Page 4

And for the first time since I walked away from him ten months ago, I allow myself to acknowledge the truth: I never stopped thinking about Derrick Shaw.

Never stopped wanting him. Never stopped caring, even when I tried to convince myself otherwise.

Now I just need him to wake up, and to help him in any way that I can, because as much as I want to tell him how I truly feel, I know that I can't. We can't.

Someone clears their throat at the door, and I raise my head from Derrick's hand to find Toronto's Head Coach, Justin Verrique, standing in the threshold. His eyes travel between my hand in Derrick's and back to my face, his expression unreadable.

Honestly, I don't care what the man's thinking. The hockey world knows my sexual orientation. It's public knowledge. I know Derrick never announced he was gay but he never hid who he was either. I'll be damned if Verrique passes judgment.

"He's alone," I say, my voice raspier than I expect. "I met him last summer, along with Bailey, Scott, and Masters. We took him under our wing. I needed to be here for him."

I don't need to give Verrique more than that and it seems he gets it. He nods once, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he moves into the room.

Verrique sits in the chair opposite Derrick, looking haggard. I'm surprised the man is still here in the hospital but it tells me a lot about Coach Verrique's character and how he truly feels about his players.

"In all my years coaching in the NHL, I've never witnessed anything like I did tonight.

" Verrique rubs a hand over his face, stubble scraping against his palm in a gesture so weary it radiates exhaustion like heat.

The fluorescent lights carve deep shadows beneath his eyes.

"A freak accident. Well, that's what the doctors are saying. Damn shame."

His voice drops, and I notice the slight tremor in his fingers as they fall away from his face. Ten years ago, I might have missed these subtle tells of a man trying desperately to maintain composure. Now I recognize them immediately, the invisible weight of responsibility crushing his shoulders.

"I mean, thank goodness this happened during the break," he continues, glancing at Derrick's still form. "He will have a few weeks to recover."

The optimism in his voice sounds hollow, manufactured for both our benefits. Recovery timelines for injuries like this aren't measured in weeks. We both know it but neither of us is ready to voice that reality in this sterile room where Derrick can't defend himself against our pessimism.

"Weeks?" I reply, unable to hide my skepticism.

The word hangs between us like some fragile, impossible promise.

I've seen enough concussions to know better, witnessed careers derailed by that invisible enemy that lurks beneath the skull.

I've visited teammates in darkened rooms where even whispers felt like thunderclaps to them.

"Depends on the degree of the concussion, Coach. "

My fingers tighten protectively around Derrick's hand.

There's a familiar weight to this conversation, one I've carried before.

The truth hovers unspoken: brain injuries don't follow convenient timelines.

They don't care about playoff schedules or contract negotiations.

I watch Verrique's face, searching for signs he understands what we're really talking about, not just games missed, but who Derrick might be when he finally wakes up.

"I just don't want this to end his career. I don't want to lose my goalie." Verrique's voice drops, revealing the genuine concern beneath the professional exterior.

Just as I'm about to speak, Derrick's hand squeezes mine, and in a croaky voice, he speaks.

"Bast."

My heart stops. Then races. My eyes snap to his face where I find his eyelids fluttering, struggling to open.

"Derrick?" I lean closer, squeezing his hand back. "I'm here. You're okay. You're in the hospital."

Coach Verrique jumps to his feet, pressing the call button for the nurse. "Shaw? Can you hear me, son?"

Derrick's eyes open fully, blinking slowly as he tries to focus. His gaze finds mine first, confusion clouding those beautiful brown eyes before recognition dawns.

"What. . ." His voice cracks, dry from disuse. "What happened?"

I reach for the water cup on the bedside table, holding the straw to his lips. "Puck to the helmet. You've been out for hours."

He takes a small sip, wincing slightly. "Did we win?"

A laugh escapes me, relief making me almost lightheaded. Of course that would be his first real question. "No." I shake my head, unable to stop the smile spreading across my face. "We did. Seattle, I mean."

A flicker of disappointment crosses his features before he closes his eyes again, exhaling slowly. "Figures."

Coach Verrique moves closer, relief evident in every line of his face. "How are you feeling, Shaw? Any pain? Dizziness?"

Derrick opens his eyes again, this time looking at his coach. "Head hurts like a motherfucker." His gaze drifts back to me, to our joined hands. A small, puzzled smile curves his lips. "And apparently I'm hallucinating Bergeron at my bedside."

"Not a hallucination," I mutter, suddenly self-conscious but unwilling to let go. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

The door opens as a nurse rushes in, followed by a doctor. They immediately move to Derrick's side, checking vitals and asking questions. I reluctantly release his hand, stepping back to give them room.

"We need to run some tests," the doctor explains, shining a light in Derrick's eyes. "But it's a good sign that you're awake and alert."

I catch Derrick's eye over the doctor's shoulder. There's a question there, one I'm not ready to answer. Not here, not now, not with an audience.

"I should go," I say, backing toward the door. "Let them do their job."

"Bast." His voice stops me, stronger now. "Will you come back?"

The vulnerability in his question hits me like a body check, knocking the breath from my lungs. After everything, after I walked away without a word, after ten months of silence, after deliberately avoiding him whenever our teams faced off. He still wants me here.

I nod, unable to trust my voice. It's a promise I know I'll keep, even though I have no idea what happens next. What I'll say when I return. How I'll explain the way I left, or why I'm here now.

I'll figure it out. For him. For us. Even if there's nothing but my friendship to give.

As I step into the hallway, I take my first full breath in what feels like hours. He's awake. He's talking. And against all odds, against all my better judgment, I'm still hopelessly drawn to him.