Page 11

SEVEN

DERRICK

T hree weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four straight-up torturous hours of my life just. . . gone. I know, because I've had nothing but fucking time to count every excruciating second, marking time like a prisoner scratching lines on a wall.

That's how long I've been living like a fucking vampire in this house. Hiding from light, from noise, from everything that used to make me feel alive.

I sit on the edge of the massive bed Bast stuck me in, fingers curling into the expensive sheets.

This king-sized cloud of a mattress is way too big for one person.

I stare at the curtains still drawn tight against the Seattle sun.

They block out the worst of the light, but not enough to keep the world from pressing in.

Summer is happening out there. Laughter. Boats on the water. Life.

Inside, it’s just me. My dark little bat cave of doom.

The first week, the pain was bad enough I didn’t even notice. The second week, I started memorizing the patterns on the damn ceiling. Week three, I’ve officially lost my mind. No TV. No games. No endless scrolling.

Even now, with my screen ban finally lifted, kind of, I can only use my phone in tiny increments. Dr. Patel ordered me to set a timer. “No cheating, Mr. Shaw.”

Meanwhile, Bast moves through his house like a shadow. Quiet. Distant.

Even from upstairs I can hear him working out early every morning. The muted thud of weights hitting mats. The creak of floorboards under his heavy strides.

Then, like clockwork, I hear softer sounds.

The scrape of chairs, the whisper of a door closing down the hall.

And when he finally emerges and comes to check on me, there are tiny clues he thinks I don’t notice.

Paint under his nails. Specks on the sleeves of his shirts.

Smudges on his jawline sometimes, like he forgot he even got dirty.

I want to ask him so many questions. Is he painting? Drawing? Doing adult paint-by-numbers? I have no fucking clue because Bast keeps his secrets like armor. Because he won’t talk about anything that matters. Because we are two goddamn ghosts haunting the same house.

My throat burns with frustration. I rub the heels of my hands into my eyes, breathing through the ache still lodged deep behind them.

Bast’s house is gorgeous. Stupidly gorgeous. Big windows. Vaulted ceilings. Hardwood floors that gleam under the right light. A massive library crammed with books, most of them about art, oddly enough.

How many art books can one man own?

I used to daydream about having this kind of life.

Not just surviving paycheck to paycheck, not just existing between hospital visits with my mom and long bus rides to away games.

I have it. I earned it. But here I am. Trapped.

Surrounded by everything I thought I wanted but feeling more alone than I ever have in my life.

The screen on my phone flashes. Timer off. I’m allowed fifteen minutes, no more.

I open Instagram automatically, like muscle memory. The moment my account pops up, I instantly regret it.

The first thing I see? My name tagged in a YouTube video.

@HockeyHomeGurlHattie: Episode 247—“Where Is Derrick Shaw? Theories, Rumors, and Secret Seattle Hideouts!”

My stomach lurches. I mute the sound, but the captions scroll automatically.

“Could Baby Goalie be hiding out with a certain Seattle VIPER?”

“Sources say Toronto’s front office is worried—TRADE rumors swirling!”

“Will Derrick Shaw ever return to the ice?”

Trade rumors? Hiding out? Shacking up? I mean, I heard this woman was mental but this is too much. Maybe it's because I've never had her eye turned my way. . .but this is hearsay and rumor.

Panic claws at my chest. I swipe out of the app, my hand shaking and call Tony before I can think better of it.

He picks up on the first ring. “Hey, Derrick. You okay?”

“I—” I swallow hard. “Did you see the shit going around?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. Paper rustles in the background, probably fielding another half-dozen calls at once. “It’s just gossip. Nothing damning, I'm on it. Ignore it. Focus on your health.”

“But they’re saying Toronto’s gonna trade me. Or that I’m. . .that I’m hiding. I’m not hiding, I’m recovering! Tony, you told me?—”

“And you are recovering,” Tony cuts in firmly. “I’m telling you, nobody’s making any decisions until your medical clearance. You’re under contract, Derrick. Toronto’s invested in you. Don’t let internet noise get into your head.”

