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TWENTY-SIX

DERRICK

“ T he Seattle Vipers organization is aware of recent public interest surrounding veteran goaltender, Sebastian Bergeron, known in the international art world as B. Ardent, as well as his personal relationship with fellow Vipers player, Derrick Shaw.

Sebastian’s contributions both on and off the ice speak for themselves.

His identity as an artist was never subject to disclosure under the terms of his contract, nor did it interfere with his performance, commitment, or representation of the franchise.

At no point has his work or persona intersected with team branding, league property, or public endorsement agreements.

His off-ice pursuits remain his own, and we respect his right to privacy. ”

“Derrick Shaw was brought into the Vipers organization on the recommendation of our coaching and development staff. His talent, potential, and resilience made him an ideal fit for the future of our team, and we continue to support him in his recovery journey.”

“We are proud to uphold a culture of inclusivity, integrity, and excellence. All of our athletes are held to the highest standards of professionalism, and we recognize that strength takes many forms—on the ice, in personal passions, and in the courage it takes to live authentically.”

“The Seattle Vipers fully support Sebastian Bergeron and Derrick Shaw as individuals and as teammates. We remain focused on building a winning season with the best talent, character, and leadership the league has to offer.”

– The Seattle Vipers Executive Team

The Vipers locker room is buzzing when I walk in. Guys are already half-dressed in their base layers, stretching, talking over each other, energy high and ridiculous. I spot a copy of the team statement on one of the benches, someone having printed it out and circled Sebastian's name in red pen.

After a whirlwind week, three preseason games, one viral scandal, and a dozen calls from both our agents, the team finally released the official statement.

Sebastian read it three times while pacing the kitchen barefoot, a cup of coffee clutched in one hand, my hand in the other.

He didn't say much, but I saw the change in his shoulders, the way the weight shifted.

He finally let out a breath I think he'd been holding since we left the meeting with the GM the morning after the gallery show.

Now, standing in the middle of the locker room, I feel it too. The edge has dulled. The danger has passed. Not entirely, but enough.

"Shaw!" Tor grins, pulling a jersey over his head. "You’re dating a damn zillionaire and didn't think to buy the team lunch?"

I smirk. "I'm still third string, remember? I'm only good for orange slices and tape."

"Bullshit," Ridley throws in, clapping Sebastian on the back as he passes. "I mean, B. Ardent? Really? Like, I think Tor and I need matching yachts."

Tor laughs as Devan gears up for his pregame music serenade that I'm still getting used to.

Sebastian doesn't flinch, but his fingers twitch where they brush mine as I sit beside him. He hasn't let go of my hand since we walked into the locker room, and I'm not about to pull away.

"So let me get this straight," Devan says from his stall phone in hand. "You're the most mysterious, famous artist in the world and the best goalie in the league? No offense but fuck off. That's greedy."

Sebastian actually laughs, and I swear it might be the first real one I've heard since this whole thing started.

"Painting doesn't win championships," he mutters, shrugging. "Hockey does."

The banter explodes around us, fast and familiar.

It's like nothing ever changed. Except everything did.

Devan dances on top of the bench in front of his stall as Cardi B's, I Like It , blares from his phone, his pregame ritual now in full swing.

He's bobbing his head dramatically, mouthing every word with the confidence of someone who practices in the mirror.

Ridley and Tor join in, throwing towels at each other while shouting lyrics they definitely don't know correctly.

Everyone is hyped, bouncing with that electric energy that only comes before game time. The locker room smells like a mixture of sweat, athletic tape, and that weird cologne Maxwell insists isn't too strong. Sticks clack against the floor as guys tape and re-tape, a nervous habit we all share.

I can't believe how lucky I am to be part of this team. These guys who ribbed Sebastian about his secret talent moments ago are the same ones who've had my back since the moment I became a Viper. Now they're here, accepting us both.

That's when Coach Lennox walks in, whistle around his neck, and clipboard under his arm. The room immediately goes quiet.

"You ladies done talking about each other's feelings? Good. We've got Chicago on the schedule tonight, and I want your heads in the game. Not on Instagram. Not on TMZ. Hockey."

He looks straight at Sebastian. Pauses. Nods once.

"Bergeron is here to work. Shaw is here to play. Everyone else is here to win. Act like it. Gear up."

No one argues. Everyone moves.

Sebastian finally drops my hand to pull on his pads. As he bends down, his shoulder brushes mine, solid and steady, and I take a breath.

We're still here, still standing, and we're just getting started.

The roar of the crowd hits like a physical force as Chicago's forward skates a desperate breakaway toward our net. I lean forward on the bench, my mask pushed up on top of my head, heart hammering against my ribs.

"Come on, Bast," I whisper, the words lost in the thunderous noise of the arena.

Sebastian is a statue between the pipes, weight balanced perfectly on the edges of his skates, glove hand raised, stick positioned low. I know that stance. I've studied it for years, had posters of it on my wall, and now I get to witness it in real-time, wearing the same colors he is.

The Chicago forward fakes left, shifts right, then fires, a wicked slap shot that would get past most goalies in the league.

But Sebastian isn't most goalies.

His glove snaps up, snatching the puck from the air like it's moving in slow motion for him while everyone else is stuck at regular speed. The crowd explodes, and I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved, pounding the boards with my glove.

