Page 31

TWENTY-ONE

DERRICK

T he morning light streams through the blinds, casting striped shadows across the bed.

I try to catch a few more moments of sleep, but Bast's side of the bed is empty, the sheets cold.

A glance at my phone confirms it's still early, but not too early for Mom to be awake.

I prop myself up on the pillows, adjusting to make sure the lighting isn't terrible, and dial her number for a video chat.

Her face appears on screen, her smile immediate and warming me from the inside out.

"There's my superstar!"

I laugh, shaking my head. "Hey, Mom. How are you feeling today?" I search her face for any signs of fatigue or pain, something I've been doing since I was old enough to understand what MS meant.

"I'm good, baby. Better now that I see your handsome face." She adjusts her glasses, leaning closer to the screen. "I watched your preseason game last night. That save in the third period. I nearly knocked over my tea jumping up!"

Pride swells in my chest, mixed with a sharp pang of homesickness. "You're still my number one fan."

"Better believe it. Always will be." She winks. "How's rehab going? You seemed steady on your feet out there."

"It's good. Better every day." I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. "I miss you though. I'm sorry I haven't made it back to Lark Bay like I promised."

Her expression softens. "Oh, honey. I understand. Your recovery comes first."

"I just—" The words catch. "I just want to give you everything, Mom.

After all you did for me, all those early morning practices, all those tournaments, working two jobs so I could play.

. ." The emotions I've been keeping in check threaten to overflow.

"I need to get better. For the team, but mostly for you. "

Mom's eyes shine with unshed tears, but her expression is fierce. "You don't owe me anything, baby. I've always wanted what's best for you. Even when I didn't know how I was going to achieve it." She smiles, which only makes me want to cry more.

I think about the sacrifices she made. The second jobs, the medical bills she hid from me, the times she went without so I could have what I needed.

It was always just us against the world, especially after Dad walked out of our lives.

Hockey became my escape, my joy, and somehow, miraculously, my future.

"I know, but?—"

"No buts," she interrupts firmly. "I'm proud of you, Derrick. Not just for the hockey, though Lord knows that boy I used to drag out of bed for 5 AM practices has come a long way." Her laughter is soft, nostalgic. "I'm proud of the man you've become."

I blink rapidly, willing the tears away. "Thanks, Ma."

She tilts her head, a mischievous glint entering her eyes. "So. . .when do I get to hear more about this handsome goalie you're staying with? The news has been suspiciously quiet about this arrangement."

I run a hand through my curls, still damp from the shower I shared with Bast earlier.

The memory of his hands soaping my back, his grumbled complaints about Christian's last-minute art request fading into soft kisses along my shoulder blades brings heat to my cheeks.

Of course, she would bring up Bast. I hadn't told her the nature of our relationship yet.

I hadn't wanted to jinx whatever this fragile, beautiful thing between us is becoming.

"We’re off to practice soon," I hedge, unable to keep the smile from my face.

"Mmhmm," she hums, unconvinced. "And you're changing the subject because. . .?"

I laugh, caught. "Fine. Bast and I are. . .something."

She raises an eyebrow, waiting.

"More than something," I admit with a wry smile, thinking of the way he held me last night, like I was precious. How his eyes, usually so guarded, had opened for me in ways I never expected.

"Well," she says, satisfaction coloring her tone, "I can't wait to meet him in person and see this 'something' for myself."

The sound of footsteps draws my attention. Bast appears in the doorway, fresh from his studio, a small smudge of blue paint on his forearm that he missed. Our eyes meet, and the corners of his mouth lift in that private smile that still makes my stomach flip.

"Is that him?" Mom asks, leaning forward as if she could peer out at him through the screen.

"Yeah, we really do need to go." I turn back to the screen. "Love you, Mom. I'll call you after practice."

"Love you too, baby. Go show 'em how it's done."

I end the call just as Bast approaches, coffee in hand. He sets a second mug on the nightstand beside me, the aroma rich and inviting.

"Your mom?" he asks, gesturing to my phone.

I nod, taking a sip. Perfect, with just the right amount of cream. "She wants to meet you."

Something flickers across his face. Is he nervous? Then he smiles at me. "I'd like that."

