Page 31 of For Pucking Ever

I sigh, the tension from earlier dissolving into something warm and liquid in my chest. "Laundry. I definitely don't do laundry. I have a cleaning lady you've yet to meet. She's like a little brownie. In and out like a phantom."

He laughs, and the sound fills the room, chasing away the last of my fear. For now, at least. The truth is still out there, waiting—the painting that could change everything. I watch Derrick scroll through more baby photos, his face soft with genuine happiness for our friends. I can't bring myself to worry about tomorrow.

For tonight, I'll just be here, in this moment, with him. The rest can wait.

TWELVE

DERRICK

The painting stares back at me, and I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. B. Ardent. Sebastian Bergeron. A fucking artistic genius. Talk about a mind fuck.

Still sitting on the couch in his living room, I'm connecting dots I never knew existed. Little quirks I've noticed over the weeks we've been sharing this space suddenly make sense. The way his fingers twitch sometimes when he's watching the sunset, like he's mentally mixing colors. How he studies everything with those intense gray eyes as if cataloging every detail.

It's been less than a month we’ve been under the same roof but I've collected these observations like precious gems. Sebastian speaks French when his guard drops, when he's vulnerable or pissed off. He stubbed his toe on the dining table a few mornings ago with a shout, "Tabernac" Damn, and a string of French curses that sounded like poetry even as he hopped around on one foot.

In public, you'd never know he was French Canadian—he's careful, measured—but here, in his sanctuary, he slips between languages like changing clothes.

There are other things too. The way he eats cereal standing over the kitchen sink in the morning, like he's afraid of leaving evidence. How meticulously he folds dish towels into perfect thirds before stacking them precisely in the drawer. The fact that he turns his coffee mug exactly two and a quarter rotations counterclockwise before taking the first sip each morning.

Quirky. Endearing. Private. These are the pieces of Sebastian Bergeron the world doesn't get to see. The man behind the mask. Hell, even Ridley, Devan, and Tor don't know about B. Ardent, and they've been his teammates for years. Yeah, there's a sense of satisfaction, of pride, thrumming through me for being privy to these parts of him. I shouldn't feel this way, like I've been granted access to some exclusive exhibit, but I do. These private moments, these unguarded snippets of Sebastian Bergeron that even his closest friends don't get to witness. The way his accent thickens when he's tired or the careful precision with which he organizes the medicine cabinet (alphabetically, with labels facing forward). It feels almost voyeuristic collecting these observations but I can't help myself. Eighteen-year-old me would never believe I'd be sitting here, in Sebastian's living space, learning the cadence of his morning routine, the specific way he mutters to himself while reading. There's something intimate about knowing these things, something that makes my chest feel full and warm in a way I'm not ready to examine too closely.

The most mind-blowing part? Hockey is just his side gig. The paintings I've seen online since my discovery sell for enough that he could walk away from the Vipers tomorrow without a backward glance. He doesn't need to keep playing to satisfy his father's expectations. He doesn't owe that man a damn thing.

"You're thinking too loudly." Bast interrupts, pulling me from my thoughts.

I jump slightly as Sebastian appears beside me, two steaming mugs in hand. He passes one to me, chamomile with honey, exactly how I like it. I have my mother to thank for that obsession. Of course, he noticed that, too. Yep. I may be swooning internally.

"Thanks," I murmur, accepting the tea.

He settles beside me on the couch, close enough that our thighs almost touch. The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but charged with unspoken questions. Is he waiting for me to ask more about his art? His past? Or is he just enjoying this closeness?

My mind races back to this morning on the trail. The way his lips felt against mine. The gentle pressure of his hand on my waist. Was that really just hours ago? It feels like weeks have passed since that moment, since he opened up his vault of secrets and let me peek inside.

There's obviously something happening between us. I'm not imagining it. The tension. The looks. The way he watches me when he thinks I'm not paying attention.

My mom's voice echoes in my head, ‘A closed mouth won't get fed, baby boy’. She'd say it whenever I was too afraid to ask for what I wanted. Right now, I want clarity. I want to know if the fluttering in my chest has any chance of becoming something real.

Fuck it.

"Bast, put me out of my misery." I turn to face him fully. "I'm not going to break if you don't want this but I need to know if you do."

He sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes darkening as they lock with mine. For a moment, I'm afraid he's going to retreat back behind his carefully constructed walls.

"I can make you no promises, Derrick," he says finally, voice low and rough.

"I didn't ask you to." I set my mug down on the coffee table. "There's so much uncertainty in my life right now. Training camp. My condition. I have no idea what the next couple of weeks will have in store for me." I lean closer, courage surging through my veins. "I just want now. Can you give me now?"

Instead of answering with words, Sebastian leans in, his lips brushing against mine. They're soft and warm, a gentle unspoken question that makes my heart race. I can taste the chamomile on his breath as he deepens the kiss, one hand cradling my jaw while the other settles at the small of my back, pulling me closer.

I climb into his lap, straddling him with deliberate slowness. His breath hitches as I settle my weight against him, our hips pressed together. The friction when I roll my hips makes us both groan, the hardness of his arousal evident against mine through our layers of clothing.

"Derrick," he breathes my name like a prayer against my lips. “How are you feeling? I don’t want to do anything that could hurt you.”

I take stock of my body and right now, I feel fine. I know this slight reprieve from my symptoms can change on a dime, but I need this. I need to take what I can, while I can.

“I’m fine,” I finally say as my hands explore the broad expanse of his shoulders, feeling the solid muscles beneath my palms. Our clothes remain mostly in place but it doesn't matter. The heat between us builds with every calculated movement, every controlled grind.

Sebastian's hands guide my hips, setting a torturous rhythm that has me panting against his mouth. The way he asserts control without forcing it sends electricity racing down my spine.