Page 18 of For Pucking Ever

The screen on my phone flashes. Timer off. I’m allowed fifteen minutes, no more.

I open Instagram automatically, like muscle memory. The moment my account pops up, I instantly regret it.

The first thing I see? My name tagged in a YouTube video.

@HockeyHomeGurlHattie: Episode 247—“Where Is Derrick Shaw? Theories, Rumors, and Secret Seattle Hideouts!”

My stomach lurches. I mute the sound, but the captions scroll automatically.

“Could Baby Goalie be hiding out with a certain Seattle VIPER?”

“Sources say Toronto’s front office is worried—TRADE rumors swirling!”

“Will Derrick Shaw ever return to the ice?”

Trade rumors? Hiding out? Shacking up? I mean, I heard this woman was mental but this is too much. Maybe it's because I've never had her eye turned my way. . .but this is hearsay and rumor.

Panic claws at my chest. I swipe out of the app, my hand shaking and call Tony before I can think better of it.

He picks up on the first ring. “Hey, Derrick. You okay?”

“I—” I swallow hard. “Did you see the shit going around?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. Paper rustles in the background, probably fielding another half-dozen calls at once. “It’s just gossip. Nothing damning, I'm on it. Ignore it. Focus on your health.”

“But they’re saying Toronto’s gonna trade me. Or that I’m. . .that I’m hiding. I’m not hiding, I’m recovering! Tony, you told me⁠—”

“And you are recovering,” Tony cuts in firmly. “I’m telling you, nobody’s making any decisions until your medical clearance. You’re under contract, Derrick. Toronto’s invested in you. Don’t let internet noise get into your head.”

But it’s too late. The words have already rooted themselves deep in the pit of my gut.

“I worked my whole damn life for this,” I whisper. “I can’t lose it now.”

“You’re not going to,” Tony promises. “I’m handling it. You just handle getting better, okay?”

I nod even though he can’t see me, end the call, and sink back into the mattress, feeling like a balloon someone just slashed open.

The knock at my door is sharp. Precise. No nonsense.

I scrub my hands over my face and call out, “Yeah?”

The door creaks open just enough for Bast’s face to appear. His expression is unreadable, those gray eyes giving nothing away as he takes me in.

“Up,” he says shortly. “You have your appointment today. Ten minutes.”

The door clicks shut again without even a “Hello.” Or “Good morning.”

Well, that’s fucking cheerful. I drag myself upright, my body protesting every movement. It’s not even the physical pain anymore. It’s the bone-deep exhaustion, the emotional gravity making everything heavier.

The ride to the doctor’s office is exactly as fun as expected.

Bast drives like he does everything else. Smooth and easy, controlled, and yep, silent.

He asks me the basics. How I’m feeling, if I slept, did I eat the breakfast he laid out for me. But nothing personal. No warmth. No teasing. Just. . .distance.

It shouldn’t bother me but it does. I stare out the window the whole way there, counting the cars and buildings we pass, wishing I could crawl out of my own skin.

At the hospital, the examination is mercilessly thorough. Dr. Patel is kind but blunt as hell.