Page 16

ELEVEN

SEBASTIAN

" Y ou won't be able to hide forever."

Christian's words echo in my head as I pull into my driveway, the tires of my BMW crunching against the gravel. The sun hangs low over Lake Washington, that particular Seattle golden hour, the time of day that makes even the most mundane things look like art.

I kill the engine but don't move, just staring at my house through the windshield. The massive windows reflect the sunset, turning them into sheets of fire. It's too beautiful for the storm brewing inside me.

My life has always been compartmentalized. Hockey in one box. Art in another. Never shall the twain meet. It's how I've functioned. How I've survived.

Now Christian wants to display that fucking painting.

The one of Derrick caught mid-laugh, his head thrown back, throat exposed, vulnerable and beautiful in a way I never should have captured.

The one where I let my brush betray every emotion I'd worked so hard to conceal.

The painting doesn't just show Derrick—it exposes me, strips me bare for anyone with eyes to see.

The moment people see it, the whispers will start. First quietly, then growing louder. Wealthy art collectors murmuring at gallery openings, critics connecting dots I've spent years scattering far apart.

I've managed to keep B. Ardent separate from Sebastian Bergeron for over a decade.

A perfect double life. Not even Tor knows, and he's our captain, for fuck's sake.

Not Ridley or Devan. Nobody on the team suspects that their surly, private goaltender has paintings hanging in the MoMA, that the hands they see blocking shots create works that sell for six figures.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles going white. My father's voice echoes in my head, ‘Art is a hobby, Sebastian. Not a career’ . Yet here I am, successful at both and terrified of losing everything.

Here I am, about to lose it all because I couldn't keep my boundaries intact when it came to Derrick.

I let him slip through the cracks between my worlds.

Lose or gain, Sebastian. Lose or gain. Whichever one.

I know I'm royally fucked. There's no scenario where this ends without something precious being sacrificed.

When I finally drag myself out of the car, muscles stiff from tension more than physical exertion, I notice immediately that something's wrong.

The studio door at the side of the house is open, spilling golden light onto the garden path.

The door is never locked and that's my fault.

Derrick has been bedbound for weeks. I should have known he'd want to explore.

Fuck.

I don't run but my strides lengthen as I approach. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I step inside the doorway and freeze.

Derrick stands in the center of my studio, surrounded by canvases, some covered, some not.

His back is to me and I can tell from the set of his shoulders that he's seen everything.

The sketches. The paintings. The studies of his hands, his jawline, the curve of his neck.

All the pieces of him I've been collecting in secret.

Then he turns and I see it in his face, shock, awe, disbelief and something else flickering beneath it all. Hurt?

I keep my voice even. "Well," I say, "I guess I have some explaining to do."

"You're B. Ardent." It's not a question. His voice is quiet and steady.

I swallow hard. "Yes."

"And you've been painting me." Again, not a question.

I nod once, slow and deliberate. "Yes."

He moves through the space like he's in a gallery, careful not to touch anything but taking it all in. His fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to reach out but won't allow himself.

"These are yours." He gestures toward the hallway. "The ones in the guest room. Throughout the house. I thought you bought them. Maybe a little artist worship. Man was I wrong. Way off base."

"I did," I admit. "At auction. To throw people off."

"You're. . ." His voice falters. "You've been in museums." He stares at me like he's seeing me for the first time. "And no one knows?"

"Christian knows." The words come out automatically.

His head snaps toward me. "Christian? Who's Christian?"

Something in his voice makes my chest tighten. "My art dealer," I explain quickly. "And a friend. That's all."

The tension visibly drains from his shoulders. "Right. Art dealer. Okay." He nods, processing. "That tracks."

I tilt my head. Is he jealous of Christian? Interesting. . .and maybe a little adorable. We stand in silence, surrounded by the ghosts of my secret life, half-dried oils and the sharp scent of turpentine filling the space between us.

"I wasn't hiding this from you to lie," I finally say, my voice lower than I intended.

"I just. . .I didn't want to give it away before I was ready.

This has always been mine. The only thing that was ever just mine.

With you being here, I knew it was only a matter of time.

It's not like I deemed anything in my home off limits. "

Derrick nods slowly, his gaze drifting back to the sketch on the easel, a detailed incomplete study of the side of half of face. "You painted me. How long has this been going on?"

I look at the sketch, remembering the night I drew it. "Since the first week you arrived."

His breath catches audibly.

"And before that," I add, because if I'm going to be honest, I might as well go all the way. "If I'm being honest."

The silence stretches between us, charged with things neither of us is saying. The air dense with scent of paints and unspoken truths. My palms sweat as he takes in my secret life, piece by piece.

Finally, he rubs his temples, blinking hard. "I need to get out of here. These fumes are messing with my head." His voice sounds strained, like he's forcing each word past some invisible barrier.

I nod and step aside as he passes, giving him the space he needs.

