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TWENTY-EIGHT

DERRICK

I already miss her. My mom spent the holidays with us, filled the house with laughter and peppermint tea and that humming sound she makes when she's deep in thought—a melody that's been the soundtrack to my childhood.

The guest room feels too empty without her, like she left a soft echo behind that the walls aren't ready to let go of, as if they're still hoping she'll walk back through the door with another story about my awkward teenage years.

I promised we'd visit Lark Bay once the season wraps.

If we don't make the playoffs, we could go for a week, maybe longer if we volunteer for Tor's summer camp.

She didn't say it, but I know she's tired more often now.

The cane isn't just for bad days anymore, it's become an extension of her, a permanent companion.

Still, she made Christmas magic for us. Let me cook despite her protests.

Watched me fuss over a turkey I wasn't sure how to carve, coaching from her chair with that patience she's always had, and teased me every step of the way about how I could stop a projectile traveling ninety miles an hour but couldn't figure out which end of the bird to start with.

Told Bast, over slices of sweet potato pie that tasted exactly like my childhood, that he was family now.

That was the first time I really saw her look at him like a son-in-law.

Like someone she trusted to catch me if I fell, to be there when she couldn't. The thought of Bast and I married sends a jolt of warmth through me that settles deep in my bones, but we are nowhere near ready for that.

I haven't even told the man I love him, though the words sometimes rise up in my throat when he's not looking, when he's just existing in our shared space.

The kettle whistles, sharp and insistent, and I turn it off just as Sebastian walks in, barefoot, hair damp from his shower, droplets still clinging to the nape of his neck.

He looks unfairly good in a long-sleeved shirt and sweats, like some kind of moody magazine ad for domestic bliss that I'd tear out and keep.

He leans in to kiss my temple, his lips warm against my skin, murmuring, "You okay?

" His voice is low, intimate in the morning quiet.

"Yeah," I lie, knowing I'm not convincing anyone, least of all myself.

If he notices—of course he does, Bast notices everything—he doesn't push, and I'm grateful for this small mercy, this moment of understanding without words.

We settle in on the couch, protein smoothies in hand, and bowls of fruit in our laps while the morning news plays in the background, a gentle hum of voices filling the space between us.

Neither of us are really watching, lost in our own thoughts, until I hear my teammates name cutting through the comfortable silence, yanking me back to reality.

“…Seattle Vipers goalie Javier Gossman was injured late last night in what authorities are calling a weather-related car accident. He was transported to Seattle General Hospital with a broken tibia and multiple contusions. Sources within the team say Gossman will miss the remainder of the season.”

My mouth drops open in shock and I almost drop my smoothie, the glass nearly slipping from my suddenly nerveless fingers. The world narrows to the news anchor's face, her professionally neutral expression as she delivers words that will reshape my entire career.

Sebastian grabs the remote and mutes the TV, already turning to look at me as my phone begins to ring, its shrill tone somehow matching the panic rising in my chest. His eyes, sharp and focused, track my every movement.

Pulling it from my pocket with clumsy fingers, I can see it's Coach Lennox. The name flashes like a warning light.

I answer on the second ring, throat dry as sandpaper. "Hello?" My voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else.

"Shaw. We need to talk," he says frantically, none of his usual measured calm present.

I stand, pacing toward the kitchen, my legs moving on autopilot. Placing my bowl of fruit and smoothie on the counter with exaggerated care, I brace my arm in front of me to steady myself and lean against it, feeling the cool granite ground me. "I just heard about Javier. Is he?—"

"Alive, yes. Lucky, even. But his leg is crushed. Compound fracture. He's been in surgery this morning. He won't return this season." There's a pause, heavy with implication, then Lennox continues, "We're pulling you up. You're the second goalie now."

My heart lurches, a reckless leap that steals my breath. The kitchen spins slightly around me, reality recalibrating.

"We'll talk more when you come in. You ready for this?" he asks, cutting through my whirling thoughts.

I don't answer right away, paralyzed by the enormity of what this means. Months of practice, watching from the sidelines, suddenly crystallizing into opportunity.

"Derrick?" he snaps to get my attention, impatience edging his tone.

"Yes," I say, finding my voice at last. "Yes, sir. I'm ready." The words come out stronger than I feel.

When I hang up, I don't move, my fingers still clutching the phone like a lifeline. The kitchen is silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator, marking seconds that feel impossibly significant.

Sebastian is watching me, patient and still. I don't realize I'm shaking until he comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my chest, grounding me in the press of his body, solid and warm. His presence anchors me when everything else feels adrift.

"Talk to me," he says against my shoulder, his breath warm through the thin fabric of my shirt.

"What if I'm not enough?" I whisper, voicing the fear that's lived inside me since I first put my pads back on months ago. "What if I blow it?" The question hangs between us, fragile and honest.

"You won't," he says with so much conviction my eyes begin to burn, vision blurring at the edges.

"You don't know that," I reply, wanting desperately to believe him but afraid to hope too much. The memory of my injury flickers across my mind, the darkness, the uncertainty.

He spins me around, gently, and cups my face in his hands. His thumbs stroke the corners of my jaw, callused fingers tender against my skin. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, hold mine without wavering.

"I do," he says. "Because I've seen you fight for this. I watched you claw your way back from nothing, Derrick. I've watched you work harder than anyone else. I've seen you in pain, in doubt, and I've seen you rise above it. You're more than ready. You're already enough."

His eyes search mine, tears brim his lids. His voice thick with an emotion I've never heard from him before, raw and unguarded.

“Je t’aime.” I love you.

The words stop everything.

Not English. Not loud. Just for me.

I freeze. My brain scrambles to translate, but my heart already knows. I blink at him, stunned.“You. . .you love me?”I can’t help the question coming out breathless, disbelieving.

He nods, a slight movement, but certain. "Since the moment you walked back into my life, I've been trying not to. But yes. I do. I love you, Derrick Shaw," he says my name like it's something precious, something he's savored in silence.

The sob cracks out of me before I can stop it, breaking through the dam I've built around these feelings. "Do you know how long I've been waiting to say it to you?" Weeks of guarded glances, of words caught behind my teeth, of wondering if what was growing between us was real.

He smiles, and it breaks open something soft and glowing between us, something that's been waiting for permission to exist. "Say it now," he whispers, the invitation gentle.

"I love you," I whisper against his lips, kissing him sweetly, pouring months of longing into the connection between us. The words feel like coming home.

He pulls me into him like he's trying to absorb the words through skin.

We stand there, the two of us, wrapped in each other, the morning light spilling golden across the floor, illuminating dust motes that dance around us like silent witnesses.

Tomorrow, I become the second goalie. Tomorrow everything changes.

Today, in this moment, I am loved. . .and I am ready.