Page 37

A smooth, amused voice interrupts gently from behind us.

Christian, Sebastian's art agent, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that probably costs more than my first car, approaches with the confident stride of someone who knows exactly how valuable the man beside me is.

"A million-dollar hobby, Sebastian. You're too modest. Your waiting list is three years long, and that's with a strict vetting process. "

Sebastian sighs, a reluctant smile breaking through. "Yeah. It got out of hand."

The group scatters slightly, whispering, marveling at each painting, occasionally glancing back at us with newfound curiosity.

Sebastian doesn't release my hand, even as gallery visitors begin trickling in, recognizing Tor, Ridley, and Devan, clamoring around them excitedly.

Phones appear, surreptitious photos are taken, and I can practically see the social media posts being composed.

The implications of our linked hands aren't lost on anyone.

Whispers begin to ripple subtly through the crowd, eyes widening as they connect the dots between the famous goalie, the mysterious artist, and the subject of so many intimate portraits.

"You okay?" I whisper, leaning closer, suddenly aware that this moment is changing everything—for his career, for mine, for us.

Sebastian looks at me, eyes stormy yet determined, the gray in them almost silver under the gallery lights. His jaw is set in that stubborn line I've come to know so well. "I'm done hiding," he says simply. "Both parts of myself. Both parts of us."

My heart soars, hope and fear mingling chaotically as I glance around at the growing crowd, at the phones, at our teammates watching us with varying degrees of surprise and support. This is our point of no return. Tomorrow, the world will know everything.

SEBASTIAN

My heart pounds so violently I'm certain Derrick can feel it where our hands are joined.

The gallery, filled with chatter and laughter, presses in on me, making the room feel suddenly stifling.

My palms sweat, fingers tightening around Derrick's hand.

I have to consciously ease my grip, afraid of hurting him. The man needs his hand.

People approach, curious, questioning, some even snapping photos discreetly.

The whispers grow louder, speculation and surprise mixing in the overheard snatches of conversation.

The world is teetering on the edge of discovering everything, my double life, my art, my relationship with Derrick.

I knew this would happen the moment I took his hand openly, yet standing here, feeling the weight of scrutiny pressing in, panic claws at my throat.

Ridley leans close, voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Seriously, Bast, if shit blows up, we will support you. If you want to walk away. We?—"

"I don't want to walk away," I say firmly, surprising even myself with the conviction in my voice. "Hockey is still mine. This,” I wave my hand around at the various pieces on the walls and continue. “Painting, it's another part of me."

Christian chuckles again from nearby. "And a highly profitable part, my friend."

I shoot him a mild glare, but he just grins unapologetically. "You're welcome," he mouths, clearly delighted by the chaos.

My friends drift back to us, casting glances of awe and confusion in my direction, still clearly processing everything they've learned. Tor looks amused, Alexis intrigued, and Brea still stares at me as if I've grown a second head.

"Bast," Derrick says quietly beside me, "whatever happens tomorrow, we're in it together."

The sincerity in his voice steadies me, grounds me back in the moment. I look down into his warm, honest eyes and find strength there. "Together," I agree softly.

I know the fallout from tonight could be catastrophic. The press, the franchise, the fans, everything will change, but as I hold Derrick's hand, openly, proudly, I realize that I am no longer willing to compromise who I am. I've hidden in shadows too long.

Tonight, I chose Derrick. I chose us.

For the first time, despite the uncertainty ahead, I feel absolutely free.

My phone buzzes incessantly in my pocket, but I ignore it.

Whatever media storm is brewing can wait until morning.

Right now, I want to savor this moment of clarity, of finally standing in my own truth.

Derrick's thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand, a subtle reminder that I'm not alone anymore.

"You know, I've never seen you look so terrified. I've always admired your ability to remain steadfast despite all the crazy surrounding us." Tor appears at my side, his expression a mixture of respect and concern. "You good?"

I take a deep breath, straightening my shoulders. "I'm better than good."

He nods, understanding passing between us without needing more words. As captain, Tor has always had a sixth sense about his players, about what we need. Right now, his quiet solidarity means everything.

A flash goes off nearby, another photo taken. I feel Derrick tense beside me, but I squeeze his hand reassuringly. I know the secret's out now. No more hiding.

"Maybe we should go," Derrick suggests quietly. "Give you some space to process everything."

I shake my head. "Non. These are my paintings. This is my night." I look around at the crowded gallery, at my work displayed on every wall, at the red dots marking sold pieces. "For once, I want to be completely present, completely myself."

Christian approaches with two glasses of champagne. "To the man of the hour.” He raises them in salute. “Both of them." He winks, handing us each a glass. "The press is already calling. I've held them off, but by morning, B. Ardent's identity will be headline news."

"Let them come." The words feel foreign on my tongue, yet somehow right. "I'm done living half a life."

Derrick's eyes widen slightly at my declaration, a small smile playing at his lips. "Who are you and what have you done with my brooding goaltender?"

I laugh, the sound surprising even me. "He's still here. Just. . .evolving."

As the night progresses, I find myself moving through the gallery with Derrick at my side, explaining my paintings to curious onlookers who now see not just the art but the artist behind them.

The questions come, about hockey, about painting, about how I've managed both careers.

I answer honestly, no longer filtering my words through fear.

When we finally step outside into the cool Seattle night, the weight I've carried for years has lifted. The street is quiet, a stark contrast to the buzzing gallery we've left behind. Derrick's hand remains firmly in mine as we walk toward my car.

"You know there's no going back," he says softly, his breath visible in the night air.

I stop, turning to face him under the glow of a streetlamp. His features are half-shadowed, but I can still see the concern in his eyes.

"I don't want to go back." I reach up, tracing my fingertips along his jaw. "For the first time in my life, I'm moving forward. All of me."