We walk down the hall without speaking, the tension following us like a physical presence until we reach the living room.

The distance between us feels both too vast and not nearly enough.

I wish I could rewind time back to this morning.

Back to the bench, where our lips locked in a sensual kiss that seemed to suspend reality around us.

The feel of his body on mine, solid and warm, his weight an anchor I didn't know I needed.

The way his fingers pressed against my neck, tentative at first, then with growing confidence.

I want that back. The moment when everything felt simple and right.

Not this sudden distance that stretches between us now, filled with the debris of my secrets and his confusion.

The space separating us in this room feels wider than the entire length of my property, charged with things neither of us seems equipped to put into words.

He drops onto the couch, rubbing his hands over his face, fingers pressing hard against his skin as if trying to reset his thoughts. I lean against the kitchen island, arms crossed tight against my chest, trying to anchor myself against the flood of anxiety washing through me.

"I started painting when I was seven," I say, the confession surprising me as much as it seems to surprise him.

"Saw a Van Gogh in Chicago with my mom on a school trip.

Starry Night. The way those stars swirled, I couldn't look away.

I was obsessed. She bought me a sketchpad that same day.

" A half-smile tugs at my mouth despite everything.

"I filled it in a week. Drew everything I saw until my fingers cramped. "

He watches me, not interrupting, just taking it in. His eyes track my movements, steady and focused in a way that makes me want to hide and reveal more all at once.

"My father hated it." The words taste bitter, an old poison I've never fully purged.

"Said art was useless. That hockey was my future and drawing was a distraction.

" I look down at my hands, the same hands that stop pucks and create worlds on canvas.

"So, I stopped showing him. Started hiding it.

Started sketching at night, painting during tournaments when he was too busy bragging about my stats to notice what I was actually doing.

By fifteen, I had a whole life he knew nothing about thanks to my mom.

But even she doesn't know how successful I am. "

Derrick's expression softens, the hard lines of confusion melting into something that looks dangerously like compassion. "He doesn't know? Still?"

"He knows I ‘dabble’," I make air quotes with my fingers, grimacing at how inadequate the word is for what painting means to me.

"Thought it was a phase I grew out of once I was drafted into the NHL.

I'm sure he thinks I still scribble in notebooks from time to time but he has no idea.

He only calls to talk about stats and rankings.

Of course, I can always do better in his eyes.

Never asks if I'm happy." I swallow, surprised by how raw this still feels after all these years.

"Never seems to notice that what makes me happiest isn't what happens on the ice. "

Derrick doesn't respond right away and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the judgment. When he speaks, his voice is gentle. "I'm not mad at you, Bast."

I blink, caught off guard.

"I'm not," he repeats. "You didn't owe me this. It's your secret to keep." His mouth quirks up at one corner. "It's not like I told you I used to write hockey fanfiction about you when I was sixteen."

My eyebrows shoot up. "You what?"

He shrugs, a full grin spreading across his face now. "I had a Tumblr. It was a dark time."

A surprised laugh escapes me, and for the first time since walking through the door, I can breathe again.

Then his phone buzzes. He pulls it out, brows furrowing as he checks the screen.

"Huh," he says, starring at his phone in disbelief.

"What?"

"It's from Devan." He looks up, confused. "Weird. I didn't think he still had my number. He never texts me."

I tilt my head. "What's he saying?"

He squints at the screen, reading. "He says: ‘Tell Bast to sit down’."

I frown. "What the hell does that?—"

"Lia had the baby," Derrick interrupts, a slow grin spreading across his face.

My brain short-circuits. "What?" I stand, unsure. As if I need to rush out the door and go straight to the hospital. I have to remind myself in that millisecond to chill.

"You're an uncle now." He holds up the phone, showing me a blurry hospital photo of Devan holding a tiny red-faced bundle like it's the Stanley Cup. The caption reads: She's here. Meet Baby Chloe, Uncle B.

A stunned laugh escapes me as I move from the kitchen to the living room to sink onto the edge of the couch. "Holy shit."

"Life just keeps lifing, huh?" Derrick says, nudging my shoulder with his.

"No kidding," I say in wonder. Scanning Devan's crazy ass grin on his face. Lia and Devan are parents. I'm sure Ridley and Brea will be there soon. I only hope this doesn't set Brea back considering what happened between her and Ridley.

He leans back, looking at me with those eyes that see too much. "What don't you do?"

I sigh, the tension from earlier dissolving into something warm and liquid in my chest. "Laundry. I definitely don't do laundry. I have a cleaning lady you've yet to meet. She's like a little brownie. In and out like a phantom."

He laughs, and the sound fills the room, chasing away the last of my fear.

For now, at least. The truth is still out there, waiting—the painting that could change everything.

I watch Derrick scroll through more baby photos, his face soft with genuine happiness for our friends.

I can't bring myself to worry about tomorrow.

For tonight, I'll just be here, in this moment, with him. The rest can wait.