Page 71 of For Pucking Ever

"Yes," I say, finding my voice at last. "Yes, sir. I'm ready." The words come out stronger than I feel.

When I hang up, I don't move, my fingers still clutching the phone like a lifeline. The kitchen is silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator, marking seconds that feel impossibly significant.

Sebastian is watching me, patient and still. I don't realize I'm shaking until he comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my chest, grounding me in the press of his body, solid and warm. His presence anchors me when everything else feels adrift.

"Talk to me," he says against my shoulder, his breath warm through the thin fabric of my shirt.

"What if I'm not enough?" I whisper, voicing the fear that's lived inside me since I first put my pads back on months ago. "What if I blow it?" The question hangs between us, fragile and honest.

"You won't," he says with so much conviction my eyes begin to burn, vision blurring at the edges.

"You don't know that," I reply, wanting desperately to believe him but afraid to hope too much. The memory of my injury flickers across my mind, the darkness, the uncertainty.

He spins me around, gently, and cups my face in his hands. His thumbs stroke the corners of my jaw, callused fingers tender against my skin. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, hold mine without wavering.

"I do," he says. "Because I've seen you fight for this. I watched you claw your way back from nothing, Derrick. I've watched you work harder than anyone else. I've seen you in pain, in doubt, and I've seen you rise above it. You're more than ready. You're already enough."

His eyes search mine, tears brim his lids. His voice thick with an emotion I've never heard from him before, raw and unguarded.

“Je t’aime.” I love you.

The words stop everything.

Not English. Not loud. Just for me.

I freeze. My brain scrambles to translate, but my heart already knows. I blink at him, stunned. “You. . .you love me?” I can’t help the question coming out breathless, disbelieving.

He nods, a slight movement, but certain. "Since the moment you walked back into my life, I've been trying not to. But yes. I do. I love you, Derrick Shaw," he says my name like it's something precious, something he's savored in silence.

The sob cracks out of me before I can stop it, breaking through the dam I've built around these feelings. "Do you know how long I've been waiting to say it to you?" Weeks of guarded glances, of words caught behind my teeth, of wondering if what was growing between us was real.

He smiles, and it breaks open something soft and glowing between us, something that's been waiting for permission to exist. "Say it now," he whispers, the invitation gentle.

"I love you," I whisper against his lips, kissing him sweetly, pouring months of longing into the connection between us. The words feel like coming home.

He pulls me into him like he's trying to absorb the words through skin. We stand there, the two of us, wrapped in each other, the morning light spilling golden across the floor, illuminating dust motes that dance around us like silent witnesses. Tomorrow, I become the second goalie. Tomorrow everything changes.

Today, in this moment, I am loved. . .and I am ready.

TWENTY-NINE

SEBASTIAN

The tension hits the moment I step onto the ice.

It's in the way the crowd buzzes louder than usual, in the tight coil between my shoulders as I skate to my crease and settle into the rhythm of warmups. The familiar weight of my mask, the scrape of my skates cutting perfect arcs into fresh ice, it all feels different tonight. Winnipeg. Of course it's them. Of course, this is the game that feels heavier than all the others, like someone's laid concrete in my gear bag. The Rogers Arena feels both too small and too vast, the ceiling lights harsh against the pristine surface below.

I tap my posts three times, left, right, center, my ritual unchanged despite the storm of emotions churning inside. I stretch, extending my legs one at a time, feeling the muscles protest after our grueling practice yesterday.

I avoid looking directly at Lachlan as we take our positions. He's already lined up at center for face-off, casually stretching like he doesn't have a single regret in his body, like he didn't shatter three years of my life with a single Instagram post. His jersey, the wrong shade of black and gray, catches in my peripheral vision. I can feel him looking at me. I've felt it since the anthem ended, his gaze burning into my back like a laser sight. I'm used to it now, the way his presence still stirs something ugly in the pit of my stomach. Not longing. Not anymore. Just a ghost of what used to be.

The referee skates to center ice, puck in hand. My teammates settle into their positions, Tor crouches low, ready for the draw. The stadium lights gleam off our helmets, casting shadows across the numbered backs of jerseys.

We make it to puck drop before he finally skates by. Just a few seconds, a blur of black and gray, but he slows as he passes me, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that familiar way that used to make my heart race but now just makes my jaw clench.

"Bergeron," he says, low and unreadable, his voice nearly lost in the roar of the crowd.

I glance over, giving him nothing but a sharp nod, my face a careful mask of professional indifference. "Devereaux."