Page 43 of For Pucking Ever

He nods once, sharp and determined. "Let's do this."

We push through the double doors into the main area and I feel the weight of eyes immediately. Most of the team is already here, some on the ice for early drills, others lingering in the training area or locker room. Tor spots us first, breaking away from a conversation with Coach Lennox to approach.

"Bergeron," he greets with a nod before turning to Derrick. "Shaw. Welcome to Seattle." He extends his hand, which Derrick takes without hesitation.

"Captain Bailey. Thanks for having me."

Tor's expression remains neutral but I know him well enough to see the assessment happening behind those eyes. "Got yourself a good spot in the crease rotation. Make it count."

I want to roll my eyes at the formality. It's not unfriendly but it's not particularly warm either. Standard Tor when on the ice, strictly business, reserving judgment until proven otherwise. Fair, but I still feel a protective surge rising in my chest.

"He will," I say, perhaps too quickly. Tor's gaze flickers to me, one eyebrow slightly raised before he nods and moves on.

More greetings follow, Ridley's enthusiastic backslap that has Derrick wincing imperceptibly. Devan's playful banter and jokes, and other teammates offering varying degrees of welcome. Through it all, Derrick maintains his composure, though I notice his right hand occasionally flexing at his side, a nervous tell I've come to recognize.

"Shaw!" Coach Lennox's voice booms across the space. "My office, ten minutes. Paperwork."

Derrick straightens. "Yes, Coach."

As Lennox disappears down the hall, I catch sight of the new face, Tobias Groves, our off-season acquisition from Las Vegas, fresh off their worse season ever in the franchise history. He's leaning against the wall, observing everything with a calculated casualness that doesn't quite mask his intensity. I don't miss the way he's watching Devan, eyes tracking his every move. Devan skates past him, lightning fast, not paying him an ounce of attention. Tobias smirks at the brush off, shaking his head. When his gaze lands on Derrick, he offers a slight nod of acknowledgment.

"Supposed to be our missing offensive piece," I murmur to Derrick.

"Great winger, wrong team. Las Vegas was at the bottom of the table in their division," Derrick replies, a hint of amusement coloring his voice.

Before I can respond, Jamie Maxwell appears at the edge of our conversation, his expression tight with discomfort. The tension in the air thickens immediately. Maxwell, the player whose slapshot had knocked Derrick unconscious last season, effectively ending his time with Toronto.

"Shaw," Maxwell says, his voice lower than usual. "Got a second?"

Derrick freezes momentarily before nodding. "Sure."

I stay rooted in place, unwilling to leave Derrick alone for this conversation, but Maxwell's eyes flick to me in silent request for privacy. Derrick gives me a small nod of reassurance, and I reluctantly step away, though I remain within earshot, pretending to adjust my gear.

"I wanted to say it again, face to face," Maxwell begins, shifting uncomfortably. "What happened. . .it wasn't intentional. I never meant⁠—"

"I know," Derrick interrupts, his voice steady. "It's hockey. Shit happens."

Maxwell exhales heavily. "Still. It fucked up your season, your contract. I'm sorry."

Derrick studies him for a moment before extending his hand. "Clean slate here. That's what I'm after."

The tension visibly drains from Maxwell's shoulders as he accepts the handshake. "You got it."

I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. The exchange was civil, necessary even, but watching Derrick face the man whose shot had altered the trajectory of his career stirs something fierce within me. Pride, certainly, but also a renewed anxiety. How will he react when facing actual shots again? When the speed and intensity ramp up?

An hour later, we're on the ice for the first official drills. I watch Derrick from my position at the opposite end, cataloging every movement. He seems steady enough in the basic warm-up exercises, but as Coach Willis begins directing the goaltender-specific drills, I notice the changes, subtle but unmistakable.

Derrick hesitates before pulling his mask down, fingers lingering at the edges a beat too long. When pucks start flying, he's technically sound but a heartbeat slow on his reactions. During a board-play drill, he positions himself farther from the action than necessary, creating awkward angles for himself, and each time Willis approaches to offer correction, Derrick's gaze drops to the ice instead of meeting the coach's eyes.

The knot in my stomach tightens. He's afraid, not consciously maybe, not fully, but his body remembers the trauma even if his mind is pushing through.

"Bergeron!" Lennox's shout pulls me from my observations. "Focus on your own fucking crease!"

I snap back to attention, embarrassed at being caught watching Derrick instead of concentrating on my own drills but as practice progresses, I can't stop my attention from drifting. Every flinch, every hesitation from Derrick feels like a personal failure. I brought him here. I vouched for him. I pushed for this.

After a particularly rough sequence where Groves and Ridley pepper Derrick with rapid-fire shots, two of which get past him cleanly. Coach Willis calls a break. Derrick skates to the bench, removing his mask, and I catch a glimpse of his face. Flushed, yes, but also ashen beneath the exertion, his eyes slightly unfocused.

I'm halfway across the ice before I realize I'm moving.