Page 24

SEVENTEEN

SEBASTIAN

S leep evades me, as it often does the night before training camp.

I stare at the ceiling, counting the familiar shadows cast by streetlights filtering through my blinds.

Next to me, Derrick's chest rises and falls in a peaceful rhythm I envy.

His return to Seattle after weeks of being away has been anything but peaceful.

The Toronto buyout left him reeling, questioning his worth, his career, his future, and now he's here, back in my bed, in my life, with barely any time left in summer to prepare for what's coming.

Carefully, I shift onto my side to look at him.

Moonlight catches his profile, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, now relaxed in sleep.

I reach out, stopping just short of touching him, not wanting to disturb the rest he desperately needs.

The medical reports from the hospital were concerning.

His post-concussion symptoms lingered longer than they should have.

Symptoms I noticed have resurfaced since his return from Toronto: the subtle wincing when lights are too bright, the stiffness in his neck when he turns too quickly, the occasional tremor in his hands when he thinks I'm not looking.

My chest tightens. I told myself I could protect him, that bringing him to Seattle was the right call. Now I'm not so fucking sure.

Three days ago, Coach Lennox confirmed what Tor and I had been pushing for. The memory surfaces with perfect clarity:

"He'll be on the roster as our third string," Lennox said, leaning back in his chair, eyes flicking between Tor and me. His office smelled of coffee and the faintest hint of cigar smoke—a vice he'd mostly given up but occasionally indulged in after particularly stressful games.

"With potential rotation to the AHL affiliate if needed for conditioning or ice time," Tor added, arms crossed over his chest, captain's authority evident in his stance. "It's the perfect setup."

Lennox's gaze settled on me. "You're sure about this, Bergeron? We're bringing him in based largely on your recommendation. If his medical doesn't check out ? —"

"It will." The words came out sharper than intended. I moderated my tone. "His last evaluations were clear. The buyout was financial, not medical."

A lie. Or at least, not the complete truth. Toronto had concerns, concerns I'd convinced myself were exaggerated.

Tor shot me a look I couldn't quite decipher. Support? Skepticism? He'd backed my play without hesitation, but Tor missed nothing.

"This isn't a charity case," I continued. "Derrick's good. He'll prove it."

Lennox nodded slowly. "I trust your judgment, Bast. But he's your responsibility. If this goes sideways ? —"

"It won't." Another lie, this one to myself.

I exhale slowly, pushing the memory away. If this goes sideways, it's on me. Derrick's career, potentially his health, it's all riding on my shoulders now. The weight of that responsibility presses down, making it hard to breathe.

He stirs beside me, brows furrowing slightly as if sensing my distress even in sleep.

A curly strand of hair falls across his forehead, and this time I don't resist the urge to reach out, gently brushing it back.

My fingers linger on his temple, where I once saw him massage away pain he thought I didn't notice.

Derrick's eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep. "You're thinking too loud," he murmurs, voice rough.

My lips quirk upward at him repeating my own words back to me. "Sorry."

"No, you're not." He shifts closer, pressing his warm body against mine. "What time is it?"

"Early." I trace the line of his collarbone, marveling at how quickly this has become familiar, his body against mine, the rhythm of our breaths syncing. "Go back to sleep."

Instead, he props himself up on one elbow, studying my face in the dim light. "You're worried."

It's not a question. I consider deflecting but decide against it. "Yes."

"About tomorrow?"

I nod. Training camp, the official end to our summer bubble, the beginning of reality.

"About me," he adds, more perceptive than I give him credit for.

My silence is answer enough.

Derrick leans down, pressing his lips to mine, gentle at first, then with increasing intent.

I respond instantly, hands finding their way to his hips as he shifts to straddle me.

My body reacts to his weight, his warmth, his closeness.

My dick twitches against the thin fabric of my boxers, blood rushing south with embarrassing eagerness.

"I'm fine," he whispers against my mouth, breath hot and sweet. "I'm ready."

I want to believe him. More than anything, I want to believe this won't end with him broken. He’s been fine before, but with his symptoms resurfacing, I want to be cautious.

He rolls his hips deliberately against mine, and rational thought begins to slip away.

