Page 23

SIXTEEN

DERRICK

" D erek," Tony's voice had that tight, clipped edge that told me everything before he even said it. "They're letting you go."

I blinked up at the night sky as I stepped into Lia’s backyard, the weight of those four words sinking in like a stone, heavy and cold in my chest. I knew it was coming but not like this. "What?"

"It's a mutual buyout. That's the best I could do.

" Tony sighed, and I could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose, the way he always did when delivering bad news.

"Otherwise, they were going to keep you benched indefinitely, keep you on long-term IR with no playing time, no pathway back, just. .

.wait it out. Let you rot in hockey purgatory until your contract expired. "

"They're giving up on me?" My voice sounded small. Hollow. Like someone had scooped out everything inside me and left just the shell. After everything, the playoff run, the blood I'd spilled on that ice, the concussion that still made the world tilt sometimes when I stood too quickly.

"They're protecting their cap space, not investing in you. That's the business side of this. It’s not personal." Tony's voice softened slightly. "I fought for you, kid. I swear I did. I told them you were worth the time. That you could recover. That you're only twenty-two ? —"

"Twenty-three in two months," I muttered, counting the stars in the sky, hoping they somehow had the answers to all my problems. Another year gone. Another dream fading.

"Exactly. You've got time. You've got game. But Toronto doesn't want to wait." The determination crept back into his voice. "So, we're not going to let them hang you out to dry. You walk. You walk with your dignity, your freedom, and you let me do my job. That's what you pay me for, remember?"

Silence stretched between us. I could hear the traffic moving around the neighborhood and a commotion from inside the house but I couldn't focus on that at the moment. Life was continuing while mine felt suspended in amber.

"There are teams who will give you the space to heal.

Teams who see what you're worth long-term.

" Tony was in full agent mode now, rapid and reassuring.

"I've already reached out to a few. I'll keep you close to your mom, close to familiar ice.

I promise, Derrick, we'll find the right fit.

Someone who believes in you the way I do, the way your mom does.

And I'll be there every step of the way, through rehab, through training, through whatever comes next. "

Just like that, it was over.

Weeks of uncertainty after the call as I got my affairs in Toronto in order.

Weeks away from Bast. My future hung in the balance while Tony worked his magic.

No ceremony. No press conference. No thank-you from the team I bled for in the playoffs.

Just a plane ticket and a quiet call in my hotel room, along with an email full of signatures and clauses I didn't even read.

The PDF attachment might as well have been written in hieroglyphics. All I saw was the finality of it.

A few hours later, I was back in Seattle, walking through SeaTac with a baseball cap pulled low, dragging a duffel bag that felt heavier than it should.

My shoulders burned under its weight, or maybe that was just the disappointment settling into my bones.

Faces blurred past me, some probably recognized me, some didn't. I kept my eyes on the speckled floor tiles, counting steps to keep from thinking.

The car that pulled up at Arrivals was a matte black Audi R8, sleek and way too fast-looking for the man driving it. It purred against the curb like an expensive cat, demanding attention from everyone except its owner. How many cars does he own?

Sebastian didn't say anything at first. He just smiled, reached over, popped the trunk, and waited while I climbed in.

His fingers tapped once, twice against the steering wheel, that tiny tell of his that most people missed.

I'd learned to read those micro-expressions like my own personal dictionary.

When our eyes met, I saw everything. Anger. Concern. Relief. All of it buried beneath that calm, unreadable expression he wore so well, and just beneath that, something softer. Something only for me.

He reached over and squeezed my hand. His palm was warm against mine, calloused in all the same places. "Home," he said simply, the word carrying more weight than any motivational speech or platitude could have.

Home. Was it my home? The question nagged at me as Bast’s Audi glided through Seattle's rain-dampened streets. We hadn't spoken in depth about our relationship, if that's even what this was between us. Sure, we fucked. Sure, we cohabitated while I rehabilitated. But what happens after that?

It was the elephant in the room neither one of us wanted to address.

So much had happened in such a short period of time: my injury, getting waived, and now moving back across the country and sharing the same ice.

Bast was flighty, a vault of secrets he had yet to share with me.

Honestly, with the way I was feeling about us, this undefined thing between us, he might just cut his losses and tell me to find my own place.

Especially now that we were on the same team.

Well, I was the lowest of the lowest, but at least I was still playing hockey.

His fingers laced with mine, a casual intimacy that contradicted all my doubts.

I watched his profile against the passing streetlights, the sharp angle of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows as he concentrated on the road.

For someone I'd seen naked more times than I could count, he remained frustratingly unreadable.

Or was I thinking too hard about all of this? Overthinking had become my new hobby since the accident. Before, I'd been action, impulse, forward motion. Now I was doubts and questions and what-ifs circling like vultures.

