Page 28 of For Pucking Ever

Every time I walk by it, the urge grows stronger, an itch I can't scratch. Redirecting my thoughts, I don't give in and try the library instead. Floor-to-ceiling shelves, all art books and architectural theory, sketchbooks and dusty journals. Nothing like the sports biographies and comic books that fill my shelves back home. I find a notebook full of figure studies, faceless bodies in motion. Bast's hand, I think. I flip through it slower than I mean to, studying the lines, the precision, fingers hovering just above the paper like it might burn me. The figures seem to dance across the pages, caught mid-motion with such accuracy it makes my chest tight. Whoever he is when he's not standing between the pipes. . .it lives in these pages.

Eventually, I cave. Of course, I cave. I'm bored, hella curious, and maybe a little desperate to find something that makes Sebastian Bergeron human rather than the mythical figure I've built him up to be since I was twelve.

I double back down the hall, and this time I stop at the door. It's not locked but it might as well be with the way my fingers hesitate on the knob, trembling slightly. The voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like my mother tells me this is how you lose trust, by taking instead of asking.

I shouldn't—but I do.

The scent of paint hits me first. Thick, sharp, and earthy in the way only real oil paint can be. Nothing like those craft acrylics Mom and I used on rainy Sundays when I was a kid. This smell is expensive, sophisticated, the kind that belongs in museums behind velvet ropes.

The room opens up like a cathedral, vaulted ceilings, whitewashed walls spattered with color like confetti frozen mid-toss. A massive window overlooks the lake, the golden light of late afternoon pouring across the hardwood floors, turning dust motes into tiny constellations that dance when I disturb them.

And the canvases.

They're everywhere. Leaning against walls, stacked in corners, propped on easels in varying stages of completion. Color explodes in every direction, violent reds, serene blues, textured blacks with depth I want to fall into. Abstract pieces that feel like emotions given form. Landscapes that seem to breathe. Each one different yet connected by some invisible thread I can't quite name but can definitely feel.

My breath catches when I see it.

A sketch, just a partial one, done in charcoal. Half a face. My face.

I step closer, drawn forward like I'm being pulled by invisible strings. There's no mistaking it. The shape of my jaw, drawn with a tenderness I didn't know could exist in charcoal or pencil. The curl of my hair, each coil given attention that feels almost reverent. The slight downturn of my mouth that I recognize from a thousand mirror checks.

Drawn with so much precision it makes my throat close up. It's me, but it's also. . .more than me. Like he saw something I don't see when I look at myself.

Then I see the signature at the corner, elegant and understated.

My knees nearly give out. I have to steady myself against the edge of a table, careful not to disturb the paintbrushes soaking in jars of clear liquid.

I take a step back, the air thinner than it was seconds ago, like I've climbed to some high altitude where oxygen comes at a premium. The paintings hanging in the hallway. The pieces in the guest room. The ones I'd admired while thinking they must have cost a fortune—they're his. All his.

Whipping out my phone, I google the name and nearly faint but it has nothing to do with my concussion.

Sebastian Bergeron, Seattle Vipers star Goalie. He's B. Ardent. And he's been drawing me.

“B. Ardent is one of the most sought-after reclusive artists in the modern world.”

“No public appearances. No known photographs. Estimated net worth: $1B.”

“Work sells at auction for upwards of $500K–$1M.”

"What the fuck? How is this possible? How has he been able to hide this without the league knowing?" I whisper.

I spin slowly, taking in the room again, like seeing it for the first time. How could I have been so blind? How many secrets can one man keep under that cool, clipped shell of his?

And then I feel it, that twist of something low in my gut. Not betrayal exactly. But something like being sucker-punched by the truth.

This whole time. . .

A floorboard creaks behind me. I turn, heart lurching. Bast stands in the doorway, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. His eyes flick from me to the sketch on the easel.

“Well,” he says quietly, voice even. “I guess I have some explaining to do.”

ELEVEN

SEBASTIAN

"You won't be able to hide forever."

Christian's words echo in my head as I pull into my driveway, the tires of my BMW crunching against the gravel. The sun hangs low over Lake Washington, that particular Seattle golden hour, the time of day that makes even the most mundane things look like art.