Twenty minutes later, we're heading out the door together. Bast's hand finds the small of my back as we walk to the car, a subtle gesture that feels significant. The morning sun is bright, and I slip on my sunglasses, unable to keep the smile off my face.

As we pull out of the driveway, it occurs to me that for the first time since my injury, I'm not just going through the motions. This driving to the arena with Bast, practicing with a team that believes in me, feeling my strength return day by day feels real. It feels like a beginning.

I'm not ready for this dream to end.

By the time we get to the rink, the warmth of the morning fades under the fluorescent buzz of the locker room lights. I suit up without thinking, slipping into pads, lacing my skates, pulling on the mask like muscle memory. It should feel familiar. It doesn't.

The moment I step onto the ice, something shifts.

The sounds hit too hard, painfully so, pucks slapping against the boards like gunshots, blades cutting ice like razors scraping across my nerves, and Coach Willis's whistle shrieking like a war cry that pierces straight through my skull.

The lights overhead are too bright, merciless, and my vision edges with static for a heartbeat before I blink it away, trying to ground myself in the cold beneath my skates.

Focus. Breathe. Get your head in the game . My mantra feels hollow today, echoing in my mind without sticking.

We're running glove-side reaction drills.

Tobias, Ridley and Maxwell take turns firing pucks at me from varying angles.

Quick snaps, rapid fire shots that give me no time to think.

I catch the first one, feeling a small surge of confidence.

Then miss the second as it whistles past my shoulder.

I manage to deflect the third with the edge of my blocker.

The fourth flies past me completely, and I hear the distinctive thunk as it hits the back of the net.

"Reset!" Willis barks, his skates carving harsh lines as he crosses the blue line toward me. His face is set in that familiar scowl, disappointment radiating from every pore. "You're late, Shaw. Again. Your reaction time is garbage today."

I clench my jaw behind the mask, teeth grinding together, and drop back into stance, legs spread, glove ready. The next puck slams into my blocker with a force that vibrates up my arm. The one after that grazes the net by inches, yet another failure.

The rhythm is off. My timing's off. Everything about me is off, like I'm playing in a body I don't recognize anymore.

I glance up between reps, trying to catch my breath, and spot her.

Dr. Sloan. Seated in the stands with her clipboard pressed against her knee, her expression carefully neutral, professionally unreadable.

She's probably noting every slip, every flinch, every hesitation.

Documenting every failure for our next session later today. Another reason why I'm not ready.

Another puck comes flying. Missed. Again.

"Eyes on the puck, not the gallery!" Willis snaps. "This isn't art class!"

Laughter echoes from somewhere on the bench. I know it's Devan, probably telling a joke that has nothing to do with me. But it feels like a slap.

I grit my teeth, but my hands are shaking.

I can feel it. The tremor that creeps in when I'm over-tired and overwhelmed.

A parting gift from the injury that keeps on giving.

The subtle vibration in my fingertips that betrays everything I'm trying to hide.

My glove feels heavier than it should, my blocker clumsy and uncoordinated.

The ice beneath me, once my sanctuary now feels like a battlefield I'm losing.

Bast skates by during the reset, tapping the top of my helmet with the flat of his blade. "You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear it. "Let your body take over." His eyes meet mine briefly, steady and certain in a way I used to be.

I try. I really do. I force my shoulders to relax, try to find that place where instinct takes over and the mind goes quiet.

The place where I lived before the accident—before the fear—but the next drill goes worse.

Maxwell winds up from the point, the puck sailing high, and I duck on a high shot.

Pure instinct. My body reacting before I can stop it, betraying me in front of everyone.

The rubber disc whistles over my head, hitting the back of the net with a sound that feels like ultimate betrayal of my abilities.

I hear the whistle blow, sharp and immediate, cutting through the sudden silence on the ice.

"Off the ice, Shaw!" Willis shouts, his face flushed with frustration. "Cool down. Clear your head." His voice echoes across the rink, and I feel the weight of every pair of eyes on me. My teammates, coaching staff, Dr. Sloan with her clipboard, all watch me crumble.

The world narrows. Everything beyond my immediate space fades into a blur of colors and noise.