Page 59 of For Pucking Ever

"What happened?" I ask softly.

Bast's laugh is hollow, a sound so devoid of humor it makes my skin crawl. "One night after a game, right there in the locker room, he announced he was getting married. To a woman." He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing beneath the stubble of his throat. "I thought it was a joke. Some sick prank. I knew he wasn’t out to his family. His parents would never have approved of us. I knew this. It was his greatest fear. But I held on. I thought he would choose us. Me."

My chest tightens, imagining the shock, the humiliation. "He didn't tell you first? Privately?"

"No." The word hangs between us, heavy with betrayal. "Nothing. And then I saw it on Instagram. 'She said yes', with a picture of matching engagement rings."

"Jesus," I breathe, the cruelty of it hitting me like a body check to the boards. "What did you do?"

"Nothing. What could I do? It was a secret. The franchise didn't know." His hands flex against his thighs, powerful fingers curling into half-fists before releasing. "I tried calling. Texting. I couldn’t confront him publicly. He ghosted me completely. Three years together, and suddenly I didn't exist."

I feel sick imagining Bast, proud, strong Bast, being treated like he was disposable. Like he didn't matter.

"His parents," Bast continues, his voice dropping lower. "They're conservative. Religious. He was terrified of them finding out. But instead of telling me, instead of giving me any warning. . ." He trails off, shaking his head.

"He threw you away," I finish for him, unable to keep the anger from my voice.

Bast's eyes finally meet mine, and the raw pain there steals my breath. "After that, I couldn't stay in Winnipeg. Seeing him every day, pretending nothing had happened. I had my agent find me a new team. Seattle made an offer."

Understanding blooms in my chest. The fortress he's built around himself, the careful distance he maintains from everyone, it all makes sense now. This isn't just about hockey. It's about protection.

"So, this is why you keep everyone at arm's length," I murmur.

He nods, a barely perceptible movement. "I promised myself I wouldn't let anyone close enough to do that to me again." His voice breaks slightly on the last word, and I can't stop myself from reaching out, laying my hand over his.

"Bast. . ."

"And then you happened." He turns his hand over, our palms meeting, his fingers curling around mine with surprising gentleness. "Bright, open, fearless. Everything I'm not."

My heart leaps, then settles into a steady, hopeful rhythm. "I'm not fearless. You've seen me at my worst."

"That's different." His thumb traces circles against my skin, sending shivers up my arm. "You're scared of what happened to you. I'm scared of what might happen."

The honesty in his voice strips me bare. I've been so caught up in my own trauma, my own recovery, that I never fully recognized his. Different wounds but wounds all the same.

"Is that why you never let me in? Why you hide your art, why you keep parts of yourself locked away?" I ask, squeezing his hand.

"Yes." The single syllable carries the weight of years of self-protection. "It became a habit. Safer not to share. Easier to be alone."

"But you're not alone anymore," I whisper, daring to lean closer. "I'm right here."

His eyes, when they meet mine, hold a question neither of us can voice yet. Instead, he reaches up with his free hand, cupping my cheek, his palm warm against my skin.

"I know," he says, so quietly I almost miss it. "And that terrifies me more than anything."

"It seems we are both terrified of something. My recovery. You with this. . .us." The words leave me in a rush, raw and honest in a way I rarely allow myself to be.

Bast's eyes darken, the storm in them intensifying as he holds my gaze. There's a shift in him, something fundamental changing in the air between us.

"Je ne veux plus que la peur guide mes pas," I no longer want fear to guide my steps, he whispers, French flowing from his lips like water over stones.

Before I can decipher what he’s saying, his hands are at my waist, strong and sure as he pulls me toward him. I move willingly, my body knowing what it wants even as my mind races to catch up. The leather of the couch creaks beneath us as I settle onto his lap, my thighs bracketing his hips, our bodies finding the perfect alignment like they've done this a thousand times before.

The first press of his mouth against mine is electric, sending currents through my body that light up every nerve ending. His lips are soft but insistent, nothing tentative in the way he claims me. My hands find his face, cradling the sharp angles of his jaw, feeling the rough scratch of stubble against my palms.

This kiss is different from all our others. There's no holding back, no careful restraint. It's punishing and perfect, full of everything we've been too afraid to say. My fingers slide into his hair, short strands tickling between my fingers as I grip tightly, anchoring myself. His tongue slides against mine, hot and demanding, and I open further for him, surrendering completely.

A groan rumbles from deep in his chest, the vibration passing between us where we're pressed together. His hands roam restlessly up my back, down my sides, like he's trying to memorize the topography of my body through touch alone. The heat of his palms burns through my thin t-shirt, and I arch into the contact, suddenly desperate to feel his skin against mine.