Page 62 of For Pucking Ever

"I love these," Alexis murmurs, eyes wide in admiration, leaning closer to examine the texture of one canvas. "They feel. . .so familiar. Like places I've seen a thousand times but never really noticed until now."

As we move deeper into the gallery, the pieces shift to studies of hands, sketches of profiles, abstract interpretations of eyes and lips. I recognize these studies, have watched Sebastian create some of them in the quiet sanctuary of his studio. Then, unmistakably, me. My face, captured in countless variations. Eyes, hands, a half-smile frozen in paint. My profile silhouetted against Seattle's skyline. My sleeping form, sheets draped low across my hips. My heart stutters, breath catching painfully in my chest as I realize just how much of our private world Sebastian has revealed. I thought it was just my face or me from the shoulders up. How and when did he get a chance to capture me in this way? Then it hits me, the last-minute pieces Christian asked him for. Well, hell.

"Holy shit," Ridley whispers, staring at a large, vivid portrait of me gazing directly at the viewer, vulnerability and strength intertwined in my expression. "Derrick, do you know this guy? Like, personally know him? Because this is intimate. Intense."

"Um—" My throat goes dry, panic rising. Everyone is staring at me. Brea's mouth hangs open, her gaze darting between me and the paintings with dawning comprehension. Alexis turns sharply toward me, her eyes bright and demanding, her writers instinct clearly firing. Devan even momentarily forgets his tension with Lia, openly gaping at the images, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.

"I don't—" I begin, but the words choke off, trapped in my constricting throat. Helplessly, I look toward Sebastian, silently begging. He's standing slightly apart, watching the reactions unfold. He's paled but calm, his eyes meeting mine across the short distance. I silently plead with him for help, and he nods once, a sharp, decisive gesture that somehow conveys both determination and absolute certainty.

Sebastian steps forward, taking my hand firmly, intertwining our fingers openly. The gesture draws everyone's attention instantly, the statement unmistakable. The gallery seems to grow quieter, as if everyone is collectively holding their breath.

“You want to know how he knows the artist? He lives with him. I painted him. He’s my muse. He’s the reason this entire series exists. I’m B. Ardent.”

Silence crashes over us like a tidal wave, absolute and deafening. Shock, disbelief, awe, every emotion flashes vividly across the faces of our friends. Brea's eyes nearly pop from her head, her hand flying to cover her mouth. Alexis's mouth forms a perfect "O", as she nods her head like she gets it and saw this a mile away. Ridley is blinking rapidly, like he's rebooting his brain, looking between Sebastian and the paintings as if seeing both for the first time.

Sebastian continues, his voice lower now but resolute, his thumb absently stroking the back of my hand. "He's been my inspiration since the moment we met. I began sketches of him last summer."

Brea finally breaks the silence, stepping closer, eyes wide with amazement, hands gesturing excitedly. "You're B. Ardent? Oh my God. You're brilliant. Your use of light, the way you capture emotion. My gosh! Why didn't you ever say anything? I've talked your ears off about my music. Alexis has beat you over the head with her romance books. We would have understood!"

Ridley whistles low, eyes darting from Sebastian to the paintings, mental calculations practically visible on his face. "Dude, you're practically a billionaire. Your last piece sold for what, three million? Why the hell are you still playing hockey when you could be lounging on a private island somewhere?"

Sebastian shrugs, the faintest smile tugging at his lips, despite the tension still evident in his posture. "Because hockey is who I am. It's in my blood. Painting was never an option in my father's eyes, so it became more of hobby, an escape when hockey became too much. It still is."

A smooth, amused voice interrupts gently from behind us. Christian, Sebastian's art agent, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that probably costs more than my first car, approaches with the confident stride of someone who knows exactly how valuable the man beside me is. "A million-dollar hobby, Sebastian. You're too modest. Your waiting list is three years long, and that's with a strict vetting process."

Sebastian sighs, a reluctant smile breaking through. "Yeah. It got out of hand."

The group scatters slightly, whispering, marveling at each painting, occasionally glancing back at us with newfound curiosity. Sebastian doesn't release my hand, even as gallery visitors begin trickling in, recognizing Tor, Ridley, and Devan, clamoring around them excitedly. Phones appear, surreptitious photos are taken, and I can practically see the social media posts being composed. The implications of our linked hands aren't lost on anyone. Whispers begin to ripple subtly through the crowd, eyes widening as they connect the dots between the famous goalie, the mysterious artist, and the subject of so many intimate portraits.

"You okay?" I whisper, leaning closer, suddenly aware that this moment is changing everything—for his career, for mine, for us.

Sebastian looks at me, eyes stormy yet determined, the gray in them almost silver under the gallery lights. His jaw is set in that stubborn line I've come to know so well. "I'm done hiding," he says simply. "Both parts of myself. Both parts of us."

My heart soars, hope and fear mingling chaotically as I glance around at the growing crowd, at the phones, at our teammates watching us with varying degrees of surprise and support. This is our point of no return. Tomorrow, the world will know everything.

SEBASTIAN

My heart pounds so violently I'm certain Derrick can feel it where our hands are joined. The gallery, filled with chatter and laughter, presses in on me, making the room feel suddenly stifling. My palms sweat, fingers tightening around Derrick's hand. I have to consciously ease my grip, afraid of hurting him. The man needs his hand.

People approach, curious, questioning, some even snapping photos discreetly. The whispers grow louder, speculation and surprise mixing in the overheard snatches of conversation. The world is teetering on the edge of discovering everything, my double life, my art, my relationship with Derrick. I knew this would happen the moment I took his hand openly, yet standing here, feeling the weight of scrutiny pressing in, panic claws at my throat.

Ridley leans close, voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Seriously, Bast, if shit blows up, we will support you. If you want to walk away. We⁠—"

"I don't want to walk away," I say firmly, surprising even myself with the conviction in my voice. "Hockey is still mine. This,” I wave my hand around at the various pieces on the walls and continue. “Painting, it's another part of me."

Christian chuckles again from nearby. "And a highly profitable part, my friend."

I shoot him a mild glare, but he just grins unapologetically. "You're welcome," he mouths, clearly delighted by the chaos.

My friends drift back to us, casting glances of awe and confusion in my direction, still clearly processing everything they've learned. Tor looks amused, Alexis intrigued, and Brea still stares at me as if I've grown a second head.

"Bast," Derrick says quietly beside me, "whatever happens tomorrow, we're in it together."

The sincerity in his voice steadies me, grounds me back in the moment. I look down into his warm, honest eyes and find strength there. "Together," I agree softly.

I know the fallout from tonight could be catastrophic. The press, the franchise, the fans, everything will change, but as I hold Derrick's hand, openly, proudly, I realize that I am no longer willing to compromise who I am. I've hidden in shadows too long.

Tonight, I chose Derrick. I chose us.