Page 51 of For Pucking Ever

I glanced over at him. He was watching me now, one brow raised in that way, slightly challenging but never unkind. The sun caught in his curls, highlighting strands of deep brown within the black. He looked calm. Centered. Like someone who'd survived the storm and come out the other side not unscathed but stronger, more resilient for the battering.

"It's not just them finding out," I admitted, the words feeling raw in my throat. "It's what comes after. The press. The fans. The team. Management. I've spent years keeping both halves of my life separate. B. Ardent was supposed to be untouchable, unreachable. My sanctuary."

"And now you've painted me," he said, a quiet challenge in his voice, his eyes locked onto my profile. "Which means it's not just your secret anymore. It's ours."

I nodded once, jaw tightening. The light ahead turned yellow, and I eased to a stop, drumming my fingers against the wheel. "They'll see you, Derrick. Really see you. On canvas. On walls. They'll see you through my eyes. I don't know how they'll react."

"You mean Alexis and Brea will immediately point and yell 'that's Derrick Shaw' in the middle of a silent gallery while everyone else gasps in horror? Maybe someone will faint dramatically clutching their pearls for effect?"

A short laugh burst out of me, unexpected and sharp, cutting through the tension. "Exactly. Then the hockey blogs will explode, and we'll be trending on Instagram for all the wrong reasons."

He reached over, hand resting lightly on my thigh, his palm warm through my jeans. "They'll be mad you didn't tell them. But they'll get it. Eventually. These are your friends, Bast. Your family. Give them some credit."

I didn't answer right away. His touch was grounding, reassuring, but it didn't quiet the storm inside completely. The years of keeping secrets, of compartmentalizing, of being Sebastian Bergeron on the ice and B. Ardent in the studio. . .two entities who were never supposed to meet.

The light turned green, and I accelerated smoothly, turning onto the street leading to the stadium. The arena came into view, its modern architecture gleaming in the morning light. "You're the only one who's ever seen all of it. Both sides. All of me."

He didn't let go of my thigh, his thumb traced a small circle against the fabric. "And I'm not going anywhere. Not anymore."

"I know I've asked this already," I said, my voice quieter now as I pulled into the players' parking lot, "but you good to suit up tonight? If you need more time⁠—"

"Coach Willis gave me third period," he replied, finally withdrawing his hand as I parked. "Short leash. No pressure. Twenty minutes max." He smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, a shadow of uncertainty lingering there. "I'll be fine. It's just preseason."

I glanced over at him, shifted into park and leaned in just a little, close enough that I could smell his cologne, something citrusy and warm. "Tu es plus fort que tu ne le crois." You're stronger than you think.

His brow lifted slightly, the words washed over him as he translated, then he exhaled slowly, nodding once. His shoulders dropped a fraction as some of the tension left his frame.

"One period," I murmured, my voice low and steady, a promise between us. "Then we go home. Just twenty minutes of hockey, and then it's done. I'll be right there with you."

The buzzer snaps me back to the present. End of the second period.

We're up by two.

I skate to the bench, unfastening my mask, gulping down water like it can cool the heat burning behind my sternum. My jersey clings to me, soaked through. My heartbeat thumps in my wrists, pulsing with adrenaline and anticipation, or maybe fear. Not for me, but for him.

Coach Willis approaches, clipboard tucked under one arm, his expression unreadable beneath his perpetual scowl. "Shaw's in for the third," he says.

I nod, chest already tightening. I know how badly Derrick wants this. How much he needs this to go right. First game back since the injury. First time facing live action with the weight of expectations crushing down on shoulders still healing from trauma. It's just a preseason game but everyone is watching regardless.

Across the bench, Derrick sits, eyes focused on some middle distance beyond the ice. He's gone quiet. The constant motion, the perpetual energy that defines him, funneled into a laser-sharp stillness that doesn't suit him. Makes him look like someone else.

He stands, stretching muscles that have memorized these movements through thousands of repetitions. His routine. Left pad tightened first, then right. Taps his stick blade three times against the boards. Squares his shoulders beneath equipment that should make him look bigger but somehow makes him seem more vulnerable. He pulls on his mask with practiced ease but there is a subtle hesitation, a flicker of doubt behind his eyes as we pass each other at the gate.

"You've got this," I say as he passes. "C'est ton moment. Ta lumière." This is your moment. Your light.

He nods but doesn't speak. The weight of what this means for him is heavy in the silence between us.

I take my place at the end of the bench, towel draped over my shoulders, water bottle clutched too tightly in my gloved hand. Devan sits beside me, his body radiating tension I don't understand until I follow his gaze across to where Tobias stands, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the ice.

The third period begins and Derrick holds strong at first. Solid tracking. Decent footwork. His glove is a little slow, but his reflexes are sharp enough to compensate. The crowd notices, a collective exhalation of relief when he makes his first save—clean, efficient, textbook. The second one earns louder cheers. By the third, the stadium is starting to believe. Hell, the entire team is cheering him on.

Until they aren't.

Midway through, LA's center launches a shot from the blue line, high and fast. Derrick drops low, instinctively ducking. The puck whizzes past his shoulder and buries itself in the net. The lamp lights ups and the crowd groans.

The horn blares. 2-1

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, not loud enough for anyone to hear.