But it’s too late. The words have already rooted themselves deep in the pit of my gut.

“I worked my whole damn life for this,” I whisper. “I can’t lose it now.”

“You’re not going to,” Tony promises. “I’m handling it. You just handle getting better, okay?”

I nod even though he can’t see me, end the call, and sink back into the mattress, feeling like a balloon someone just slashed open.

The knock at my door is sharp. Precise. No nonsense.

I scrub my hands over my face and call out, “Yeah?”

The door creaks open just enough for Bast’s face to appear. His expression is unreadable, those gray eyes giving nothing away as he takes me in.

“Up,” he says shortly. “You have your appointment today. Ten minutes.”

The door clicks shut again without even a “Hello.” Or “Good morning.”

Well, that’s fucking cheerful. I drag myself upright, my body protesting every movement. It’s not even the physical pain anymore. It’s the bone-deep exhaustion, the emotional gravity making everything heavier.

The ride to the doctor’s office is exactly as fun as expected.

Bast drives like he does everything else. Smooth and easy, controlled, and yep, silent.

He asks me the basics. How I’m feeling, if I slept, did I eat the breakfast he laid out for me. But nothing personal. No warmth. No teasing. Just. . .distance.

It shouldn’t bother me but it does. I stare out the window the whole way there, counting the cars and buildings we pass, wishing I could crawl out of my own skin.

At the hospital, the examination is mercilessly thorough. Dr. Patel is kind but blunt as hell.

“You’re still symptomatic,” she says, flipping through my chart. “Light sensitivity. Headaches. Vertigo. Nausea. Slow reaction times.”

I squeeze my hands into fists where they rest on my thighs. I’m trying to remain calm. I was hoping for a different outcome today. I’ve done everything right.

“We need to extend your recovery protocol,” she says. “At least another six weeks before we reassess.”

Six. More. Weeks.

I don’t hear whatever she says next. It’s like someone’s pulled the plug on the world around me. The room shrinks, the walls crowd in, the buzz of the fluorescent lights roars in my ears.

All that I really heard was your not cleared, not recovered, you can't play. Training camp starts in a few weeks. If I'm not back in Toronto—I can't panic. I won't. . .but I'm scared.

I nod when she finishes, sign whatever papers they shove at me, and follow Bast like a robot back to the car.

The drive home is a blur. I barely feel the seatbelt across my chest. Barely register the familiar streets passing by.

When we pull into the driveway, Bast turns off the ignition and says nothing. Just sits there for a second like he’s waiting for something. . .maybe for me to break.

And maybe I do. I want my mom to tell me everything is going to be okay but she's not here. I have no one else and that realization is a kick in the teeth. I try and fail to hold my head up high and make my way inside his home. When we get inside and I stagger toward the stairs, the crushing weight finally caves in on me. I don’t even make it all the way up, I slump onto the top step, press my forehead to the railing, and say it, low, hoarse, shaking.

“Please.”

Bast freezes in the entryway, keys in hand and looks up at me.

“Please stay. Don't leave me alone.” I lift my head, meeting his startled gaze. My voice cracks under the weight of it. “I can’t. . .” I swallow hard, the taste of defeat bitter on my tongue. “I can’t stay in the dark alone anymore.”

The silence stretches between us, thick with everything we’ve been refusing to say. For once, I don’t care about pride. I don’t care about looking weak. I just need him. I need someone. I don't want to linger in my growing anxiety. Not tonight.

"Please Bast," I beg, my voice wobbles.

The silence stretches so long I wonder if he even heard me. My head pounds with the effort of not breaking down completely. I've never begged anyone for anything in my life but here I am, falling apart on Sebastian’s staircase.

