Page 14

We stand in silence for a moment and I'm hyper-aware of every inch where our bodies almost touch.

"You'll feel it again," he says finally. "That tunnel feeling."

I want to believe him—God, I want to—but the truth is a different beast altogether.

"What if I don't?" The question slips out before I can catch it. "What if that puck knocked loose whatever made me good in the first place?"

Bast turns to face me fully then, the intensity in his eyes pins me in place. "It didn't."

"You can't know that."

"I do." His warm, steady hand finds my shoulder. "Talent isn't stored in your skull, Shaw. It's in here," he taps my chest, right over my heart, "and here." His fingers brush against my temple, feather-light.

My breath catches. We're so close now, I could see the flecks of silver in his eyes, count each of his eyelashes if I wanted to.

"Always the coach," I deflect, because it's easier than admitting how much his words mean.

His lips quirk. "Not coaching. Just facts."

"Well, fact this, I'm starving. Does this nature torture come with food?"

Bast laughs and the tension breaks. "As a matter of fact. . ."

He leads me to a small clearing with a wooden bench. A nice little place to rest and catch my breath. From his backpack, he produces a small container of cut fruit, a bag of trail mix, and two protein bars.

"You planned this," I accuse, already reaching for the trail mix.

He shrugs, the picture of innocence. "I might have considered the possibility that you'd need sustenance after complaining the entire way up."

"I did not complain the entire way," I protest through a mouthful of almonds and dried cranberries. "I was providing colorful commentary on our journey."

"My mistake," he deadpans.

We eat in comfortable silence. I steal glances at him when I think he's not looking—the strong line of his jaw, the way his tank top reveals the sculpted muscles of his shoulders, the dragon tattoo that curls and coils down his arm like a living thing.

"Take a picture," he says without looking up. "It'll last longer."

Heat rushes to my face. "I wasn't?—"

"You were," he cuts me off but there's no edge to it. If anything, he looks pleased. "I don't mind."

The air between us shifts, charged with something more than the lingering electricity of our hike. I remember last summer. His body pressed against mine behind that food truck, his hands everywhere, the taste of blue slushie on his tongue. The memory hits me like a physical force.

I shift closer on the bench, acutely aware of how close we're sitting. My leg is maybe an inch from his and the heat radiates between us. The memory of last summer is so vivid I can practically taste the artificial blue raspberry on my tongue.

"I've thought about it," I admit, the words tumbling out before I can catch them. "Last summer."

Bast's eyes darken, pupils expanding like ink in water. "Me too."

That simple confession shoots straight through me, igniting something I've been trying to smother for weeks. Months. Something I probably never really extinguished in the first place.

"Yeah?" My voice comes out embarrassingly breathless.

He doesn't answer with words. Instead, his gaze drops to my mouth, lingers there with such naked want that I feel it like a physical touch. The air between us thickens, charged with possibilities.

I lean in, all rational thought abandoned, and Bast meets me halfway. Our lips connect and?—

God.

It's like coming home after being lost for years. It's like scoring a game-winning goal in overtime. It's every cliché and none of them at all.

His mouth is soft and insistent, and when his tongue traces the seam of my lips, I open for him without hesitation. The kiss deepens, turns hungry. I taste fruit and salt and him, that indefinable essence that's been haunting my dreams for months.

Bast makes a sound low in his throat, half growl, half sigh and suddenly his hands are on my waist, tugging me forward.

I go willingly, practically scrambling into his lap, our snacks scattering forgotten on the forest floor.

My thighs bracket his hips, and the new position brings our bodies flush together, no space left between us.

Anyone can pass by us right now, but I don't care. It's just him and me.

"Princesse," he murmurs against my mouth, the French endearment sending shivers down my spine.

My fingers trace the nape of his neck, finding the soft hair there, savoring the contrast between silky strands and hard muscle.

I tug gently, reveling in the way his breath catches when I pull him closer.

His hands slide under my shirt, palms blazing trails against my lower back, and I arch into the touch like a cat, desperate for more contact.

His fingertips trace each vertebra, mapping me like territory he's determined to reclaim.

The cool mountain air against my exposed skin makes me shiver, or maybe it's the way he's looking at me now, eyes half-lidded and dark with want.

The kiss turns desperate, almost frantic.

We crash together like waves breaking on shore, all teeth and tongue and unspoken promises.

Like we're both trying to make up for lost time, for the months spent apart, for all the ways we've wanted and denied.

His teeth graze my bottom lip and I moan, the sound torn from somewhere deep inside me, not caring who might hear us.

I roll my hips instinctively, seeking friction, and feel him harden beneath me. The contact sends electric currents racing through my veins, making my toes curl in my hiking boots. His grip tightens, large hands spanning my waist, guiding my movements.

"Fuck, Derrick," he whispers, voice ragged. "You feel?—"

This is what I've been missing. This connection. This electricity. This raw, unfiltered desire that makes everything else fade away until there's nothing but his hands, his mouth, his body against mine.

A sharp, electronic trill cuts through our bubble. Bast tenses beneath me, his whole body going rigid. For a second, neither of us moves, both panting and disoriented. Then the ringtone repeats, insistent.

"Fuck," Bast growls, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.

I slide off his lap on shaky legs, feeling suddenly cold despite the summer heat. Bast reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, glancing at the screen.

His expression shifts, something unreadable passing over his features. "I need to take this."

I nod, trying not to look as wrecked as I feel, and step away to give him privacy but I can still hear his side of the conversation.

"Oui, Christian." His voice is different now, sharper, more clipped. "Je sais, je sais. ?a ne peut pas attendre?" I know, I know. Can't it wait?

Christian. The name hits me like a sucker punch.

Is that a boyfriend? I didn't think Sebastian dated anyone, at least, that was the impression I got last summer.

Nothing serious, he'd said. Maybe things changed.

Maybe there's someone he hooks up with, someone who knows all his secrets, someone who?—

No. I'm spiraling. Projecting. Christian could be anyone. A teammate. A friend. A coach.

But why is Bast speaking French if it's just hockey business?

"Très bien. Je serai là dans une heure." Alright. I will be there in an hour . He sighs, running a hand over his face. "Yes, I understand. I'll bring the sketches with me."

Sketches? What sketches?

Bast hangs up and turns to me, his expression apologetic. "We need to go. I have work I need to finish back home."

Work? On a Saturday? During the off-season? There's so much about Sebastian Bergeron I still don't know, layers I never got to peel back last summer when everything between us was intense but temporary. Things I wanted—still want—but I want him to share with me willingly. A man can dream.

"No problem," I say lightly, as if my lips aren't still tingling from his kiss, as if he hasn't just upended my entire world again.

We pack up quickly, gathering the scattered remains of our snack. The easy rhythm we'd found earlier seems fractured now, tainted by the interruption and the questions swirling in my head.

As we start back down the trail, the moment vanishes like morning mist, here and gone before I could really grasp it.

The sunlight filtering through the trees suddenly seems too harsh, highlighting all the ways this isn't a fairy tale.

We're two men with complicated lives, standing on opposite sides of too many divides.

Then Bast reaches for my hand. His fingers thread through mine, warm and solid and real. He squeezes once, like it's a promise, and I squeeze back, holding on like he might disappear if I let go.

Maybe this isn't a dream after all. Maybe it's something better, something real, with all its messy complications and unanswered questions. Something worth fighting for.

I tighten my grip on his hand and follow him down to the car.