Page 5

TWO

DERRICK

" P ost-concussion syndrome."

That's the first thing I hear when I come fully back online.

The doctor's voice is calm. Too calm. Like he says this kind of thing every day, like he's not holding my entire future in his hands. I blink against the light overhead and immediately regret it. My skull pulses like someone's playing drums behind my eyes.

He continues, "Your concussion is severe, which puts you at high risk for prolonged symptoms: headaches, dizziness, sensitivity to light and sound, fatigue, nausea, blurred vision, and sometimes memory issues. These symptoms are not unusual. Your healing is not something we rush."

I hear the words, but they don't settle in right. They feel far away. Like I'm underwater, hearing someone speak from the surface.

"Recovery time varies. It could be weeks, maybe even a few months before your brain fully recovers. We'll need to monitor you closely, especially over the next six weeks. No screens. No activity. No training until you're cleared."

Weeks? Months?

There's a ringing in my ears that has nothing to do with the fluorescent lights or the machines beeping in a steady rhythm beside my bed. It's all internal now. My thoughts spiral in a tight, frantic loop.

They're still talking. The doctor, my coach, my agent, Tony's here, I think. Or is this a dream? I shift and catch a glimpse of them out of the corner of my eye, their faces blurred and serious, arms crossed, nodding solemnly like they're attending a funeral.

Is it my funeral?

Because that's what it feels like.

"—should be reassessed in six weeks. If symptoms persist, we'll extend recovery. Best-case scenario, you're skating again in three months. Worst-case?—"

Three. Months.

Worst-case? I refuse to hear it. I don't want to.

My lungs are tight. I swear the room just shrank three sizes.

I'm supposed to be on the ice. Right now. I'm supposed to be with my team. I'm supposed to be winning the Stanley Cup. We didn't win. I let them down. All my hopes of getting to this point are literally shot down.

I close my eyes, trying to breathe around the sudden pressure in my chest. But it doesn't help. Behind my lids, all I see is the moment it happened, Maxwell's shot flying toward me, too fast to track, the impact ringing through my skull like a bomb.

Then black.

Then this.

"I understand it's a lot to process, Derrick," the doctor says gently. Like I'm some fragile kid instead of a six-foot-one NHL goalie. "But the most important thing you can do right now is rest. Heal."

Easy for him to say. His career isn't hanging by a thread.

Tony leans closer, voice low but clear. "We'll handle everything. Don't think about contracts or press. Just focus on you."

I don't reply. Can't. Because I'm not sure if I will start to scream, and if I do I doubt I'll ever stop.

Three months, maybe more. Fuck.

The words echo through my skull like a puck rattling around the boards. I stare at the ceiling, counting the tiny dots in the acoustic tiles, trying to ground myself in something, anything that isn't the reality crashing down around me.

The end of my rookie season. Gone. Just like that. Yeah, so I made it to the Cup Final. But all people will remember is the puck I took to the head. Every achievement will pale in comparison.

I feel the tight grip of panic squeezing my chest, making each breath shallower than the last. My throat burns with the effort to keep it together, to not completely fall apart in front of these men watching me like I'm a bomb about to detonate.

And then, through the fog of my panic, a thought surfaces. A memory. Warm fingers wrapped around mine. A familiar cologne. A voice murmuring reassurances I couldn't quite make out.

Was Bast really here? Or was that just some fucked-up mirage my scrambled brain conjured up?

I swallow hard. Sebastian Bergeron. The man who held me like I was something precious that summer, then disappeared without a word.

The man whose jersey hung on my bedroom wall growing up.

The man who fucked my mouth senseless at a summer festival behind a funnel cake truck and then acted like I didn't exist.

The man who broke my heart before the season even started.

I almost laugh at the sick irony. Ten months I've managed to avoid him—well, except for our games against each other, where I've channeled all that hurt into stopping every fucking shot his teammates sent my way. And now, when I'm at my most vulnerable, my brain decides to hallucinate his presence?

Unless he was actually here.

