Page 30

Across the bench, Derrick sits, eyes focused on some middle distance beyond the ice. He's gone quiet. The constant motion, the perpetual energy that defines him, funneled into a laser- sharp stillness that doesn't suit him. Makes him look like someone else.

He stands, stretching muscles that have memorized these movements through thousands of repetitions.

His routine. Left pad tightened first, then right.

Taps his stick blade three times against the boards.

Squares his shoulders beneath equipment that should make him look bigger but somehow makes him seem more vulnerable.

He pulls on his mask with practiced ease but there is a subtle hesitation, a flicker of doubt behind his eyes as we pass each other at the gate.

"You've got this," I say as he passes. "C'est ton moment. Ta lumière." This is your moment. Your light.

He nods but doesn't speak. The weight of what this means for him is heavy in the silence between us.

I take my place at the end of the bench, towel draped over my shoulders, water bottle clutched too tightly in my gloved hand. Devan sits beside me, his body radiating tension I don't understand until I follow his gaze across to where Tobias stands, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the ice.

The third period begins and Derrick holds strong at first. Solid tracking.

Decent footwork. His glove is a little slow, but his reflexes are sharp enough to compensate.

The crowd notices, a collective exhalation of relief when he makes his first save—clean, efficient, textbook.

The second one earns louder cheers. By the third, the stadium is starting to believe.

Hell, the entire team is cheering him on.

Until they aren't.

Midway through, LA's center launches a shot from the blue line, high and fast. Derrick drops low, instinctively ducking. The puck whizzes past his shoulder and buries itself in the net. The lamp lights ups and the crowd groans.

The horn blares. 2-1

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, not loud enough for anyone to hear.

I see it in his posture. I watch as confidence drains from his body, the slump in his shoulders, the frustration in every move, the doubt creeping back into his stance. He's not tracking as well now, his movements a half-second behind the puck.

He tries to shake it off and keep playing but that one goal changes everything.

His stance wavers. He stops challenging the puck. His reaction time slows. Another shot rings off the post, close, too close. Derrick's duck is imperceptible to anyone who doesn't know his body language as well as I do, but I see it, the ghost of memory, of pain, making him flinch.

Ridley notices too, skating closer to the crease, saying something to Derrick I can't hear. It seems to steady him, momentarily at least. His next save is clean, a glove snatch that earns a cheer from our bench.

I exhale slowly, tension coiled in my shoulders as I watch him fight his own demons out there. Wanting to help and knowing I can't. This is his battle, his moment. All I can do is watch.

Another shot. Another save. The crowd's energy shifts, sensing the importance of this moment, rallying behind him.

Before anyone notices what's happening at the goal, the end of the game buzzer sounds and all hell breaks loose on the ice. Like a damn pressure cooker blowing its lid, Tobias and Devan explode at center ice.

Their sticks fly across the ice. Shoves and words are yelled that I can't hear from my position. Then their fists start flying. I'm stunned. Yes, Devan is our enforcer but he would never strike his own teammate. Not without reason.

The crowd roars in excitement. . .one last fight for the road. It's absolutely embarrassing as the entire LA team circles around and watches our dirty laundry being aired so publicly.

Ridley and Tor rush in. So do the refs.

Willis is screaming from the bench, face flushed red beneath his salt and pepper beard. Lennox is barking commands. I stay put, jaw tight, as Tobias swings for Devan like it's personal.

The way they've been eyeing each other during practice, barely speaking, maybe it is. It's clear these two have a past. I don't know what has caused them to drop gloves like this but whatever is brewing between them has reached a boiling point fast.

Devan lands a solid right hook that splits Tobias's lip.

Blood spatters across the ice, bright crimson against white.

Tobias retaliates with a body shot that doubles Devan over.

Neither of them hold back, this isn't for show, not like the staged fights we sometimes engage in to rally the crowd or shift momentum. This is raw, unchecked anger.

By the time the refs manage to separate them, both men are panting, bleeding, their eyes still locked in silent combat even as they're escorted off the ice. The final whistle blows, ending the charade of a game that had devolved into one hell of a shit show. At least we won.

The locker room is tense afterward. Lennox tears into both of them, his voice echoing off the walls as he demands explanations neither seems willing to give.

Voices are raised. Apologies mumbled. The rest of us stay silent, caught in the uncomfortable position of witnessing something none of us fully understand.

Derrick stays quiet in the corner, mask off, sweat-soaked hair clinging to his forehead. I sit beside him, close but not touching. Giving him the space to process whatever's going through his head.

"You did good," I say softly, just for him.

"I let one in," his voice is flat, defeated.

"One. But so did Gossman." I nod toward our second goalie across the room.

He doesn't answer, but his shoulder leans into mine. Small victories.

I want to say more. Want to tell him that coming back isn't about perfection, it's about persistence. That he stood in that crease and faced down his fear, which makes him braver than anyone else on the ice tonight. That I'm proud of him. That I?—

But the moment breaks as Lennox's voice rises again, this time directed at the whole team.

"What the hell was that out there? We're supposed to be a unit, not a goddamn UFC match! Groves and Scott get your ass cleaned up and meet me in my office. Ten minutes. The rest of you, clean up and clear out. We'll review this disaster tomorrow."

Derrick sighs beside me, running a hand through his hair. "Some welcome back party, huh?"

I bump his shoulder with mine, the smallest gesture of solidarity. "Next time we'll get you a cake."

The ghost of a smile touches his lips, and in that moment, I know he'll be okay. Not perfect, not yet. Okay is a start.

It's not until later, when we return home that it hits me.

The silence between us isn't heavy, it's quiet.

Shared. Familiar. Like a conversation without words, comfortable in a way I never expected.

He drops his gear in the hall and kicks off his shoes, padding across the hardwood in socked feet.

I recognize the newness. The difference. The subtle shift in my world's axis.

After games, I used to come home to silence and canvas. Paintings and pressure. Just me and my thoughts echoing through empty rooms, brush strokes my only company until dawn cracked the sky. The solitude I convinced myself was preference rather than armor.

Now there is Derrick. His tired smile that illuminates corners of my home I’d never noticed were dark.

His lingering scent mingling with mine, citrusy and something uniquely him.

His soft breath against my neck when we finally collapse into bed, his body curving against mine like he's always belonged there.

The weight of him beside me, solid and real.

For once, I don't fall asleep wondering what I am missing. No hollow space beneath my ribs asking to be filled. No restless turning until exhaustion claims me. I already have it. Have him. Have us. This unplanned, unexpected thing that feels more like home than any place I've ever lived.