Page 29

TWENTY

SEBASTIAN

T he puck slams off my blocker with a crack loud enough to echo. I barely have time to track it before the rebound comes flying. I drop low, twist, and deflect it with my left pad.

"Jesus," I mutter under my breath. "LA didn't come to play."

Preseason game or not, the Kings are treating this like the Cup is on the line. Hard hits, fast plays, brutal stick work. Every whistle is earned with grit and clenched teeth.

I rise to my feet in the crease, sweat trickling down my spine beneath my pads.

From across the ice, I see Ridley and Tobias slam a forward against the boards.

A warning check, but still aggressive. The message is clear: we aren't here to be pushed around. Tor scores with a slapshot, the puck flies between the LA goalie’s legs, mere inches away from them touching the ice.

The horn blares and the fans chant their approval, but there’s barely time to celebrate with how fast this game is going.

I reset my stance, eyes locked on the puck.

LA's center resets behind the net. The crowd in Seattle is loud, louder than it needs to be for a meaningless game, but then again, this city doesn’t do anything halfway.

This is the first time our fans are seeing us together.

The new team. The new season. Everything on the line again.

The whistle blows. Faceoff. We win possession of the puck.

We move. Tobias catches the pass from Devan, skating like he has rockets strapped to his blades.

I track his movement, watching how he cuts through LA's defense like they’re standing still.

He is good, better than good. The fucker is brilliant on the ice.

I'd known it watching him play for Vegas, but seeing him in our colors, moving in sync with our team is something else entirely.

My focus snaps back as LA regains possession, their forward barreling toward me with murder in his eyes. I widen my stance, body coiled and ready. Time slows, as it always does in these moments. The puck left his stick, a nasty wrister aimed for the top left corner.

I snatch it out of the air like it’s nothing.

The crowd erupts into a cacophony of cheers. I don’t react. Just hold the puck a moment longer than necessary, making sure the Kings forward sees it in my glove before I drop it to the ice. No celebration, no theatrics. Just cold efficiency. That’s how I roll.

"Nice fucking save, Bast!" Ridley shouts, skating past my crease to take position for the faceoff.

I breathe through it, locked in, watching, reading, reacting. In the back of my mind, even as I block and save and keep the score even, I think about the conversation we had this morning in the car.

The car ride was quiet at first.

Not tense, not awkward. Just quiet. The kind of quiet you settle into when you've been sharing space with someone long enough that silence feels like a comfort rather than a void to be filled.

Derrick had one leg propped on the dash, his sunglasses sliding slightly down his nose as he scrolled through something on his phone.

My playlist hummed low over the speakers, instrumental jazz with a moody undercurrent I've never actually admitted I like to anyone, not even my teammates who'd probably give me endless shit for it.

The morning sun filtered through the windshield, casting golden highlights across Derrick's dark skin.

Every few minutes, he'd shift slightly, readjusting his position without ever seeming uncomfortable.

He was perpetually in motion, even when sitting still.

A tapping finger, a bouncing knee. Like energy was constantly flowing through him, too vibrant to be contained.

I should have been focused on tonight. First preseason game. Trial run for everyone. New lines, new chemistry, new possibilities. . .but I wasn't thinking about the puck drop or rotations or game strategy. I wasn't mentally reviewing film or visualizing saves.

I was thinking about Friday. The gallery opening. The moment everything I've been hiding for years might unravel in the space of a single breath, when my two worlds could collide with the subtlety of a freight train.

I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, my knuckles whitening against the leather. My chest constricted painfully at the thought of everyone seeing, really seeing what I'd kept hidden for so long.

"You're quiet," Derrick said, not looking up from his phone, thumb still scrolling lazily across the screen. "Even for you."

"Just thinking."

He hummed, a low sound at the back of his throat. "Dangerous."

The corner of my mouth lifted despite myself.

He knew me too well already, could read my silences like they were sentences spoken aloud.

I switched lanes, Seattle's traffic blurred past in streaks of gray and green, the Space Needle appeared briefly in the distance before disappearing behind a cluster of high-rises. "It's the gallery. Friday."

"That's what I figured." His voice was soft, matter-of-fact, without judgment.