Finally, Bast moves. His keys clatter against the entryway table, the only sound in this too-quiet house. He takes a deep breath, runs a hand over his close-cropped hair and looks up at me with those storm-cloud eyes.

"Okay."

That's it. Just one word but it's enough to make my chest loosen a fraction.

He climbs the stairs slowly, deliberately, like he's giving me time to change my mind. When he reaches me, he doesn't touch me, just sits down on the step beside me, our shoulders almost brushing but not quite.

"What do you need?" he asks, voice low and rough around the edges.

I laugh, a broken sound that hurts my own ears. "Fucked if I know."

We sit in silence, the weight of the doctor's verdict hanging between us. Six more weeks. My career slipping through my fingers like sand.

"I can't go back to that room," I finally manage. "I'll lose what's left of my mind."

Bast nods, his profile sharp against the fading afternoon light. "Then we'll change it."

"Change what?"

"Everything." He stands, offering his hand. "Come on."

I stare at his outstretched palm for a moment before taking it. His grip is solid, warm, as he pulls me to my feet. The sudden movement makes my head swim, and I sway slightly.

Bast steadies me, his hand at my elbow. "Easy."

Instead of leading me back to my room, he takes me back downstairs to the living room I've barely seen. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the water, the Seattle skyline in the distance. The space is minimal but warm, leather couch and armchair, thick rug, bookshelves lining one wall.

"Sit," he says, gesturing to the couch.

I sink into the leather, watching as he moves around the room, adjusting blinds to filter the light rather than block it completely. He pulls a throw from a basket, tosses it beside me, then disappears into the kitchen.

When he returns, he's carrying two glasses of water and a bottle of pills. "Your meds," he says, setting everything on the coffee table.

He stands there awkwardly for a moment, like he's trying to remember how to be a normal human being around another person. It would be funny if it wasn't so painfully familiar.

"I don't need a babysitter," I say, though my earlier plea suggests otherwise.

One corner of his mouth quirks up, not quite a smile, but close. "Good. Because I'd make a terrible one." He sits on the opposite end of the couch, leaving a careful space between us. "We've been doing this wrong."

"This?"

"Recovery." He gestures between us. "You hiding in that room. Me. . ." He trails off, shrugging. "Being me."

I take a sip of water, buying time. "And what exactly is 'being you'?"

"A pain in the ass, according to most people."

Despite everything, I snort. "You don't say."

For a moment, I see a flash of the Bast I met last summer. The one who teased me relentlessly, who kissed me senseless behind a funnel cake stand, who made me feel like I was flying. Before everything went to hell.

"I'm not good at this," he admits, staring down at his hands. "Taking care of people."

"Could've fooled me. You've been practically running a hospital wing up there."

He shakes his head. "That's different. That's. . ." He searches for the word. "Clinical."

I know what he means. He's been the perfect caretaker, efficient, thorough, distant. Making sure I take my meds, eat, sleep, go to my appointments. But never really present .

"I don't need clinical," I say quietly. "I just need. . ." You . The word sticks in my throat.

Bast nods like he understands anyway. "I know."

He reaches for the remote and turns on the TV, volume low. Some cooking show fills the screen. People frantically chopping vegetables and tossing ingredients at each other as a timer counts down in the background.

"Is this okay?" he asks, and I realize he's not just asking about the show.

I nod, letting my head fall back against the cushions. "Yeah." I pull the throw over my legs, settling in. "This is okay."

We watch in silence for a while, the tension slowly bleeding from my shoulders. It's not exactly comfortable, but it's better. It's a start.

When my eyes grow heavy, I don't fight it. For the first time in weeks, the darkness doesn't feel like it's closing in.

Just before I drift off, I feel Bast shift beside me, not away, but closer. His hand finds mine on top of the blanket, fingers lightly brushing my knuckles.

"We'll figure it out," he says softly.

I'm not sure if he's talking to me or himself. Either way, I believe him.