"Jesus Christ," Javier mutters next to me, shaking his head. "That's just showing off."

I can't help the grin splitting my face. "You know this is just a regular Tuesday for him."

Fifteen minutes into the first period, and Chicago already looks frustrated. Sebastian has turned away eight shots, each save more ridiculous than the last. The Chicago bench is getting antsy, their coach's face reddening with each denied opportunity.

This team, my team now, moves like they share a brain. Tor takes the face-off, wins it clean, and sends the puck back to Ridley, who's already moving up the boards. Three Chicago players converge, but Ridley threads a pass through their sticks to Devan, who's cutting across center ice.

"GO!" I shout with the rest of the bench, our bodies collectively leaning forward like we can somehow push Devan faster with our will.

Devan dangles past their defenseman, dekes once, twice, then dishes a no-look pass to Tor, who's suddenly wide open. The shot is quick, clean, top shelf.

Goal!

The horn blares, and our bench erupts. I'm high-fiving guys I barely know, getting slapped on the back, caught in the collective joy.

I catch Sebastian's eye from across the ice.

Even behind his mask, I can tell he's smiling that private smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

He gives me a small nod, and my chest tightens with something that feels dangerously close to love.

Coach Lennox paces behind us, barking adjustments, but there's approval in his voice. This is what he built, a machine with every part working in perfect harmony.

"Shaw," he says suddenly, and I snap to attention. "Watch Maxwell's positioning. See how he's covering the weak side? That's where you need to improve your vision."

"Yes, Coach," I nod, immediately focusing on Maxwell's defensive play.

That's how it goes for the rest of the period. I'm not just sitting, I'm studying. Each shift change, Coach points out something new to watch. Defensive angles, breakout patterns, the way Chicago telegraphs their shots. This might not be my game to play, but it's definitely my game to learn.

By the second period, we're up 2-0 after Ridley buries a rebound. Chicago gets nasty, throwing hits, trying to rattle us. One particularly brutal check sends Devan flying into the boards.

"Oh shit," I mutter as Devan slowly gets to his feet, shaking it off.

The next shift, Devan finds the guy who hit him and returns the favor, nearly shaking the glass loose. The message is clear: Our enforcer will return the pain, two-fold.

Sebastian remains untouchable. A Chicago forward gets too close to his crease, and Devan is there immediately, shoving him away with enough force to start a minor scuffle. The refs separate them, but Devan's point is made. Nobody gets near our goalie.

"You see that?" Coach Lennox says to me. "That's what we need from you too. Attitude. Presence. When you're in that crease, it's your kingdom."

I nod, swallowing hard. Right now, watching Sebastian, I can't imagine ever measuring up. He's a wall, a force of nature. Forty minutes into the game, and Chicago has thrown everything they have at him, one-timers, deflections, screened shots and he's stopped all twenty-seven attempts.

The third period starts with more intensity. Chicago is desperate now. They crash the net, trying to create chaos, but Sebastian stays centered, focused. I watch his eyes, how they track the puck through traffic, how he never loses sight of it even when bodies are flying.

Groves picks up a loose puck in the neutral zone and turns on the jets. For a big guy, he's surprisingly fast, and he blows past Chicago's defense. The goalie comes out to challenge, but Groves just waits, waits, then tucks it five-hole as the goalie drops.

3-0.

The bench celebrates again, but my eyes are on Sebastian. Even with a three-goal cushion, there's no relaxation in his stance. Every save matters. Every moment has the same intensity.

"That's why he's the best," Javier says beside me, following my gaze. "Never takes a shift off. Not even in practice."

I've seen it firsthand. Those early mornings in the practice facility, just the two of us. Sebastian drilling me on positioning, reflexes, angles. Pushing me until my legs burn and sweat soaks through my practice jersey.

"He's making you better," Javier adds, bumping my shoulder. "Your time's coming. Be ready."

With five minutes left, Chicago pulls their goalie. Six attackers against our five skaters and Sebastian. They're desperate, throwing everything at the net.

Sebastian makes a save that defies physics, a full split, glove extended, somehow snagging a puck that was labeled for the top corner. The crowd gives him a standing ovation mid-play.

I'm on my feet again, unable to contain myself. This is why I wanted to be a goalie. This exact feeling, watching someone perform the impossible and knowing, someday, that could be me.

The final horn sounds. Shutout. 3-0.

The team pours onto the ice, converging on Sebastian. I hang back slightly until his eyes find mine through the crowd. He motions me over with a tilt of his head, and I join the celebration, bumping fists with guys who just played their hearts out.

"You seeing the game differently?" Sebastian asks quietly as we skate toward the tunnel, the roar of the crowd still washing over us.

"Yeah," I nod, overwhelmed by the night, by him, by all of it. "I'm going to be okay."

His gloved hand finds my shoulder, squeezes once. "Good. Because next time, it might be your net."

The promise in those words lights something in my chest. Not jealousy or competition, just pure inspiration. I want to be worthy of this team, this city, this man beside me.

I’ll wait. I’ll learn. When my moment comes, I'll be ready. That's what being a Viper is about, and I'm finally, truly, part of the team.