We're both hardening, the friction sending sparks of pleasure shooting up my spine.

His hands find mine, pinning them above my head as he grinds down more insistently, the power in his thighs evident as he controls the pressure between us.

"Fuck," I breathe out, arching up to meet him, my wrists flexing under his grip.

Derrick's eyes are dark with desire, but there's something else there too.

Determination. He's trying to prove something, to me or to himself, I'm not sure.

I free one hand, reaching between us to push our boxers down just enough to allow skin-on-skin contact.

We both groan as I wrap my hand around both our lengths.

The first slide of his dick against mine pulls a moan from deep in my chest, relieved and unrestrained.

"Is this—" I start to ask, concerned about his body, his readiness, about unseen damage that might be accumulating behind those beautiful eyes.

"Don't," he cuts me off, increasing the pace of his movements, voice edged with frustration. "Don't treat me like I'm fragile."

So, I don't. I grip his hips hard enough to bruise, guiding his movements as we rut against each other.

The bed creaks beneath us, the only sound besides our ragged breathing and occasional moans.

Sweat forms where our bodies connect, making everything slick and hot.

My thumb traces the crown of his dick, feeling the velvet-smooth skin sliding against my own hardness.

Derrick drops his head to my shoulder, his breath hot against my neck. "Bast," he gasps, the syllable breaking in the middle, voice pitched higher than normal. "I'm close."

"Me too," I manage, feeling the familiar tightening, the building pressure at the base of my spine. "Together."

He nods against my skin, his movements becoming erratic.

I tighten my grip, stroking once, twice and then he's shuddering above me, hot pulses of cum spilling over my fist, his release triggering my own.

The intensity of it washes over me in waves, pleasure mingling with something deeper, more terrifying.

His face in ecstasy is almost painful to witness, completely unguarded, jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut.

As we come down, breathing slowly returning to normal, I hold him tightly against me, unwilling to let go. He presses a lazy kiss to my chest, right over my heart, his lips soft against my sweat-dampened skin.

"I can hear you thinking again," he murmurs, voice slurred with satisfaction.

I run my fingers through his hair, savoring these last moments before reality intrudes, memorizing the weight of him, the scent of our bodies mingled together. "It's my job to worry."

"No," he says quietly, finger tracing idle patterns on my ribs. "It's your job to stop pucks. It's my job to prove I can still do the same."

I kiss the top of his head, not trusting myself to respond.

The truth is, I don't know if he can and the possibility that I've pushed him back onto the ice too soon terrifies me more than anything I've ever faced.

More than playoff elimination games, more than career-ending injuries, more than coming out.

Derrick raises his head, meeting my eyes with surprising clarity. "Summer's over, Bast."

I nod slowly, sealing the moment with one last kiss.

It is time to play hockey.

The familiar smell hits me first. The sharp bite of freshly smoothed ice mingling with stale sweat and equipment that's never quite dry.

Fluorescent lights bounce harshly off the white surfaces, creating that particular glare unique to hockey rinks.

The sound of skates cutting into fresh ice echoes through the facility, punctuated by the distinct thwack of pucks hitting boards and the guttural shouts of players already warming up.

Home. For better or worse.

Beside me, Derrick stands motionless, taking it all in. He's dressed in Vipers gear, deep blue and green a stark contrast to Toronto's silver and white. Though he's trying to maintain a neutral expression, I catch the slight widening of his eyes, the barely perceptible quickening of his breath.

"You good?" I ask quietly, adjusting my gear bag on my shoulder.

He nods once, sharp and determined. "Let's do this."

We push through the double doors into the main area and I feel the weight of eyes immediately.

Most of the team is already here, some on the ice for early drills, others lingering in the training area or locker room.

Tor spots us first, breaking away from a conversation with Coach Lennox to approach.

"Bergeron," he greets with a nod before turning to Derrick. "Shaw. Welcome to Seattle." He extends his hand, which Derrick takes without hesitation.

"Captain Bailey. Thanks for having me."

Tor's expression remains neutral but I know him well enough to see the assessment happening behind those eyes. "Got yourself a good spot in the crease rotation. Make it count."