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NINE

DERRICK

I ’m sweating bullets. My shirt’s clinging to my back like it’s trying to fuse with my spine, and every breath feels like I’m inhaling steam.

“You said a light walk,” I grumble, dragging one foot after the other up the winding trail. “This feels like a covert military operation.”

Bast just smirks without breaking stride. “It’s Interlaken Park. A one-mile loop. Barely 160 feet of elevation. You’ll survive.”

“Tell that to my thighs,” I mutter. “I haven’t exercised in weeks. I’ve been living like a bat in a blackout cave.”

“Exactly why we’re out here,” he tosses back without missing a beat.

The trail is beautiful, annoyingly so. It’s thick with trees, green and endless, like a painting come to life. Sunlight filters through the canopy overhead in soft, golden streaks. Birds chirp. Something buzzes near my ear and I swat at it like I’m under siege.

“I hate nature,” I mutter.

Bast laughs under his breath, and damn if that sound doesn’t settle right under my skin. “You grew up in a beach town.”

“Exactly. Sand, the cove, rock cliffs and fish, not squirrels.”

We fall into a rhythm. Him a few paces ahead, me struggling not to collapse onto the dirt path like some melodramatic reality show contestant.

It feels good, actually. Fresh air filling lungs that have forgotten what oxygen is supposed to taste like.

Real movement that isn't just shuffling from bed to couch to fridge and back.

The first real walk outside I've taken in three weeks.

Three weeks of existing in a twilight state where time blurred and my body forgot how to function.

Yeah, maybe it has something to do with the fact I actually slept last night.

Slept because he stayed. Because for once, I didn't feel like I was clawing against the dark alone, fighting shadows that kept winning.

I glance at him. He's wearing black athletic shorts that hit just above the knee, a fitted tank top that should be illegal in at least twelve states for public safety reasons, and his left arm?—

"Wait," I pant, narrowing my eyes as realization dawns slow and syrupy. "You have a full dragon sleeve."

He looks at me like I'm the slow one, that half-smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "You've seen it before."

"I don't remember seeing all of it," I say, trying not to stare too obviously or blush because the night we were entangled in one another, his arms weren't exactly what I was cataloging in my memory bank.

The ink is beautiful. Dark swirls that remind me of midnight tides, sharp scales etched with meticulous detail, claws and smoke that wrap around his bicep and forearm like armor crafted from shadow itself.

It suits him, this permanent artwork that both conceals and reveals. "Why a dragon?"

"Chinese mythology," he says, voice matter-of-fact but somehow softer than before. "Dragons symbolize power. Strength. Protection. Good luck."

I nod, still catching my breath, mentally repeating those four words like they're keeping me upright. "Makes sense."

"I got it when I was nineteen," he adds, and something in his tone makes me pay closer attention. "Thought if I branded the strength onto my skin, maybe I'd start believing I had it."

The way he says it, quiet, casual, makes something inside me twist. The words settle in my chest like stones sinking through water. How at nineteen he'd needed to brand strength onto himself when I'd always seen him as nothing but invincible.

"I never wanted a tattoo," I say, more to fill the silence than anything else.

"Needles and I aren't exactly friends." I don't add that Mom's multiple sclerosis means I've seen enough needles for several lifetimes, watched them pierce her skin for treatments until medical equipment became as familiar as furniture.

Bast quirks a brow at me, his gray eyes catching the dappled light. "That's a shame. You'd wear ink well." His gaze slides over my arms in a way that makes my skin feel electric.

I laugh, the sound surprising me with its authenticity. "You flirting with me or assessing my skin?"

"Can't it be both?" There's that half-smile again. The one I'd seen in interviews and press conferences long before I ever met him in person, the one my teenage self had studied with embarrassing intensity.

We reach a clearing, and I stop to breathe taking in the view.

The city skyline peeks through a gap in the trees, all gleaming glass, metal, and concrete in the distance.

Seattle spread before us looks like a promise.

For the first time in weeks, I feel like I'm standing on the edge of the world again, not trapped beneath it, crushed by the weight of my own shortcomings.

"Thanks for this," I say softly, meaning it for more than just the hike.

He's standing closer now, close enough that our shoulders brush. His body heat rolls off him like sunlight, and I resist the urge to lean into it. "Anytime." The word carries weight, an offering.

