Page 19 of For Pucking Ever

“You’re still symptomatic,” she says, flipping through my chart. “Light sensitivity. Headaches. Vertigo. Nausea. Slow reaction times.”

I squeeze my hands into fists where they rest on my thighs. I’m trying to remain calm. I was hoping for a different outcome today. I’ve done everything right.

“We need to extend your recovery protocol,” she says. “At least another six weeks before we reassess.”

Six. More. Weeks.

I don’t hear whatever she says next. It’s like someone’s pulled the plug on the world around me. The room shrinks, the walls crowd in, the buzz of the fluorescent lights roars in my ears.

All that I really heard was your not cleared, not recovered, you can't play. Training camp starts in a few weeks. If I'm not back in Toronto—I can't panic. I won't. . .but I'm scared.

I nod when she finishes, sign whatever papers they shove at me, and follow Bast like a robot back to the car.

The drive home is a blur. I barely feel the seatbelt across my chest. Barely register the familiar streets passing by.

When we pull into the driveway, Bast turns off the ignition and says nothing. Just sits there for a second like he’s waiting for something. . .maybe for me to break.

And maybe I do. I want my mom to tell me everything is going to be okay but she's not here. I have no one else and that realization is a kick in the teeth. I try and fail to hold my head up high and make my way inside his home. When we get inside and I stagger toward the stairs, the crushing weight finally caves in on me. I don’t even make it all the way up, I slump onto the top step, press my forehead to the railing, and say it, low, hoarse, shaking.

“Please.”

Bast freezes in the entryway, keys in hand and looks up at me.

“Please stay. Don't leave me alone.” I lift my head, meeting his startled gaze. My voice cracks under the weight of it. “I can’t. . .” I swallow hard, the taste of defeat bitter on my tongue. “I can’t stay in the dark alone anymore.”

The silence stretches between us, thick with everything we’ve been refusing to say. For once, I don’t care about pride. I don’t care about looking weak. I just need him. I need someone. I don't want to linger in my growing anxiety. Not tonight.

"Please Bast," I beg, my voice wobbles.

The silence stretches so long I wonder if he even heard me. My head pounds with the effort of not breaking down completely. I've never begged anyone for anything in my life but here I am, falling apart on Sebastian’s staircase.

Finally, Bast moves. His keys clatter against the entryway table, the only sound in this too-quiet house. He takes a deep breath, runs a hand over his close-cropped hair and looks up at me with those storm-cloud eyes.

"Okay."

That's it. Just one word but it's enough to make my chest loosen a fraction.

He climbs the stairs slowly, deliberately, like he's giving me time to change my mind. When he reaches me, he doesn't touch me, just sits down on the step beside me, our shoulders almost brushing but not quite.

"What do you need?" he asks, voice low and rough around the edges.

I laugh, a broken sound that hurts my own ears. "Fucked if I know."

We sit in silence, the weight of the doctor's verdict hanging between us. Six more weeks. My career slipping through my fingers like sand.

"I can't go back to that room," I finally manage. "I'll lose what's left of my mind."

Bast nods, his profile sharp against the fading afternoon light. "Then we'll change it."

"Change what?"

"Everything." He stands, offering his hand. "Come on."

I stare at his outstretched palm for a moment before taking it. His grip is solid, warm, as he pulls me to my feet. The sudden movement makes my head swim, and I sway slightly.

Bast steadies me, his hand at my elbow. "Easy."

Instead of leading me back to my room, he takes me back downstairs to the living room I've barely seen. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the water, the Seattle skyline in the distance. The space is minimal but warm, leather couch and armchair, thick rug, bookshelves lining one wall.