Page 6 of For Pucking Ever

They're still talking. The doctor, my coach, my agent, Tony's here, I think. Or is this a dream? I shift and catch a glimpse of them out of the corner of my eye, their faces blurred and serious, arms crossed, nodding solemnly like they're attending a funeral.

Is it my funeral?

Because that's what it feels like.

"—should be reassessed in six weeks. If symptoms persist, we'll extend recovery. Best-case scenario, you're skating again in three months. Worst-case⁠—"

Three. Months.

Worst-case? I refuse to hear it. I don't want to.

My lungs are tight. I swear the room just shrank three sizes.

I'm supposed to be on the ice. Right now. I'm supposed to be with my team. I'm supposed to be winning the Stanley Cup. We didn't win. I let them down. All my hopes of getting to this point are literally shot down.

I close my eyes, trying to breathe around the sudden pressure in my chest. But it doesn't help. Behind my lids, all I see is the moment it happened, Maxwell's shot flying toward me, too fast to track, the impact ringing through my skull like a bomb.

Then black.

Then this.

"I understand it's a lot to process, Derrick," the doctor says gently. Like I'm some fragile kid instead of a six-foot-one NHL goalie. "But the most important thing you can do right now is rest. Heal."

Easy for him to say. His career isn't hanging by a thread.

Tony leans closer, voice low but clear. "We'll handle everything. Don't think about contracts or press. Just focus on you."

I don't reply. Can't. Because I'm not sure if I will start to scream, and if I do I doubt I'll ever stop.

Three months, maybe more. Fuck.

The words echo through my skull like a puck rattling around the boards. I stare at the ceiling, counting the tiny dots in the acoustic tiles, trying to ground myself in something, anything that isn't the reality crashing down around me.

The end of my rookie season. Gone. Just like that. Yeah, so I made it to the Cup Final. But all people will remember is the puck I took to the head. Every achievement will pale in comparison.

I feel the tight grip of panic squeezing my chest, making each breath shallower than the last. My throat burns with the effort to keep it together, to not completely fall apart in front of these men watching me like I'm a bomb about to detonate.

And then, through the fog of my panic, a thought surfaces. A memory. Warm fingers wrapped around mine. A familiar cologne. A voice murmuring reassurances I couldn't quite make out.

Was Bast really here? Or was that just some fucked-up mirage my scrambled brain conjured up?

I swallow hard. Sebastian Bergeron. The man who held me like I was something precious that summer, then disappeared without a word. The man whose jersey hung on my bedroom wall growing up. The man who fucked my mouth senseless at a summer festival behind a funnel cake truck and then acted like I didn't exist.

The man who broke my heart before the season even started.

I almost laugh at the sick irony. Ten months I've managed to avoid him—well, except for our games against each other, where I've channeled all that hurt into stopping every fucking shot his teammates sent my way. And now, when I'm at my most vulnerable, my brain decides to hallucinate his presence?

Unless he was actually here.

"Derrick?" Coach Verrique's voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. His face comes into focus, concern etched into the lines around his eyes. "Toronto is committed to supporting you through this. Whatever you need for recovery, specialists, facilities, time, it's yours. Your spot is secure."

I nod, trying to look grateful, trying to look like a professional athlete and not a terrified kid. But the words sound hollow. What good is a guaranteed spot if I can't play? If I can't see straight? If my brain feels like it's been put through a blender?

The doctor clears his throat. "Actually, I strongly recommend that Derrick remains in Seattle for at least the next six weeks. The travel back to Toronto would be inadvisable in his condition, and we need to monitor him closely for any changes in symptoms. We have the best team at his disposal."

And just like that, the floor drops out from under me again.

"I—" My voice cracks. "I can't stay in Seattle."