Page 53 of For Pucking Ever

TWENTY-ONE

DERRICK

The morning light streams through the blinds, casting striped shadows across the bed. I try to catch a few more moments of sleep, but Bast's side of the bed is empty, the sheets cold. A glance at my phone confirms it's still early, but not too early for Mom to be awake. I prop myself up on the pillows, adjusting to make sure the lighting isn't terrible, and dial her number for a video chat.

Her face appears on screen, her smile immediate and warming me from the inside out.

"There's my superstar!"

I laugh, shaking my head. "Hey, Mom. How are you feeling today?" I search her face for any signs of fatigue or pain, something I've been doing since I was old enough to understand what MS meant.

"I'm good, baby. Better now that I see your handsome face." She adjusts her glasses, leaning closer to the screen. "I watched your preseason game last night. That save in the third period. I nearly knocked over my tea jumping up!"

Pride swells in my chest, mixed with a sharp pang of homesickness. "You're still my number one fan."

"Better believe it. Always will be." She winks. "How's rehab going? You seemed steady on your feet out there."

"It's good. Better every day." I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. "I miss you though. I'm sorry I haven't made it back to Lark Bay like I promised."

Her expression softens. "Oh, honey. I understand. Your recovery comes first."

"I just—" The words catch. "I just want to give you everything, Mom. After all you did for me, all those early morning practices, all those tournaments, working two jobs so I could play. . ." The emotions I've been keeping in check threaten to overflow. "I need to get better. For the team, but mostly for you."

Mom's eyes shine with unshed tears, but her expression is fierce. "You don't owe me anything, baby. I've always wanted what's best for you. Even when I didn't know how I was going to achieve it." She smiles, which only makes me want to cry more.

I think about the sacrifices she made. The second jobs, the medical bills she hid from me, the times she went without so I could have what I needed. It was always just us against the world, especially after Dad walked out of our lives. Hockey became my escape, my joy, and somehow, miraculously, my future.

"I know, but⁠—"

"No buts," she interrupts firmly. "I'm proud of you, Derrick. Not just for the hockey, though Lord knows that boy I used to drag out of bed for 5 AM practices has come a long way." Her laughter is soft, nostalgic. "I'm proud of the man you've become."

I blink rapidly, willing the tears away. "Thanks, Ma."

She tilts her head, a mischievous glint entering her eyes. "So. . .when do I get to hear more about this handsome goalie you're staying with? The news has been suspiciously quiet about this arrangement."

I run a hand through my curls, still damp from the shower I shared with Bast earlier. The memory of his hands soaping my back, his grumbled complaints about Christian's last-minute art request fading into soft kisses along my shoulder blades brings heat to my cheeks. Of course, she would bring up Bast. I hadn't told her the nature of our relationship yet. I hadn't wanted to jinx whatever this fragile, beautiful thing between us is becoming.

"We’re off to practice soon," I hedge, unable to keep the smile from my face.

"Mmhmm," she hums, unconvinced. "And you're changing the subject because. . .?"

I laugh, caught. "Fine. Bast and I are. . .something."

She raises an eyebrow, waiting.

"More than something," I admit with a wry smile, thinking of the way he held me last night, like I was precious. How his eyes, usually so guarded, had opened for me in ways I never expected.

"Well," she says, satisfaction coloring her tone, "I can't wait to meet him in person and see this 'something' for myself."

The sound of footsteps draws my attention. Bast appears in the doorway, fresh from his studio, a small smudge of blue paint on his forearm that he missed. Our eyes meet, and the corners of his mouth lift in that private smile that still makes my stomach flip.

"Is that him?" Mom asks, leaning forward as if she could peer out at him through the screen.

"Yeah, we really do need to go." I turn back to the screen. "Love you, Mom. I'll call you after practice."

"Love you too, baby. Go show 'em how it's done."

I end the call just as Bast approaches, coffee in hand. He sets a second mug on the nightstand beside me, the aroma rich and inviting.