Page 4 of For Pucking Ever

I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against Derrick's hand. I remember him telling me about his mother last summer, in those stolen moments when we were between teaching session during Tor's summer camp. How she'd been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis when he was fifteen, how it had slowly taken her mobility. How her condition was the reason he'd stayed in college all four years despite NHL scouts circling him since his sophomore year.

"I can't leave her yet," he'd told me, his eyes reflecting the summer stars above us. "She's sacrificed everything for me. Everything. The least I can do is get my degree so I can support her properly."

I hadn't understood then. My own parents had always been physically healthy, even if emotionally unavailable. My father had pushed me toward hockey because art wasn't a ‘real career’. My mother had stood by silently, never contradicting him. They'd never missed a game, but they'd never really seen me either.

But Derrick's mother had seen him. Had encouraged both his hockey dreams and his education. Had raised him alone after his father walked out when Derrick was just three. And now she couldn't even be here to watch her son play in the Stanley Cup finals. Couldn't be here now at his bedside.

"I understand it's difficult for you to travel, Ms. Shaw," Tony continues. "I'll make arrangements for a live video feed to be set up in Derrick's room once he's awake, so you can see him and speak with him directly."

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. Derrick's life has been about taking care of others. First his mother, then his teammates. The rookie who stepped up when Toronto's starting goalie went down with an injury last season. He came to their rescue, helped them get back to the Cup Final. The world got to see just how outstanding Derrick truly is. His skill was not just hype, he proved the doubting sports commentators wrong and killed it. He was the one who shocked everyone with his skill, his reflexes, his sheer determination.

The one who had kissed me like I was oxygen and he was drowning, that night at the summer festival.

I trace the lines of his palm with my thumb again, remembering how my hands had mapped every inch of his body. How they'd tangled in his hair, gripped his shoulders, held him close in the aftermath.

"What if he can't play again?" I whisper to the silent room. The thought is almost physically painful. Being a goalie means everything to me, it's my identity, my purpose. The place where I finally found some kind of acceptance, even if it wasn't for the real me. What would it mean for Derrick to lose that? To lose the career he'd worked so hard for, the one that would support both him and his mother.

"He'll play again," I say more firmly, as if speaking it aloud could make it true. "He has to."

Outside the room, Tony's conversation continues but I tune it out. Instead, I focus on the steady rise and fall of Derrick's chest, the occasional flutter of his eyelids that gives me hope he's dreaming, not just unconscious. I focus on the warmth of his skin against mine, proof that he's alive, that he's fighting.

"You're going to wake up," I tell him, my voice rough with emotion I usually keep buried. "You're going to wake up, and you're going to heal, and you're going to get back on the ice. And next time—" My voice breaks. "Next time, I'll be there to protect you. Even if we're still on opposite teams."

Again, a ridiculous promise. Goalies protect their own nets, their own teams, we don't cross the ice to shield opponents from danger. But in this moment, I don't care about teams or rivalries or the careful distance I've maintained. All I care about is the man in this bed, and the future that hangs in the balance.

"I'll be there," I repeat, sealing the vow with another kiss to his knuckles. "Whatever happens. Whatever you need."

And for the first time since I walked away from him ten months ago, I allow myself to acknowledge the truth: I never stopped thinking about Derrick Shaw. Never stopped wanting him. Never stopped caring, even when I tried to convince myself otherwise. Now I just need him to wake up, and to help him in any way that I can, because as much as I want to tell him how I truly feel, I know that I can't. We can't.

Someone clears their throat at the door, and I raise my head from Derrick's hand to find Toronto's Head Coach, Justin Verrique, standing in the threshold. His eyes travel between my hand in Derrick's and back to my face, his expression unreadable.

Honestly, I don't care what the man's thinking. The hockey world knows my sexual orientation. It's public knowledge. I know Derrick never announced he was gay but he never hid who he was either. I'll be damned if Verrique passes judgment.

"He's alone," I say, my voice raspier than I expect. "I met him last summer, along with Bailey, Scott, and Masters. We took him under our wing. I needed to be here for him."

I don't need to give Verrique more than that and it seems he gets it. He nods once, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he moves into the room.

Verrique sits in the chair opposite Derrick, looking haggard. I'm surprised the man is still here in the hospital but it tells me a lot about Coach Verrique's character and how he truly feels about his players.

"In all my years coaching in the NHL, I've never witnessed anything like I did tonight." Verrique rubs a hand over his face, stubble scraping against his palm in a gesture so weary it radiates exhaustion like heat. The fluorescent lights carve deep shadows beneath his eyes. "A freak accident. Well, that's what the doctors are saying. Damn shame."

His voice drops, and I notice the slight tremor in his fingers as they fall away from his face. Ten years ago, I might have missed these subtle tells of a man trying desperately to maintain composure. Now I recognize them immediately, the invisible weight of responsibility crushing his shoulders.

"I mean, thank goodness this happened during the break," he continues, glancing at Derrick's still form. "He will have a few weeks to recover."

The optimism in his voice sounds hollow, manufactured for both our benefits. Recovery timelines for injuries like this aren't measured in weeks. We both know it but neither of us is ready to voice that reality in this sterile room where Derrick can't defend himself against our pessimism.

"Weeks?" I reply, unable to hide my skepticism. The word hangs between us like some fragile, impossible promise. I've seen enough concussions to know better, witnessed careers derailed by that invisible enemy that lurks beneath the skull. I've visited teammates in darkened rooms where even whispers felt like thunderclaps to them. "Depends on the degree of the concussion, Coach."

My fingers tighten protectively around Derrick's hand. There's a familiar weight to this conversation, one I've carried before. The truth hovers unspoken: brain injuries don't follow convenient timelines. They don't care about playoff schedules or contract negotiations. I watch Verrique's face, searching for signs he understands what we're really talking about, not just games missed, but who Derrick might be when he finally wakes up.

"I just don't want this to end his career. I don't want to lose my goalie." Verrique's voice drops, revealing the genuine concern beneath the professional exterior.

Just as I'm about to speak, Derrick's hand squeezes mine, and in a croaky voice, he speaks.

"Bast."

My heart stops. Then races. My eyes snap to his face where I find his eyelids fluttering, struggling to open.