The moment stretches. Not uncomfortable, just. . .full. Of possibility, of unspoken things, of the strange reality that Sebastian Bergeron is standing beside me in a forest looking at me like I matter.

Then, because I'm clearly cursed with a death wish, I say, "You trying to kill me out here?"

He grins. Full teeth, that wicked slant of mouth I remember from last summer when everything was different. "If I was, I'd have picked a steeper trail."

I roll my eyes, smirking despite myself. "Next time, I'm picking the route. Something flat. Concrete. Preferably near ice cream." The words ‘next time’ slip out before I can analyze them.

"No stamina," he teases, shaking his head like I'm a lost cause, but his eyes remain soft, contradicting his words.

"Don't tempt me to fake an injury so you have to carry me through the woods." I'm playing with fire and know it.

"Wouldn't be the first time I've had you in my arms."

My breath catches. I hate how fast my heart reacts, like it's on a hair trigger where he's concerned. Before I can think of a comeback, he stops at the base of a moss-covered stairway carved into the slope. The steps lead up through a narrow path, trees curling over like an archway.

“Race you to the top,” he says.

“You’re actually insane.”

He doesn’t answer. He just starts climbing. And because I’m me, and because I’m still the idiot who fell for an unattainable man last summer, I chase him anyway.

Maybe I always will.

I'm dying by the time we reach the top of those treacherous moss-covered steps. My lungs burn like I've swallowed fire and my legs feel like they've been through a meat grinder. Bast, the inhuman specimen of athletic perfection, hasn't even broken a sweat.

"I hate you," I gasp, bending over with my hands on my knees. "This is torture disguised as health."

Bast's laugh rolls over me, deep and rich. "You're a professional athlete, Derrick. Even in the off-season we have to keep ourselves conditioned."

"On hiatus," I wheeze, straightening up. "A recovering, traumatized athlete who's been horizontal for most of the past month."

His eyes soften at that, the gray in them warming, a shift in the storm clouds, lightening a fraction. "And yet here you are, still standing."

Something about the way he says it, like it's a victory, not just climbing these stupid stairs but everything, makes my chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.

"Barely," I mutter but I smile despite myself.

The view up here is worth it, though I'll never admit that aloud.

Seattle spread out below us, the Space Needle jutting up like an exclamation point, Elliott Bay a glittering blue beyond.

The air feels cleaner, sharper, like it could slice through all the fog that's been clouding my head.

Mountains frame the horizon, jagged teeth against the sky, a reminder that some things stand tall no matter what tries to break them.

"Water?" Bast offers, pulling a bottle from his small backpack.

I take it, our fingers brushing. Even that small contact sends electricity sparking up my arm, a current I can't control.

I gulp down half the bottle in one go, aware of his eyes on me the whole time.

Water drips from the corner of my mouth, and I wonder if he notices how my hand trembles slightly, from fatigue or something else entirely, I'm not sure.

"You know what I miss most?" I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, surprised by my own candor.

"The feeling right before a game. That moment when you're standing in the tunnel, and everything narrows down to just. .

.possibility." It's only been a few weeks and I miss the ice like a phantom limb.

An absence that aches most when I'm trying not to think about it.

"It's like the whole world goes quiet, except for your heartbeat. "

Bast nods, his expression serious, his eyes reflecting understanding. "The quiet before the storm."

"Yeah." I stare out at the city, at all those tiny buildings filled with people living their normal lives.

"In Toronto, my first game, I threw up twice before heading onto the ice.

" I laugh softly, remembering the janitor who'd handed me a stick of gum with a knowing smile.

"Spent twenty-two years dreaming about that moment, then spent the five minutes before it with my head in a toilet. "

"Nerves?" he asks, trying not to smile.

"Terror," I correct with a laugh. "Pure, unadulterated terror. I kept thinking everyone would realize I was a fraud. That I didn't belong there."

Bast shifts closer, his shoulder brushing mine. "You belonged there more than most."

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. This is Sebastian Bergeron, the man I wanted to imitate as a teenager, the goalie who redefined the position, the legend I measured myself against for years. He's standing here telling me I belong.

"Thanks," I say quietly.