I squeezed his hand back anyway, because whatever this was, temporary shelter or something more, right now, it felt like the closest thing to safety I had.

Now, curled up on the couch in Bast’s oversized hoodie, phone in hand, I stare at the whirlwind unraveling on social media.

The news broke an hour ago. The NHL posted the official release.

“Toronto Stars and goaltender, Derek Shaw, agree to mutual contract termination. Shaw to become an unrestricted free agent immediately.”

Clean. Clinical. No heart.

Then came the real bomb: HockeyHomeGurlHattie’s newest video.

HOCKEY HOTTIES & HEADLINES: YOUTUBE EPISODE 256

Welcome back, shawties! It’s your girl HockeyHomeGurlHattie coming at you live from the comfort of my hockey-shrine bedroom where I am LITERALLY shaking right now! If you missed the weeks of bombshell episodes about Baby Shaw’s contract buyout, catch up because this tea just got SCALDING!”

CONFIRMED NEWS

Derek Shaw has officially signed with the Seattle Vipers on a two-year deal with performance incentives! That’s right, babes, the fresh-faced newbie and the Veteran are now TEAMMATES!

My airport spy snapped this blurry but UNMISTAKABLE photo of Sebastian actually SMILING as Derrick got into his car!

Let’s be real: The Vipers didn’t just sign Shaw because they needed goalie depth. They signed him because SOMEONE pushed for it. And when Sebastian Bergeron, along with his starting line besties, wants something, management listens.

Also, Shaw is currently living in Sebastian’s house. The same house that no one on the team has EVER been invited to. The one with the private dock and fortress-level security. You know the one.

Two gay goalies. One mansion. The comeback story of the season. This isn’t just a hockey headline anymore. . .this is a romance novel waiting to be written!

Stay messy, hockey bitches!

I groan and flop back onto the couch, arm dramatically thrown over my eyes to block out the world. "I cannot believe I'm her new obsession. Of all the hockey players in the league, why me?"

From across the room, Bast chuckles, that rare deep sound that still makes my stomach flip. "You'll get used to it. HockeyHomeGurlHattie latches onto someone new every season. Last year it was Ridley's drama with Brea."

"She called them Shawties, Bast. She made a pun with my name. There are hashtags now." My face heats up under my arm.

"I heard." He sounds far too pleased with my misery, the traitor. There's something suspiciously like amusement dancing in those eyes when I peek at him.

I lower my arm completely and squint at him, sitting up slightly. "You knew this would happen when you picked me up at the airport, didn't you? You were smiling on purpose."

He shrugs, those broad shoulders moving casually as he walks over with two steaming mugs of coffee, one of which he sets on the side table beside me. The rich aroma fills my nostrils, momentarily distracting me from my social media crisis.

"You're news, baby. Deal with it." His voice is matter-of-fact but gentle. "First openly gay rookie sensation gets injured, traded, then signs with his childhood hero's team? That's headline material."

I sigh, carefully wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic mug, soaking in the comforting heat against my palms. The mug has tiny painted vipers around the rim. "I just feel. . .exposed. Like people are watching everything. Speculating. Drawing conclusions about us that aren't theirs to make."

"They are," he confirms without sugar-coating it, settling his weight onto the couch beside me, his solid thigh nudging against my knee. The contact grounds me. "But they don't matter. We do. What happens in this house stays between us."

That shuts me up. The simple certainty in his voice wraps around me like a blanket, more comforting than he could possibly know.

Later, after dinner, after the couch cuddles and the silence that only comes with real comfort, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. The ache behind my eyes is dull but present. A reminder. The ghost of the injury I still haven’t beaten.

Fear, the stealer of joy, creeps in like fog.

What if I can’t do this? What if I can’t get back?

Toronto gave up on me. Just gave up. And now Seattle’s taking a chance.

Torrance Bailey pulled strings. Coach Lennox believed in me.

Bast vouched for me. What if I fail them?

What if I never step into the crease again without flinching? What if I can’t be who I was?

I roll over and bury my face in Bast's chest, inhaling the warm, cedar-sweet scent of him mingled with the faint salt of honest sweat.

His skin radiates heat against my cheeks, the coarse hair tickling my lips as I press closer.

His arms come around me without question, strong and certain, one palm splaying possessively against the small of my back while the other cups my neck, thumb tracing small circles at the base of my skull.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice a deep rumble I can feel vibrating through his ribcage against my ear.

"No," I admit, my voice muffled against him.

I relish the closeness, how his body yields just enough to cradle mine.

"But I will be." My fingers trace the ridges of his obliques, mapping territory that still feels new and thrilling despite our familiarity, seeking comfort in the solid reality of him beneath my touch.

It’s the most honest answer I have, and maybe, for now, it’s enough.