Page 44

THIRTY

DERRICK

T he locker room hums with quiet anticipation, that strange stillness before the storm.

Jerseys hang on open lockers, skates are half-laced, and the sharp scent of menthol, sweat, and fresh tape cuts through the air like pre-battle incense.

Equipment managers bustle around silently, making final preparations while players sit in various states of readiness, some lost in thought, others going through their game-day rituals.

It's just another game night, on the surface. But I know better.

It's not just any game. It's Toronto.

I adjust my pads, feeling the familiar weight settle against my skin, and glance up at the whiteboard across the room. My number is circled in bold red marker. Starting goalie. Tonight, I'm in the crease. Not Bast. Me. The significance isn't lost on anyone, least of all me.

There's a strange ache in my chest, equal parts pride and nerves.

My fingers tremble slightly as I tighten my gear.

It's been two months since Coach Willis and Coach Lennox started rotating me and Bast, letting us trade games and find our rhythm.

Coach Willis has been working with me one-on-one, pushing me beyond what I thought possible.

Tonight, this night, against this team, it feels personal.

Against the team that wanted to bench me indefinitely after my injury, the team that decided I wasn't worth the investment anymore.

Coach Lennox's voice echoes in my mind from this morning's skate: "They're going to come hard, Shaw. Expect them to test you early and often. Prove they made a mistake." His eyes had been steady, confident in a way that made me stand taller.

Damn right I will. I've been waiting for this moment since the day I got the call about the buyout.

Across the room, I catch movement. Devan's sitting at his stall, talking with Tobias.

They're sitting a little too close, shoulders almost touching, and then Tobias says something that makes Devan smile, like smile-smile, like the kind that should be private.

One of those rare, unguarded moments that reveals more than words ever could.

Devan's eyes drop, like he's caught doing something he shouldn't, a flush creeping up his neck.

Next to me, Ridley leans in, stage-whispering, "Did you see that?" His eyebrows are raised almost comically high.

Tor whistles low from the stall beside me, shaking his head with a knowing grin. "Well, that was. . .something."

I smirk, taping my stick with practiced precision. "You saw that too, huh?"

"Whole damn room saw it," Bast replies, his voice dry as he adjusts his own equipment. He's been quiet tonight, more focused than usual. I know he wants this win for me as much as I do.

I snort under my breath, watching as Devan and Tobias finally separate, moving to their respective stalls. "Do we even know what's going on with that? They've been dancing around each other for weeks."

Sebastian straightens in front of me, his broad shoulders blocking my view as he adjusts my chest guard like it's the most normal thing in the world, fingers methodically checking each strap.

"Let's gossip less and focus more so we can steamroll Toronto," he says dryly, but there's warmth in his eyes that's meant only for me.

Ridley grins, holding up his stick like a toast. "Steamroll it is. They won't know what hit them."

Sebastian doesn't say much after that, but I can feel the pressure of his hand on my wrist, solid and reassuring. His touch is firm, confident, the same way he handles everything else in his life. He kneels in front of me, finishing the strap with meticulous care, his fingers moving with practiced precision. Then he looks up, and the rest of the world fades away, until it’s just us.

His eyes are steady. Proud. Loving. Gray like the Seattle sky before a storm, but infinitely warmer.

There's something almost fierce in his gaze, a silent promise that transcends the chaos around us.

In moments like these, when the noise of the locker room fades and it's just his eyes finding mine, I still can't believe that this man is mine.

It's a reality that sometimes feels too good to be true, even now.

"You ready?" His voice is low, intimate despite the bustling room around us.

I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "Always."

He taps my chin guard, a familiar gesture that's become our ritual. "Play smart. Track the puck. Own the crease." His words are simple but carry the weight of everything we've worked on together.

"Yes, Coach Bergeron." I salute with exaggerated deference, trying to lighten the moment.

He smirks and leans in, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "And if anyone from Toronto so much as breathes wrong on you, Devan will kill them. And then I'll resurrect them just to kill them again."

I laugh, and it settles something jittery in my chest, that bundle of nerves transforming into focused energy.

By the time we step onto the ice, the energy in the arena is volcanic.

The crowd roars as we emerge from the tunnel, jerseys gleaming under the lights, skate blades cutting clean lines across fresh ice.

Toronto fans are loud, clusters of blue and white scattered throughout the stands, but Vipers fans are louder, a sea of blue and green pulsing with anticipation.

They know what's at stake, and I feel it, humming in my bones, electrifying every cell.

The first period is brutal. Toronto comes out swinging, their forwards flying down the ice with something to prove.

They're fast, aggressive, desperate to bury me early.

Their first line hammers three shots on goal within the opening minute, pucks whistling toward me from all angles.

I stonewall each one, feeling the satisfying thud against my pads, my glove, my blocker.

I don't flinch. I breathe. Just like Coach Willis taught me. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Stay centered. Stay present.

