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ONE

SEBASTIAN

Present Day

I don't know how long I've been sitting here holding his hand.

The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound penetrating the sterile silence of the hospital room.

My eyes are gritty from lack of sleep but I can't bring myself to close them.

Every time I do, I see him falling. See his body hitting the ice, motionless.

Derrick hasn't moved in hours. Tubes and wires connect him to machines that monitor every aspect of his physical state. The doctors say his vitals are stable, that the helmet absorbed most of the impact but they're keeping him sedated while the swelling in his brain subsides.

The fact that he's unconscious and can't see me sitting here is both a relief and a torment. Ten months of carefully constructed distance between us, demolished the moment I saw him drop. Ten months of convincing myself that what happened between us was just one night, meaningless, a mistake.

My thumb traces circles on the back of his hand before I even realize I'm doing it. I stop but don't let go. I can't.

"You're a stubborn idiot, you know that?" I murmur, my voice rough from hours of silence. "You should have seen the puck coming. What happened to those reflexes you're always bragging about?"

He doesn't answer, of course. The steady rise and fall of his chest continues uninterrupted.

The memory of Maxwell's shot haunts me. The puck flying through the air like a bullet.

The sickening crack as it connected with Derrick's helmet.

The way he crumpled to the ice, laying so still, I couldn't breathe.

I'd been across the rink, but somehow, I was at his side in seconds, my teammates trying to hold me back as the medics rushed in.

"I should have been there," I whisper, even though that makes no sense. We were on opposite teams. I was where I was supposed to be. But the guilt crushes me all the same.

My phone buzzes in my pocket for what must be the twentieth time.

Probably Tor checking in again. The rest of the team is celebrating our Stanley Cup victory.

Champagne flowing, music blaring, the ultimate hockey high.

And here I am, in the quiet darkness of a hospital room, holding the hand of a man who shouldn't mean anything to me.

But he does. That's the truth I've been running from.

That night ten months ago rushes back to me in vivid flashes.

His lips on mine, hungry and demanding. My hands mapping every inch of his body, committing him to memory.

Being inside him, pushing him to the edge of control and then shoving him over.

The way he'd held me afterward, his heart thundering against mine.

Then morning came and with it, reality. I'd slipped out before he woke up. Left no note, no explanation. Just disappeared. Because that's what I do, I don't stay, I don't connect. I don't let anyone get close enough to hurt me.

Not after what happened in Winnipeg.

My jaw clenches at the memory, and I push it away. No. Not now. Maybe not ever.

"You know we won, right?" I say to Derrick's unconscious form. "My boys raised the Cup. Maxwell looked like he wanted to vomit the entire time. Kept looking toward the tunnel like he expected you to walk out."

The irony isn't lost on me. Maxwell, the man who fired the shot that put Derrick here, lifting the Stanley Cup, not a smile in sight. The man was devastated, I could see it in his eyes. He'd just wanted to score, not end someone's season, possibly career.

I squeeze Derrick's hand a little tighter.

"Ridley's engaged now. Brea proposed from the stands after the game.

You should have seen his face." I chuckle, the sound hollow in the quiet room.

"The man who swore he'd never settle down again.

Who would have thought? Well, I guess it was inevitable.

We witnessed the rekindling of their relationship. "

Outside the window, dawn is breaking. I've been here all night.

The nurses haven't asked me to leave, I think they all know who I am.

Derrick's Head Coach and his agent have been pacing outside his hospital room for just as long.

Considering who's in the bed, a high-profile hockey player, no one would dare clear this room.

"I need you to wake up," I whisper, leaning closer. "I need you to be okay."

Because the truth is, I've spent ten months lying to myself. One night was never going to be enough. Not with him. Not with Derrick. Even if I have to fight it. I know eventually, I'm going to lose.

I lift his hand to my lips, press a kiss to his knuckles. "I'm here," I promise. "And I'm not going anywhere."

