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TWENTY-NINE

SEBASTIAN

T he tension hits the moment I step onto the ice.

It's in the way the crowd buzzes louder than usual, in the tight coil between my shoulders as I skate to my crease and settle into the rhythm of warmups.

The familiar weight of my mask, the scrape of my skates cutting perfect arcs into fresh ice, it all feels different tonight.

Winnipeg. Of course it's them. Of course, this is the game that feels heavier than all the others, like someone's laid concrete in my gear bag.

The Rogers Arena feels both too small and too vast, the ceiling lights harsh against the pristine surface below.

I tap my posts three times, left, right, center, my ritual unchanged despite the storm of emotions churning inside. I stretch, extending my legs one at a time, feeling the muscles protest after our grueling practice yesterday.

I avoid looking directly at Lachlan as we take our positions.

He's already lined up at center for face-off, casually stretching like he doesn't have a single regret in his body, like he didn't shatter three years of my life with a single Instagram post. His jersey, the wrong shade of black and gray, catches in my peripheral vision.

I can feel him looking at me. I've felt it since the anthem ended, his gaze burning into my back like a laser sight.

I'm used to it now, the way his presence still stirs something ugly in the pit of my stomach.

Not longing. Not anymore. Just a ghost of what used to be.

The referee skates to center ice, puck in hand. My teammates settle into their positions, Tor crouches low, ready for the draw. The stadium lights gleam off our helmets, casting shadows across the numbered backs of jerseys.

We make it to puck drop before he finally skates by. Just a few seconds, a blur of black and gray, but he slows as he passes me, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that familiar way that used to make my heart race but now just makes my jaw clench.

"Bergeron," he says, low and unreadable, his voice nearly lost in the roar of the crowd.

I glance over, giving him nothing but a sharp nod, my face a careful mask of professional indifference. "Devereaux."

His eyes flick down to the painted B. Ardent patch someone taped to the back of my helmet. A joke from Devan, a small tribute to my secret passion. I hadn't removed it. Hadn't even thought about it until this moment, when Lachlan's gaze lingers there a second too long.

"B. Ardent, I guess we both had secrets," he mutters before gliding away, his skates cutting a perfect arc in the ice between us.

I don't respond. I don't owe him that. Not after he walked away without a word, without an explanation. Not after he left me to piece together what happened from social media posts and locker room whispers.

The whistle blows and the game begins, the puck sliding across the ice like a promise of violence to come.

It's brutal from the first shift, the kind of game that reminds you hockey isn't just a sport, it's controlled warfare on ice.

They're hitting hard, faster than I expected, bodies colliding with thunderous impacts that echo through the arena.

Winnipeg's offensive line is relentless, punishing our defense with every opportunity.

Their forwards crash my crease like waves against a cliff, testing my resolve, my focus.

I'm slammed with shot after shot, each one a missile aimed to break me, but I'm locked in.

The noise fades to a distant hum. My vision narrows until there's nothing but the black disk and the bodies moving around it.

One puck at a time. One breath at a time.

My glove snaps up to catch a wrist shot from their second line.

My blocker deflects a slap shot from the point.

Tor takes a hit against the boards so loud it echoes like thunder through the arena, his body crumpling before he springs back up, fire in his eyes.

Ridley shoves the offender so hard the ref has to yank him back by the collar, his face twisted with protective fury.

Devan throws a shoulder like a freight train and sends one of their wingers sprawling across the ice, sticks and gloves scattered in his wake.

It's chaos. Beautiful, controlled chaos.

The kind that makes your blood sing and your muscles burn.

By the end of the first, we're tied 1-1, and I've stopped seventeen shots. My jersey is soaked through with sweat beneath my chest protector. My thighs burn from dropping into butterfly position over and over but I feel alive, electric, even as exhaustion starts to creep in around the edges.

In the locker room, I sit with my head bowed, towel draped over my neck, droplets of sweat falling to the floor between my skates.

My pads are soaked with sweat, my arms aching from the constant tension and release.

The room smells of rubber, sweat, and the faint antiseptic scent of the medical supplies.

Derrick sits a few stalls down, suited up, silent, watching me with those calm brown eyes.

Our backup goalie. My partner. My anchor in the storm that being near Lachlan has stirred up.

Coach Lennox steps into the center of the room, his presence commanding immediate silence. He claps once, the sound sharp as a gunshot.

"We're going to do something different." His eyes swing to me, assessing, calculating. "Bergeron, take a breather."

My head jerks up, surprise jolting through me like an electric current.

"Coach?" The question comes out rougher than I intended, disbelief etched in the single word.

"You need rest. And Shaw's ready." He looks at Derrick now, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Get in the crease, kid. You're up."

Derrick's eyes widen for a half second, a flash of vulnerability before his professional mask slides back into place.

Then he nods, calm and steady, like he's been waiting for this moment his entire career.