Tobias is everywhere, bruising hits, explosive speed, laser-focused. He plays like a man possessed, throwing his body around with reckless abandon. Ridley and Tor take turns carving through Toronto's defense, grinding them down shift by shift, wearing them out with relentless pressure.

Fifteen minutes in, Tor finds the net on a beautiful cross-ice pass from Devan. The crowd erupts, the arena shaking with their approval. 1-0. I raise my stick in salute from my crease, heart pounding with fierce joy.

Second period, Toronto turns vicious, desperation making them dangerous.

Their center drives hard into the crease, eyes locked on me rather than the puck, but I see it coming.

I drop low, pad out, glove ready, positioning myself exactly where I need to be.

The puck smacks into my chest protector with a satisfying thud and I freeze it before he even finishes his follow-through, staring him down through my mask.

Devan shoulders the guy into the glass so hard he leaves an imprint, whispering something that makes the Toronto player's face flush with anger.

Midway through the period, Ridley slams one past their goalie on a power play, a wicked slapshot that finds the top corner. 2-0. The Toronto goalie slams his stick against the post in frustration. I know that feeling all too well, but tonight, I'm on the other side.

My save count climbs steadily. Twenty-two. Twenty-eight. Thirty-four. Each one a statement, each one a reminder of who I am and what I'm capable of.

My legs are burning from dropping into butterfly position over and over. My throat is dry despite the water I gulp during timeouts. Sweat pours down my back beneath my pads but I'm in it. I'm here. Present in a way I haven't been since before my injury.

Sebastian taps the boards from our bench after another glove save, a quick, sharp sound that cuts through the noise. I don't look, but I feel him. That connection. That grounding force. His presence is as tangible as the ice beneath my skates.

Late second period, Tobias breaks away with the puck, catching a perfect stretch pass from Ridley. He dangles, dekes, leaving the defenseman spinning, and buries it top shelf, the puck finding the smallest gap between the goalie's shoulder and the crossbar.

3-0. The crowd is delirious now, sensing blood in the water.

Third period, Toronto is flailing, throwing caution to the wind in increasingly desperate attempts to salvage something from this game.

I turn away shot after shot, some routine, others requiring every ounce of my reflexes and training.

My defense is a wall, blocking shots, clearing rebounds, making sure I can see every puck coming my way.

Ridley drops gloves for Maxwell who took a cheap shot, his fists connecting with satisfying precision.

Tobias draws a penalty with some clever stick work.

Devan blocks a slapshot with his thigh and limps back to the bench like it's nothing, grimacing but determined.

With seven minutes left, Tor scores again on a rebound, pouncing on a loose puck like a predator. Then Ridley makes it five, a beautiful end-to-end rush that leaves the Toronto defense looking like pylons.

5-0. The scoreboard glows with vindication.

Final minutes. Toronto throws everything they have at me, pulling their goalie early, sending six attackers my way in waves of black and white desperation.

I face forty-five shots. Then forty-six.

Forty-seven. Every save is a scream of defiance.

Every second is redemption. My body moves on instinct now, muscle memory taking over as fatigue sets in.

The horn blares, long and sweet.

5-0.

Shutout.

The team swarms me, converging on my crease from all directions.

Helmets fly. Gloves scatter. They pile around me in a blur of blue, green, and roaring victory, bodies crashing into mine, voices raised in triumph.

Ridley yells something about Toronto choking on big ass dicks.

Tor hugs me so hard I nearly drop, lifting me off my skates despite my heavy equipment.

And then Sebastian.

He doesn't rush. He skates straight to me with that fluid grace that's uniquely his, eyes on mine the whole way. The noise fades for a moment, the crowd, the team, everything receding until it's just us. Just this.

He grabs my helmet and tugs it off, his eyes bright and unguarded in a way few people ever get to see. "You were unstoppable," he says, voice thick with emotion.

I grin, breathless, sweat-slick, vibrating with adrenaline and joy and vindication. "You taught me well." The words feel inadequate for everything I want to express.

He laughs, a rare, full sound that makes my heart stutter, and I kiss him, right there, center ice, surrounded by our teammates and seventeen thousand fans. This is our new normal. Us, together, building something neither of us thought possible.

Everyone's used to it now. To us. The goalie power couple. The veterans and rookies alike have accepted us as part of the team's fabric.

For me, it still feels new. Miraculous. Like waking up from a dream only to find reality is better.

Later, in the quiet of the tunnel, away from cameras and crowds, Sebastian walks beside me, his hand brushing mine, our shoulders touching.

"I thought I hit rock bottom," I tell him, voice low, vulnerable in a way I can only be with him. "After the injury. I thought I was going to be in the dark forever. But you. . ." I glance at him, taking in the strong profile I used to admire from afar. "You were the light. You pulled me back."

He stops walking and turns to face me fully, his gray eyes intense.

"And you remind me what it means to fight for something worth having," he says, each word deliberate and weighted. "Every damn day."

I close the distance between us, forehead resting against his, our breath mingling. We don't say anything else. We don't have to.

Because we have forever. For pucking ever.