Page 30 of For Pucking Ever

"And before that," I add, because if I'm going to be honest, I might as well go all the way. "If I'm being honest."

The silence stretches between us, charged with things neither of us is saying. The air dense with scent of paints and unspoken truths. My palms sweat as he takes in my secret life, piece by piece.

Finally, he rubs his temples, blinking hard. "I need to get out of here. These fumes are messing with my head." His voice sounds strained, like he's forcing each word past some invisible barrier.

I nod and step aside as he passes, giving him the space he needs. We walk down the hall without speaking, the tension following us like a physical presence until we reach the living room. The distance between us feels both too vast and not nearly enough. I wish I could rewind time back to this morning. Back to the bench, where our lips locked in a sensual kiss that seemed to suspend reality around us. The feel of his body on mine, solid and warm, his weight an anchor I didn't know I needed. The way his fingers pressed against my neck, tentative at first, then with growing confidence. I want that back. The moment when everything felt simple and right. Not this sudden distance that stretches between us now, filled with the debris of my secrets and his confusion. The space separating us in this room feels wider than the entire length of my property, charged with things neither of us seems equipped to put into words.

He drops onto the couch, rubbing his hands over his face, fingers pressing hard against his skin as if trying to reset his thoughts. I lean against the kitchen island, arms crossed tight against my chest, trying to anchor myself against the flood of anxiety washing through me.

"I started painting when I was seven," I say, the confession surprising me as much as it seems to surprise him. "Saw a Van Gogh in Chicago with my mom on a school trip. Starry Night. The way those stars swirled, I couldn't look away. I was obsessed. She bought me a sketchpad that same day." A half-smile tugs at my mouth despite everything. "I filled it in a week. Drew everything I saw until my fingers cramped."

He watches me, not interrupting, just taking it in. His eyes track my movements, steady and focused in a way that makes me want to hide and reveal more all at once.

"My father hated it." The words taste bitter, an old poison I've never fully purged. "Said art was useless. That hockey was my future and drawing was a distraction." I look down at my hands, the same hands that stop pucks and create worlds on canvas. "So, I stopped showing him. Started hiding it. Started sketching at night, painting during tournaments when he was too busy bragging about my stats to notice what I was actually doing. By fifteen, I had a whole life he knew nothing about thanks to my mom. But even she doesn't know how successful I am."

Derrick's expression softens, the hard lines of confusion melting into something that looks dangerously like compassion. "He doesn't know? Still?"

"He knows I ‘dabble’," I make air quotes with my fingers, grimacing at how inadequate the word is for what painting means to me. "Thought it was a phase I grew out of once I was drafted into the NHL. I'm sure he thinks I still scribble in notebooks from time to time but he has no idea. He only calls to talk about stats and rankings. Of course, I can always do better in his eyes. Never asks if I'm happy." I swallow, surprised by how raw this still feels after all these years. "Never seems to notice that what makes me happiest isn't what happens on the ice."

Derrick doesn't respond right away and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the judgment. When he speaks, his voice is gentle. "I'm not mad at you, Bast."

I blink, caught off guard.

"I'm not," he repeats. "You didn't owe me this. It's your secret to keep." His mouth quirks up at one corner. "It's not like I told you I used to write hockey fanfiction about you when I was sixteen."

My eyebrows shoot up. "You what?"

He shrugs, a full grin spreading across his face now. "I had a Tumblr. It was a dark time."

A surprised laugh escapes me, and for the first time since walking through the door, I can breathe again.

Then his phone buzzes. He pulls it out, brows furrowing as he checks the screen.

"Huh," he says, starring at his phone in disbelief.

"What?"

"It's from Devan." He looks up, confused. "Weird. I didn't think he still had my number. He never texts me."

I tilt my head. "What's he saying?"

He squints at the screen, reading. "He says: ‘Tell Bast to sit down’."

I frown. "What the hell does that⁠—"

"Lia had the baby," Derrick interrupts, a slow grin spreading across his face.

My brain short-circuits. "What?" I stand, unsure. As if I need to rush out the door and go straight to the hospital. I have to remind myself in that millisecond to chill.

"You're an uncle now." He holds up the phone, showing me a blurry hospital photo of Devan holding a tiny red-faced bundle like it's the Stanley Cup. The caption reads: She's here. Meet Baby Chloe, Uncle B.

A stunned laugh escapes me as I move from the kitchen to the living room to sink onto the edge of the couch. "Holy shit."

"Life just keeps lifing, huh?" Derrick says, nudging my shoulder with his.

"No kidding," I say in wonder. Scanning Devan's crazy ass grin on his face. Lia and Devan are parents. I'm sure Ridley and Brea will be there soon. I only hope this doesn't set Brea back considering what happened between her and Ridley.

He leans back, looking at me with those eyes that see too much. "What don't you do?"