Page 5 of For Pucking Ever

"Derrick?" I lean closer, squeezing his hand back. "I'm here. You're okay. You're in the hospital."

Coach Verrique jumps to his feet, pressing the call button for the nurse. "Shaw? Can you hear me, son?"

Derrick's eyes open fully, blinking slowly as he tries to focus. His gaze finds mine first, confusion clouding those beautiful brown eyes before recognition dawns.

"What. . ." His voice cracks, dry from disuse. "What happened?"

I reach for the water cup on the bedside table, holding the straw to his lips. "Puck to the helmet. You've been out for hours."

He takes a small sip, wincing slightly. "Did we win?"

A laugh escapes me, relief making me almost lightheaded. Of course that would be his first real question. "No." I shake my head, unable to stop the smile spreading across my face. "We did. Seattle, I mean."

A flicker of disappointment crosses his features before he closes his eyes again, exhaling slowly. "Figures."

Coach Verrique moves closer, relief evident in every line of his face. "How are you feeling, Shaw? Any pain? Dizziness?"

Derrick opens his eyes again, this time looking at his coach. "Head hurts like a motherfucker." His gaze drifts back to me, to our joined hands. A small, puzzled smile curves his lips. "And apparently I'm hallucinating Bergeron at my bedside."

"Not a hallucination," I mutter, suddenly self-conscious but unwilling to let go. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

The door opens as a nurse rushes in, followed by a doctor. They immediately move to Derrick's side, checking vitals and asking questions. I reluctantly release his hand, stepping back to give them room.

"We need to run some tests," the doctor explains, shining a light in Derrick's eyes. "But it's a good sign that you're awake and alert."

I catch Derrick's eye over the doctor's shoulder. There's a question there, one I'm not ready to answer. Not here, not now, not with an audience.

"I should go," I say, backing toward the door. "Let them do their job."

"Bast." His voice stops me, stronger now. "Will you come back?"

The vulnerability in his question hits me like a body check, knocking the breath from my lungs. After everything, after I walked away without a word, after ten months of silence, after deliberately avoiding him whenever our teams faced off. He still wants me here.

I nod, unable to trust my voice. It's a promise I know I'll keep, even though I have no idea what happens next. What I'll say when I return. How I'll explain the way I left, or why I'm here now.

I'll figure it out. For him. For us. Even if there's nothing but my friendship to give.

As I step into the hallway, I take my first full breath in what feels like hours. He's awake. He's talking. And against all odds, against all my better judgment, I'm still hopelessly drawn to him.

TWO

DERRICK

"Post-concussion syndrome."

That's the first thing I hear when I come fully back online.

The doctor's voice is calm. Too calm. Like he says this kind of thing every day, like he's not holding my entire future in his hands. I blink against the light overhead and immediately regret it. My skull pulses like someone's playing drums behind my eyes.

He continues, "Your concussion is severe, which puts you at high risk for prolonged symptoms: headaches, dizziness, sensitivity to light and sound, fatigue, nausea, blurred vision, and sometimes memory issues. These symptoms are not unusual. Your healing is not something we rush."

I hear the words, but they don't settle in right. They feel far away. Like I'm underwater, hearing someone speak from the surface.

"Recovery time varies. It could be weeks, maybe even a few months before your brain fully recovers. We'll need to monitor you closely, especially over the next six weeks. No screens. No activity. No training until you're cleared."

Weeks? Months?

There's a ringing in my ears that has nothing to do with the fluorescent lights or the machines beeping in a steady rhythm beside my bed. It's all internal now. My thoughts spiral in a tight, frantic loop.