I'm not eavesdropping. Not really. It just happens that sound carries in this sterile hallway, Derrick's agent's voice has always been unnaturally loud. I recognize the timbre of it immediately, though I can't remember the last time I actually saw the man.

"Ms. Shaw, I understand your concern. I promise I'll keep you updated on any changes."

Tony Katz. That's his name. The man who negotiated Derrick's contracts beautifully, he's truly had the rookie’s back, handled his press seamlessly, considering the hype surrounding his first season in the NHL.

Apparently, updating parents is also in his wheelhouse.

I shift in the uncomfortable hospital chair, Derrick's hand still clasped in mine.

"The doctors will run several tests when Derrick wakes up to determine how severe the injury is." Tony's voice softens, something I didn't think possible. "For now, it's a wait-and-see situation."

I close my eyes, leaning my forehead against Derrick's hand.

I remember him telling me about his mother last summer, in those stolen moments when we were between teaching session during Tor's summer camp.

How she'd been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis when he was fifteen, how it had slowly taken her mobility.

How her condition was the reason he'd stayed in college all four years despite NHL scouts circling him since his sophomore year.

"I can't leave her yet," he'd told me, his eyes reflecting the summer stars above us. "She's sacrificed everything for me. Everything. The least I can do is get my degree so I can support her properly."

I hadn't understood then. My own parents had always been physically healthy, even if emotionally unavailable.

My father had pushed me toward hockey because art wasn't a ‘real career’.

My mother had stood by silently, never contradicting him.

They'd never missed a game, but they'd never really seen me either.

But Derrick's mother had seen him. Had encouraged both his hockey dreams and his education. Had raised him alone after his father walked out when Derrick was just three. And now she couldn't even be here to watch her son play in the Stanley Cup finals. Couldn't be here now at his bedside.

"I understand it's difficult for you to travel, Ms. Shaw," Tony continues. "I'll make arrangements for a live video feed to be set up in Derrick's room once he's awake, so you can see him and speak with him directly."

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat.

Derrick's life has been about taking care of others.

First his mother, then his teammates. The rookie who stepped up when Toronto's starting goalie went down with an injury last season.

He came to their rescue, helped them get back to the Cup Final.

The world got to see just how outstanding Derrick truly is.

His skill was not just hype, he proved the doubting sports commentators wrong and killed it.

He was the one who shocked everyone with his skill, his reflexes, his sheer determination.

The one who had kissed me like I was oxygen and he was drowning, that night at the summer festival.

I trace the lines of his palm with my thumb again, remembering how my hands had mapped every inch of his body. How they'd tangled in his hair, gripped his shoulders, held him close in the aftermath.

"What if he can't play again?" I whisper to the silent room.

The thought is almost physically painful.

Being a goalie means everything to me, it's my identity, my purpose.

The place where I finally found some kind of acceptance, even if it wasn't for the real me.

What would it mean for Derrick to lose that?

To lose the career he'd worked so hard for, the one that would support both him and his mother.

"He'll play again," I say more firmly, as if speaking it aloud could make it true. "He has to."

Outside the room, Tony's conversation continues but I tune it out.

Instead, I focus on the steady rise and fall of Derrick's chest, the occasional flutter of his eyelids that gives me hope he's dreaming, not just unconscious.

I focus on the warmth of his skin against mine, proof that he's alive, that he's fighting.

"You're going to wake up," I tell him, my voice rough with emotion I usually keep buried. "You're going to wake up, and you're going to heal, and you're going to get back on the ice. And next time—" My voice breaks. "Next time, I'll be there to protect you. Even if we're still on opposite teams."

Again, a ridiculous promise. Goalies protect their own nets, their own teams, we don't cross the ice to shield opponents from danger.

But in this moment, I don't care about teams or rivalries or the careful distance I've maintained.

All I care about is the man in this bed, and the future that hangs in the balance.

"I'll be there," I repeat, sealing the vow with another kiss to his knuckles. "Whatever happens. Whatever you need."