Page 45

SEBASTIAN

Two Years Later

S eattle in the summer always surprises me.

The sky is a soft, endless blue, the air warm without being stifling, and there's a breeze that carries just enough bite to remind you you're not too far from the Sound.

The scent of pine and saltwater mingles in the air, creating that distinctive Pacific Northwest perfume I've come to associate with peace.

We're back on the trail, the same winding path from two summers ago, when Derrick was still recovering, still learning how to trust his body again after that devastating puck to the head during the finals.

Back when he was still learning how to trust me, too, with all his quiet fears and midnight doubts.

But look at my man now. He's a champion in every sense of the word.

We didn't make playoffs that first year after his recovery.

We came close, agonizingly close, but close doesn't get your name etched into silver.

Close doesn't get you the Cup. It stung, sure.

But the second season? We took it. We won the whole damn thing with Derrick making forty-three saves in Game 7.

The Vipers haven't just been a team for us, they've been family, the kind that fights for each other, bleeds for each other.

Derrick has earned every bit of the respect that now trails behind him in the crease.

Opposing teams know when it's his night.

They adjust their shooting strategies, try to get in his head.

Fans chant his name until the arena vibrates with it.

They come to see him. Or me. Or both of us, the unlikeliest pair in professional hockey.

The goalie duo. The hockey world's favorite what-the-fuck fairytale. From a devastating injury to a championship. The headlines write themselves.

We're still here. Stronger. Quieter in some ways, louder in others.

We've made a life in the spaces between seasons, in the quiet moments away from the cameras and expectations.

In the mornings when he burns toast, because he was distracted watching ESPN and kisses me in apology.

In the nights when we fall asleep mid-conversation, exhausted but content.

Bullet barks from a few paces ahead, his stubby legs charging through a patch of moss like it owes him money.

He snorts and snuffles, chasing some invisible prey through the underbrush.

Our black and white Frenchie is chaos on four legs and Derrick's entire heart.

The way Derrick's face softens when Bullet does anything.

. .literally anything is enough to make my chest ache.

We joke that he's our fur baby, and the truth is, we both need him.

He keeps us grounded when the world gets too loud, too demanding.

He doesn't care about save percentages or contract negotiations or media scrutiny.

Derrick walks beside me, baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses on despite the dappled shade of the forest trail.

He's dressed down in a soft Vipers hoodie and joggers, but he still turns heads.

A woman jogging past does a double-take, her eyes widening in recognition.

Derrick gives her a friendly nod but keeps walking.

I reach over and brush my fingers against his, a silent acknowledgment of the constant visibility.

He hooks his pinky through mine like he always does, a small, secret connection that feels more intimate than any public display.

It's been good, hard sometimes, balancing everything.

Hockey. The spotlight. Love. The constant pressure to perform, to prove ourselves worthy of the contracts, the fanbase, the legacy.

But we've made it work. We've learned when to push and when to rest. When to face the world and when to hide away in our lakeside home where no one can find us.

Even my art career, which I thought I'd have to give up when the world found out I was B.

Ardent, has only flourished. Galleries fill months in advance now.

Collectors clamor for commissions, willing to wait years.

Critics debate whether my hockey career influences my art or vice versa.

I have a show opening in Paris at the end of the summer, and Derrick's already started brushing up on his French, practicing with cute little apps on his phone.

He insists on cheering me on in at least three different countries, promising to be my biggest fan in multiple languages.

I didn't think I could live both lives. I didn't think I was allowed to be both Sebastian Bergeron, elite NHL goaltender, and B.

Ardent, critically acclaimed painter. I didn't think the world would let me.

But here I am, walking this forest trail with the man I love, carrying both identities without shame.

We come to the bench, our bench. The weathered wood has darkened with age, but it's still solid, still waiting for us like it knew we'd return.

The bench from the hike where I first kissed him again, after nearly a year apart.

Where I finally stopped running from what I felt, from the terrifying vulnerability of wanting someone this much.

Bullet hops up onto the bench like he owns the place, his tongue lolling out as he pants happily. Derrick laughs and scratches behind his ears, cooing nonsense that makes my heart squeeze.

"He's going to overheat," Derrick says, fanning the dog gently with his hand. "Come on, Bullet. Cool off, buddy. We can't have you passing out up here."

"I say let him burn some energy. He'll be fine," I murmur, sinking onto the other side of the bench. The familiar contours of the seat welcome me back, like an old friend. "He's been bouncing off the walls all morning."

Derrick sits beside me a second later, his thigh pressed against mine. I take a moment to really look at him, to drink in the sight of this man who changed everything. His skin kissed bronze by the sun, his curls slightly damp at the edges from exertion, the curve of his smile easy and unguarded.

This man. My muse. My miracle. The subject of so many paintings I can't even count them all.

I reach into my pocket and curl my fingers around the ring box. My heart is hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

"When I first saw you," I finally say after we've sat watching Bullet chase butterflies for a while, "I knew you were going to ruin me.

Those big brown eyes looking up at me like I hung the moon.

I let it happen anyway. I let myself walk away, thinking I wasn't good enough for someone so bright, so full of life.

We were on two different teams on opposite sides of the country.

It would never work. I never thought someone like me, living half a life, hiding behind masks both on and off the ice, could ever deserve someone like you. "

"Bast," he whispers, already leaning closer, his eyes searching mine.

"But you proved me wrong," I say, throat tight with emotion. "You made me believe I was worthy of being loved. And more than that, you reminded me that I could love, too. Fully. Without fear. Without hiding. Without compromise."

Finding my courage, I drop to one knee on the forest floor, ignoring the damp that immediately seeps through my pants. Some things are worth getting a little dirty for.

His eyes water as his mouth parts in shock, one hand flying up to cover it.

"You're my light, Derrick Shaw. You're the reason I can be B. Ardent and still lace up every night for the Vipers. The reason I want forever. Something that's just for us, away from cameras and contracts and expectations. So. . ."

I open the box. The brushed platinum band shines in the midday sun, engraved with the coordinates of this very spot, this bench where everything changed.

"Will you marry me?" I ask, voice shaky.

There's a second of silence. One suspended heartbeat where even Bullet seems to understand the gravity of the moment, sitting still and watchful.

Then Derrick laughs, eyes spilling over with tears as he pulls me up and into his arms with the same strength that lets him snatch pucks out of the air at impossible angles.

"Marry you? Are you serious? Of course I will." He laughs excitedly, the sound echoing through the trees. "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. Hell yeah."

We kiss, here on the bench that started it all, our dog snuffling at our feet, the Seattle breeze threading through the trees like music. There's no crowd, no cameras, no roar of the stadium. It's just us.

My home. My Princesse. My Forever.