The room surges around us. A few stick taps against the floor.

A few claps on the back. Words of encouragement from teammates who believe in him as much as I do.

I rise, feeling an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with exhaustion.

This is it. His moment. The chance he's been working toward since he joined the Vipers this season.

Second period. Winnipeg comes back harder, hungrier, like wolves scenting blood.

It's a brawl on open ice, bodies colliding, tempers flaring with each whistle.

I watch from the bench, gripping my stick until my knuckles whiten beneath my gloves, sweat cooling on my skin in the rink's chill air.

Every muscle in my body tenses with each shot on goal, as if I could somehow protect Derrick through sheer force of will.

Derrick—he's spectacular. He dives for saves with impossible reflexes, his body a perfect arc as he stretches across the crease.

He gloves a breakaway shot from Lachlan like he's been doing it for years, snatching victory from between Lachlan's outstretched stick with a casual flick of his wrist. The crowd goes wild, a wall of sound that crashes over the ice.

I feel it in my ribs. I feel it in my soul.

Pride swells in my chest until I can hardly breathe.

Third period. Still 1-1. The tension in the arena is thick enough to cut with a skate blade.

Derrick's locked in now, tracking shots like a sniper, blocking everything that comes his way with a calm precision that belies his newbie status.

The bench is on fire, every player leaning forward, tapping sticks against the boards with each save.

Even Lennox can't hide the grin beneath his usual scowl as he barks out line changes.

Then we go into overtime, five minutes of heart-stopping, end-to-end action that yields no goals despite chances on both sides. Derrick stands tall, a fortress in our crease.

Then the shootout, that terrible one-on-one battle that can make or break a goalie's confidence.

Lachlan takes the first shot for Winnipeg.

He glides toward Derrick, slick and confident, like he's never failed at anything in his life.

His stick handles the puck with practiced precision, trying to draw Derrick out of position.

But Derrick doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink.

He watches, waits, his body coiled like a spring, then lunges left at the exact right second and catches the puck against his chest with a soft thud that echoes through my soul.

Lachlan skates past, scowling, frustration evident in the rigid line of his shoulders. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second as he returns to his bench. I see it then, the regret, the question, the what-if. I look away first. Some bridges stay burned.

Derrick is unstoppable as he blocks all Winnipeg's attempts, a wall of determination and skill. Each save more impossible than the last. The crowd chants his name now, the sound rolling through the arena like thunder.

Both goalies are determined to keep the pucks out of the net until we are left with our final shooter, Ridley.

He barrels down the ice, his powerful stride eating up the distance. He shifts once, twice, his hands a blur as he dekes the goalie out of position, then slaps the puck top shelf with a crack like a gunshot. The red light flashes. Goal. Game over.

The arena explodes, a cacophony of horns, screams, and stomping feet. The bench clears, players pouring onto the ice in a tidal wave of celebration.

I'm on the ice before I know it, skating hard toward the crease as the team collapses on Derrick in a heap of joy, relief, and head butts of congratulations.

In his excitement, Derrick throws his helmet off, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, and lifts his arms in triumph, face flushed with happiness and disbelief.

The overhead lights catch the sheen of happy tears in his eyes.

When I reach him, I wrap my arms around him and lift him clean off the ice, my heart pounding against his as our chest protectors crush together.

He laughs, breathless, arms tight around my neck, his face buried against my shoulder for just a moment. "I did it," he whispers, voice thick with emotion.

I set him down gently, my hands still gripping his shoulders, and look him in the eyes, gray to brown, seeing everything we've been through reflected back at me.

And then, without thinking, without hesitating, I kiss him.

Right there, center ice, in front of cameras, fans, and Lachlan fucking Devereaux.

A declaration. A promise. A line drawn in the ice that says: This is who I am. This is who we are.

When I pull back, he's beaming, radiant with victory and love and the pure, unfiltered joy of the moment.

"I'm so proud of you," I whisper, my voice rough with emotion.

He blinks, like he's trying not to cry, his lashes dark against his flushed cheeks.

"I love you," I say, loud enough that the wind might carry it up into the stands, past the press box, beyond the arena walls.

He grins so wide I swear it could split the sky, could crack the very foundations of the arena.

"I love you too."

Right there, on the blood-spattered ice, under the stadium lights, in front of ghosts and gods and everything that ever tried to break us, we win. Not just the game. Something bigger. Something that matters more than points or standings or even championships.

As the team surrounds us, as the crowd roars its approval, I catch sight of Lachlan standing alone at the Winnipeg bench, watching us. For a moment, our eyes lock across the distance. Then he nods once, a small gesture of acknowledgment, perhaps even respect, before turning away.

I turn back to Derrick, to my team, to the life I've built after the ruins Lachlan left behind. For the first time in a long time, I feel nothing but gratitude for the path that led me here.