Page 8 of For Pucking Ever

Bast's expression softens, just slightly, a crack in the granite façade. "Because I want to help you." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "I know you probably don't want that but I'm not walking away this time. Not again."

I don't say anything. I want to rage, to scream, to throw everything within reach but I can't. The energy required feels impossibly distant, like trying to touch the moon. The tears I've been holding back finally fall, hot trails down my cheeks, and I don't care if he sees me break. This moment of weakness feels inevitable, like the tide finally washing over a crumbling sandcastle. I'm sure this is just the beginning of my unraveling.

I can only hope that the man standing sincerely in front of me, this complicated ghost from my past, can help piece me back together, while I fumble to hold on to what's left of me. Mom always said I built my dreams too tall; now I'm just trying not to disappear beneath the rubble.

"Laisse-moi prendre soin de toi, Princesse," Let me take care of you, Princess, he whispers softly as he places his hand gently on my blanket-covered foot, the warmth of his palm seeping through the thin hospital linens.

I look up, wiping away my wayward tears with the back of my hand. I think he’s saying he wants to take care of me, but attempting to translate only makes my head hurt.

"Okay," I say, because I don't think he would take no for an answer and I don't think I could say no if I tried.

THREE

SEBASTIAN

The morning light filters through the hospital blinds, casting stripes across Derrick's frustrated face as he tries and fails, for the third time, to button his shirt. His fingers aren't cooperating, and I can see the frustration building in the tight set of his jaw as he sits on the side of his hospital bed.

I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching him struggle. I want to step in and help but I know he needs to work through this himself. The doctors warned me about this, saying coordination issues will come with irritability and confusion. It’s pretty common with concussion.

"Fucking buttons," Derrick mutters, his voice scratchy from days of hospital-dry air. "Who invented these torture devices anyway?"

I bite back a smile. Even concussed and irritable, he's still charming. Three days ago, I watched him crumple on the ice, becoming motionless. Three days of sitting beside his hospital bed, listening to the steady beep of monitors as the medical team kept watch over Derrick with keen eyes, even after he woke. The days of bargaining with whatever higher power might be listening. Three days of relieved exhales each time he opened his eyes.

"The nurse is bringing the discharge papers," I say, keeping my voice deliberately calm and even. "The doctor wants to go over some instructions with us before we leave."

Derrick shoots me a look. "Us? Last I checked, I'm the one with the brain injury."

I raise an eyebrow. "And I'm the one who's going to be making sure you don't make it worse."

He abandons the buttons, letting his shirt hang open. His Toronto Stars sweatpants hang low on his hips. White button down and sweatpants, he's like a kid playing dress up. But I wouldn't dare say that out loud. One of his teammates, Reagan Johnson, I think, had brought over some of his things yesterday before the team flew back to Toronto. The duffel bag from his locker still sits untouched in the corner of the room, a reminder of the night everything changed.

The night I should have been celebrating our Stanley Cup victory. Instead, I was following a long-gone ambulance to the hospital, still in my game-day suit.

"I can take care of myself," Derrick insists, but the way he's squinting against the hospital lights tells me everything I need to know.

I push off from the wall and walk over to him, positioning myself between his legs. Derrick inhales sharply but I ignore his reaction as I reach for his shirt without asking. "Let me."

He doesn't fight me as I button his shirt, though I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, intense despite the concussion. My fingers brush against his chest, and I work systematically from bottom to top, careful not to let my touch linger.

"I hate this," he whispers, so quietly I almost miss it.

I look up, meeting his gaze. "I know."

Before I can say anything else, a knock on the door interrupts us as Dr. Patel enters, clipboard in hand. She smiles professionally, though her eyes betray her exhaustion after what was likely another long shift.

"Mr. Shaw, ready to escape?" she asks, her tone light but her expression serious. "Mr. Bergeron, I have some paperwork for you."

She holds out a clipboard with several forms. I take it, scanning the pages that essentially make me Derrick's official caretaker for the foreseeable future. I sign without hesitation.

"So," Dr. Patel begins, turning to Derrick, "We need to discuss your recovery protocol."

Derrick groans, falling back against the pillows. "I've heard it all already. Rest, hydrate, no screens, no⁠—"

"No screens," Dr. Patel repeats firmly, "No reading, no strenuous activity, no bright lights, no loud noises. Your brain needs complete rest."

"For how long?" Derrick demands, and I can hear the edge of panic in his voice. Hockey players are always afraid of being sidelined but for Derrick, hockey is his entire identity. He's heard the doctor's initial prognosis but I guess he's hoping for something different 48-hours later.

"At least three weeks before we reassess," she says. "Maybe longer."