Page 3 of For Pucking Ever

But beneath this perfect stillness lies an uncomfortable reality. This night wasn't the beginning of something beautiful. It was the conclusion of something that never truly began.

When the sun rises, Bast is already gone. No goodbye. No kiss. Just cold sheets and silence.

ONE

SEBASTIAN

Present Day

Idon't know how long I've been sitting here holding his hand. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound penetrating the sterile silence of the hospital room. My eyes are gritty from lack of sleep but I can't bring myself to close them. Every time I do, I see him falling. See his body hitting the ice, motionless.

Derrick hasn't moved in hours. Tubes and wires connect him to machines that monitor every aspect of his physical state. The doctors say his vitals are stable, that the helmet absorbed most of the impact but they're keeping him sedated while the swelling in his brain subsides.

The fact that he's unconscious and can't see me sitting here is both a relief and a torment. Ten months of carefully constructed distance between us, demolished the moment I saw him drop. Ten months of convincing myself that what happened between us was just one night, meaningless, a mistake.

My thumb traces circles on the back of his hand before I even realize I'm doing it. I stop but don't let go. I can't.

"You're a stubborn idiot, you know that?" I murmur, my voice rough from hours of silence. "You should have seen the puck coming. What happened to those reflexes you're always bragging about?"

He doesn't answer, of course. The steady rise and fall of his chest continues uninterrupted.

The memory of Maxwell's shot haunts me. The puck flying through the air like a bullet. The sickening crack as it connected with Derrick's helmet. The way he crumpled to the ice, laying so still, I couldn't breathe. I'd been across the rink, but somehow, I was at his side in seconds, my teammates trying to hold me back as the medics rushed in.

"I should have been there," I whisper, even though that makes no sense. We were on opposite teams. I was where I was supposed to be. But the guilt crushes me all the same.

My phone buzzes in my pocket for what must be the twentieth time. Probably Tor checking in again. The rest of the team is celebrating our Stanley Cup victory. Champagne flowing, music blaring, the ultimate hockey high. And here I am, in the quiet darkness of a hospital room, holding the hand of a man who shouldn't mean anything to me.

But he does. That's the truth I've been running from.

That night ten months ago rushes back to me in vivid flashes. His lips on mine, hungry and demanding. My hands mapping every inch of his body, committing him to memory. Being inside him, pushing him to the edge of control and then shoving him over. The way he'd held me afterward, his heart thundering against mine.

Then morning came and with it, reality. I'd slipped out before he woke up. Left no note, no explanation. Just disappeared. Because that's what I do, I don't stay, I don't connect. I don't let anyone get close enough to hurt me.

Not after what happened in Winnipeg.

My jaw clenches at the memory, and I push it away. No. Not now. Maybe not ever.

"You know we won, right?" I say to Derrick's unconscious form. "My boys raised the Cup. Maxwell looked like he wanted to vomit the entire time. Kept looking toward the tunnel like he expected you to walk out."

The irony isn't lost on me. Maxwell, the man who fired the shot that put Derrick here, lifting the Stanley Cup, not a smile in sight. The man was devastated, I could see it in his eyes. He'd just wanted to score, not end someone's season, possibly career.

I squeeze Derrick's hand a little tighter. "Ridley's engaged now. Brea proposed from the stands after the game. You should have seen his face." I chuckle, the sound hollow in the quiet room. "The man who swore he'd never settle down again. Who would have thought? Well, I guess it was inevitable. We witnessed the rekindling of their relationship."

Outside the window, dawn is breaking. I've been here all night. The nurses haven't asked me to leave, I think they all know who I am. Derrick's Head Coach and his agent have been pacing outside his hospital room for just as long. Considering who's in the bed, a high-profile hockey player, no one would dare clear this room.

"I need you to wake up," I whisper, leaning closer. "I need you to be okay."

Because the truth is, I've spent ten months lying to myself. One night was never going to be enough. Not with him. Not with Derrick. Even if I have to fight it. I know eventually, I'm going to lose.

I lift his hand to my lips, press a kiss to his knuckles. "I'm here," I promise. "And I'm not going anywhere."

I'm not eavesdropping. Not really. It just happens that sound carries in this sterile hallway, Derrick's agent's voice has always been unnaturally loud. I recognize the timbre of it immediately, though I can't remember the last time I actually saw the man.

"Ms. Shaw, I understand your concern. I promise I'll keep you updated on any changes."

Tony Katz. That's his name. The man who negotiated Derrick's contracts beautifully, he's truly had the rookie’s back, handled his press seamlessly, considering the hype surrounding his first season in the NHL. Apparently, updating parents is also in his wheelhouse. I shift in the uncomfortable hospital chair, Derrick's hand still clasped in mine.

"The doctors will run several tests when Derrick wakes up to determine how severe the injury is." Tony's voice softens, something I didn't think possible. "For now, it's a wait-and-see situation."