. Or at least, not the complete truth. Toronto had concerns, concerns I'd convinced myself were exaggerated.

Tor shot me a look I couldn't quite decipher. Support? Skepticism? He'd backed my play without hesitation, but Tor missed nothing.

"This isn't a charity case," I continued. "Derrick's good. He'll prove it."

Lennox nodded slowly. "I trust your judgment, Bast. But he's your responsibility. If this goes sideways⁠—"

"It won't." Another lie, this one to myself.

I exhale slowly, pushing the memory away. If this goes sideways, it's on me. Derrick's career, potentially his health, it's all riding on my shoulders now. The weight of that responsibility presses down, making it hard to breathe.

He stirs beside me, brows furrowing slightly as if sensing my distress even in sleep. A curly strand of hair falls across his forehead, and this time I don't resist the urge to reach out, gently brushing it back. My fingers linger on his temple, where I once saw him massage away pain he thought I didn't notice.

Derrick's eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep. "You're thinking too loud," he murmurs, voice rough.

My lips quirk upward at him repeating my own words back to me. "Sorry."

"No, you're not." He shifts closer, pressing his warm body against mine. "What time is it?"

"Early." I trace the line of his collarbone, marveling at how quickly this has become familiar, his body against mine, the rhythm of our breaths syncing. "Go back to sleep."