Page 33 of For Pucking Ever

My phone rings, the shrill sound cutting through the peaceful silence. Reality has a way of intruding, even in the most perfect of moments. I groan, not wanting to move, not wanting to leave the warmth of Bast's embrace.

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Go on, answer it. It might be important."

I sigh, reluctantly untangling myself from Bast's arms and go in search of my phone. Finding my shorts crumpled in the hallway, I fish out my phone. The name on the screen makes my stomach drop. It's my agent. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with resolve I don't truly feel, steeling myself for whatever news he has to deliver.

"Tony." I force my voice to sound steady despite the tsunami of anxiety crashing inside me.

As the words flow through the other end of the line, my pulse quickens against my will. My team is not happy about my recovery timeline, too long, too uncertain. There are whispers of organizational changes, coded language for being shuffled around like an inconvenient chess piece. Trade possibilities. Contract concerns. It's all happening so fast, a blur of corporate decisions about my future while I'm standing naked in another man's hallway. I'm barely processing the words as I make my way back down the hall toward Bast's room, drawn to him like gravity.

When I step through the doorway, Bast takes one look at my face and immediately sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist. He pats the bed beside him, a silent invitation I can't refuse. His gray eyes watch me, steady, sure, anchoring me when everything else feels like quicksand. He reaches out, taking my hand in his larger one, his callused palm against mine, grounding me when I feel like I might float away on a current of uncertainty.

"Look, Derrick. I'm going to sort this out for you," Tony says, his voice cutting through my fog. "I don't know what's making Toronto jittery right now but all I need you to do is rest and focus on healing. I will know more soon." He ends the call before I can muster a coherent response.

I stare at the dark screen as if it might reveal more answers, bone-deep exhaustion washing over me. The high of pleasure and connection from minutes ago vanishes, replaced by the cold reality of professional sports, where bodies are assets and recovery timelines are liabilities.

"Let's not think about or talk about it now," Bast says softly, gently taking my phone from my unresisting fingers. "I promised you now. So, let's do that, together."

I let him. I let him pull me down beside him, my body fitting against his like we were carved from the same stone. I let him hold me in his strong arms, creating a fortress around me. I let him wipe away my silent tears with his thumbs, tears I didn't even realize were falling. I let him kiss my forehead, my temples, the corner of my mouth, not with passion but with promise. I let him, because for the first time since my injury, I don't feel alone in this fight.

Whatever comes next, trades, contracts, uncertain futures, I know I can face it because I have him. Because I'm his. In this moment, between one heartbeat and the next, that's all that matters.

THIRTEEN

DERRICK

Three days. That's how long we've been holed up in this house, lost in each other like the rest of the world doesn't exist. Like the outside can't touch us here. It's as if we're in our own little universe, where the only thing that matters is the feel of skin on skin.

Bast's hands move like he's painting me with touch, exploring every inch of my body with a desperate hunger that I can't help but return. We've spent three days learning every curve and contour of each other's bodies, mapping out the places that make us gasp and moan.

Mornings are for slow, languid sex, where we take our time exploring, learning the rhythms and rhymes that make us sing. The afternoons are for messy kitchen counters and rough fucking, where we lose ourselves in the primal need to feel each other. The nights, they are for soft laughs, sharp gasps, and whispers that turn into screams as we push each other further and further.

I've learned more about Bast in these three days than I ever thought possible. I know the spot behind his left ear that makes him shiver, the way his breath hitches when I trace my fingers over his collarbone, the soft curse he mutters in French when he's too far gone to pretend he's in control. I know the way he stares at me after, like I'm something he still can't believe he gets to keep touching.

It's as if we're two halves of a whole, fitting together perfectly in a way that feels both familiar and new at the same time. The electricity between us, crackling and sparking with every touch, every kiss, every gasp. I know, deep down, that this is something special. Something that I never want to end.

I also know that, eventually, we'll have to leave this little bubble we've created. We'll have to face the outside world again, with all its noise and chaos and distractions. I'm not sure if I'm ready for that. For now, I'm content to stay here, lost in Bast's arms, and let the rest of the world fade away. . .but happy doesn't erase reality.

Every morning, I wait for the other shoe to drop. For another call. For Tony's voice on the line with something concrete. Right now, I'm living in limbo. Traded? Dropped? Benched indefinitely?

I don't know.

Bast's house has become a sanctuary, but even sanctuaries crack.

This morning, I wake up before him. He's still breathing deep and even, his arm slung around me like I belong there. I lie still for a minute, listening to the steady beat of his heart behind my back, pretending we exist in a world where the NHL doesn't control my fate but the thoughts come creeping in, like always.

So, I slip out of bed. I tug on one of Bast's oversized sweatshirts, it smells like fresh pine, coffee and him as I pad down the stairs toward the kitchen. My body's sore in the best way, a dull ache in my thighs and ass makes me flush when I think about how it got there.

My brain is spinning. The coffee brews, filling the space with warmth and caffeine, but it does nothing to quiet the thoughts. I pull out my phone, staring at the blank screen. No messages. Not from Tony. Not from my coach. Not from the team.

Just silence.

I scroll through my photos instead. There's one Bast took on day two, when I was still lying in bed, half-asleep and shirtless, sheets tangled at my waist. The morning light had been streaming through his curtains, cutting golden lines across my skin. He hadn't meant to show me, but I'd seen it on his phone when he handed it over to Google something ridiculous about whether penguins have knees. In the photo my smile is soft. Unfiltered. Eyes still heavy with sleep, curls a wild mess against his expensive pillowcase. I look safe, like a man who'd forgotten, just for a moment, that his entire career was hanging by a thread.

I want to believe this thing between us can be more than borrowed time. More than just a beautiful mistake we made while waiting for reality to crash back in. The way his fingers trail across my skin like he's memorizing me. The quiet French he mumbles against my neck when he thinks I'm asleep. The unguarded laugh I've drawn from him exactly seven times in three days. Yep, I've been counting.

If Toronto cuts me, if I get sent somewhere else, thousands of miles away. . .Seattle to anywhere is a long-distance sentence neither of us signed up for. I don't think Bast is the type to build his life around FaceTime calls and red-eye flights.

I close my eyes and let the worst-case scenario crash through me like a wave. The trade to a team in Florida or New York. The awkward conversation where we both pretend three days didn't rewrite everything I thought I knew about connection. The polite texts that would slowly fade to nothing. The Instagram likes that would become our only point of contact. The way I'd still search for his face first whenever I played against Seattle, hoping to catch his eye across the distance between us.