Page 24 of For Pucking Ever

Maybe I always will.

I'm dying by the time we reach the top of those treacherous moss-covered steps. My lungs burn like I've swallowed fire and my legs feel like they've been through a meat grinder. Bast, the inhuman specimen of athletic perfection, hasn't even broken a sweat.

"I hate you," I gasp, bending over with my hands on my knees. "This is torture disguised as health."

Bast's laugh rolls over me, deep and rich. "You're a professional athlete, Derrick. Even in the off-season we have to keep ourselves conditioned."

"On hiatus," I wheeze, straightening up. "A recovering, traumatized athlete who's been horizontal for most of the past month."

His eyes soften at that, the gray in them warming, a shift in the storm clouds, lightening a fraction. "And yet here you are, still standing."

Something about the way he says it, like it's a victory, not just climbing these stupid stairs but everything, makes my chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.

"Barely," I mutter but I smile despite myself.

The view up here is worth it, though I'll never admit that aloud. Seattle spread out below us, the Space Needle jutting up like an exclamation point, Elliott Bay a glittering blue beyond. The air feels cleaner, sharper, like it could slice through all the fog that's been clouding my head. Mountains frame the horizon, jagged teeth against the sky, a reminder that some things stand tall no matter what tries to break them.

"Water?" Bast offers, pulling a bottle from his small backpack.

I take it, our fingers brushing. Even that small contact sends electricity sparking up my arm, a current I can't control. I gulp down half the bottle in one go, aware of his eyes on me the whole time. Water drips from the corner of my mouth, and I wonder if he notices how my hand trembles slightly, from fatigue or something else entirely, I'm not sure.

"You know what I miss most?" I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, surprised by my own candor. "The feeling right before a game. That moment when you're standing in the tunnel, and everything narrows down to just. . .possibility." It's only been a few weeks and I miss the ice like a phantom limb. An absence that aches most when I'm trying not to think about it. "It's like the whole world goes quiet, except for your heartbeat."

Bast nods, his expression serious, his eyes reflecting understanding. "The quiet before the storm."

"Yeah." I stare out at the city, at all those tiny buildings filled with people living their normal lives. "In Toronto, my first game, I threw up twice before heading onto the ice." I laugh softly, remembering the janitor who'd handed me a stick of gum with a knowing smile. "Spent twenty-two years dreaming about that moment, then spent the five minutes before it with my head in a toilet."

"Nerves?" he asks, trying not to smile.

"Terror," I correct with a laugh. "Pure, unadulterated terror. I kept thinking everyone would realize I was a fraud. That I didn't belong there."

Bast shifts closer, his shoulder brushing mine. "You belonged there more than most."

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. This is Sebastian Bergeron, the man I wanted to imitate as a teenager, the goalie who redefined the position, the legend I measured myself against for years. He's standing here telling me I belong.

"Thanks," I say quietly.

We stand in silence for a moment and I'm hyper-aware of every inch where our bodies almost touch.

"You'll feel it again," he says finally. "That tunnel feeling."

I want to believe him—God, I want to—but the truth is a different beast altogether.

"What if I don't?" The question slips out before I can catch it. "What if that puck knocked loose whatever made me good in the first place?"

Bast turns to face me fully then, the intensity in his eyes pins me in place. "It didn't."

"You can't know that."

"I do." His warm, steady hand finds my shoulder. "Talent isn't stored in your skull, Shaw. It's in here," he taps my chest, right over my heart, "and here." His fingers brush against my temple, feather-light.

My breath catches. We're so close now, I could see the flecks of silver in his eyes, count each of his eyelashes if I wanted to.

"Always the coach," I deflect, because it's easier than admitting how much his words mean.

His lips quirk. "Not coaching. Just facts."

"Well, fact this, I'm starving. Does this nature torture come with food?"