I exhaled through my nose, the knot in my chest tightened.

My shoulders tensed beneath my jacket. "I've had weeks to sit them down.

Say something. Tell them about everything.

But. . ." I shook my head, frustration gnawing at me.

"Tor and Alexis have baby Kodah now. Devan's barely left Lia's side since Chloe was born.

Brea's back in the studio. Ridley's basically her shadow.

Everyone's busy with their lives, their families. "

"So are you," Derrick said quietly, finally setting his phone down in his lap. "And maybe you were never going to be ready. Some secrets get comfortable, even when they're heavy."

I glanced over at him. He was watching me now, one brow raised in that way, slightly challenging but never unkind.

The sun caught in his curls, highlighting strands of deep brown within the black.

He looked calm. Centered. Like someone who'd survived the storm and come out the other side not unscathed but stronger, more resilient for the battering.

"It's not just them finding out," I admitted, the words feeling raw in my throat. "It's what comes after. The press. The fans. The team. Management. I've spent years keeping both halves of my life separate. B. Ardent was supposed to be untouchable, unreachable. My sanctuary."

"And now you've painted me," he said, a quiet challenge in his voice, his eyes locked onto my profile. "Which means it's not just your secret anymore. It's ours."

I nodded once, jaw tightening. The light ahead turned yellow, and I eased to a stop, drumming my fingers against the wheel. "They'll see you, Derrick. Really see you. On canvas. On walls. They'll see you through my eyes. I don't know how they'll react."

"You mean Alexis and Brea will immediately point and yell 'that's Derrick Shaw' in the middle of a silent gallery while everyone else gasps in horror? Maybe someone will faint dramatically clutching their pearls for effect?"

A short laugh burst out of me, unexpected and sharp, cutting through the tension. "Exactly. Then the hockey blogs will explode, and we'll be trending on Instagram for all the wrong reasons."

He reached over, hand resting lightly on my thigh, his palm warm through my jeans. "They'll be mad you didn't tell them. But they'll get it. Eventually. These are your friends, Bast. Your family. Give them some credit."

I didn't answer right away. His touch was grounding, reassuring, but it didn't quiet the storm inside completely. The years of keeping secrets, of compartmentalizing, of being Sebastian Bergeron on the ice and B. Ardent in the studio. . .two entities who were never supposed to meet.

The light turned green, and I accelerated smoothly, turning onto the street leading to the stadium. The arena came into view, its modern architecture gleaming in the morning light. "You're the only one who's ever seen all of it. Both sides. All of me."

He didn't let go of my thigh, his thumb traced a small circle against the fabric. "And I'm not going anywhere. Not anymore."

"I know I've asked this already," I said, my voice quieter now as I pulled into the players' parking lot, "but you good to suit up tonight? If you need more time ? —"

"Coach Willis gave me third period," he replied, finally withdrawing his hand as I parked. "Short leash. No pressure. Twenty minutes max." He smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes, a shadow of uncertainty lingering there. "I'll be fine. It's just preseason."

I glanced over at him, shifted into park and leaned in just a little, close enough that I could smell his cologne, something citrusy and warm. "Tu es plus fort que tu ne le crois." You're stronger than you think .

His brow lifted slightly, the words washed over him as he translated, then he exhaled slowly, nodding once. His shoulders dropped a fraction as some of the tension left his frame.

"One period," I murmured, my voice low and steady, a promise between us. "Then we go home. Just twenty minutes of hockey, and then it's done. I'll be right there with you."

The buzzer snaps me back to the present. End of the second period.

We're up by two.

I skate to the bench, unfastening my mask, gulping down water like it can cool the heat burning behind my sternum. My jersey clings to me, soaked through. My heartbeat thumps in my wrists, pulsing with adrenaline and anticipation, or maybe fear. Not for me, but for him.

Coach Willis approaches, clipboard tucked under one arm, his expression unreadable beneath his perpetual scowl. "Shaw's in for the third," he says.

I nod, chest already tightening. I know how badly Derrick wants this.

How much he needs this to go right. First game back since the injury.

First time facing live action with the weight of expectations crushing down on shoulders still healing from trauma.

It's just a preseason game but everyone is watching regardless.