"Derrick?" Coach Verrique's voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. His face comes into focus, concern etched into the lines around his eyes. "Toronto is committed to supporting you through this. Whatever you need for recovery, specialists, facilities, time, it's yours. Your spot is secure."

I nod, trying to look grateful, trying to look like a professional athlete and not a terrified kid. But the words sound hollow. What good is a guaranteed spot if I can't play? If I can't see straight? If my brain feels like it's been put through a blender?

The doctor clears his throat. "Actually, I strongly recommend that Derrick remains in Seattle for at least the next six weeks. The travel back to Toronto would be inadvisable in his condition, and we need to monitor him closely for any changes in symptoms. We have the best team at his disposal."

And just like that, the floor drops out from under me again.

"I—" My voice cracks. "I can't stay in Seattle."

"Do you have anyone here?" the doctor asks. "Family, friends?"

The question lands like a sucker punch. No, I don't have anyone here.

I don't have anyone anywhere except my mom, and she can barely take care of herself on her bad days, let alone me with a brain injury.

The guys on the team, my team, the team that's three thousand miles away, they'd help, but they're not here.

I'm alone.

"Let me arrange something," Tony jumps in, already pulling out his phone. "We can get a medical assistant, rent a place?—"

I zone out as they discuss me like I'm not even in the room. The logistics of my broken life laid out in clinical terms. The beeping of the monitors speeds up slightly, matching my rising panic. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing.

I can't go home to Lark Bay. Mom's MS has been flaring up; the last thing she needs is to worry about me.

And I've spent every cent I have on making her life easier, the accessible house renovations, the live-in nurse five days a week, the treatments that insurance won't cover.

I'm a rookie, my starting salary was beyond what I could have ever asked for, thanks to Tony. But if I can't continue to play. . .

Now I'm stuck in the city where the man who wrecked me lives, unable to even function on my own.

The voices around me rise and fall like waves, washing over me without penetrating. I hear fragments, "cognitive rest," "follow-up appointments," "media statement", but they don't stick. Nothing sticks except the crushing weight of everything I've lost.

The door closes with a soft click. They've gone, giving me "time to rest," which really means time to fall apart in private.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, fighting the burn of tears. I will not cry. I will not?—

The door opens and I quickly drop my hands, blinking rapidly.

There he is. Sebastian fucking Bergeron, standing in my hospital room doorway like he walked straight out of my fevered imagination.

His tailored suit is rumpled, tie loosened, like he's been tugging at it constantly.

His grey eyes are locked on mine with an intensity that steals what little breath I have left.

He didn't leave.

"I came back," he says, his voice carrying that slight French-Canadian lilt that used to make my stomach flip. Still does, apparently, if the sudden flutter in my chest is any indication.

"You were here," I manage, hating how weak my voice sounds. "I thought I dreamed it."

Something flickers across his face, relief? Guilt? Both?

"As soon as it was humanly possible, I arrived as soon as I could."

"Why?" The question comes out sharper than I intended.

He takes a step forward, then hesitates. "Derrick?—"

"No, seriously. Why now? After ten months of radio silence, why show up now? Feeling guilty your teammate destroyed my career?" I wince as soon as the words leave my mouth. Bitter. Childish. But I can't help it.

Bast's jaw tightens, but he doesn't fire back. Instead, he moves closer to my bed, each step deliberate, like he's approaching a wounded animal.

"I just stepped out, my intention was to leave but I remained in the hallway," he says quietly. "I overheard them talking about you needing to stay in Seattle. About you having nowhere to go."

I look away, humiliation burning hotter than the pain in my head. Great. Now he knows just how pathetic I am.

"You're coming home with me," he says determinately.

My head snaps back toward him so fast that stars explode behind my eyes. "What?"

"You're coming home with me," he repeats, firmer this time. Not a question. Not an offer. A statement of fact, delivered with that quiet authority that made him a legend in the net and in my teenage dreams.

"I don't need your pity," I spit out, the words tasting like acid on my tongue. The fluorescent lights above make my head throb with each pulse, punctuating my defiance.

"Good, because I'm not offering it." His eyes hold mine, unwavering, storm-gray and resolute. "You need somewhere to recover. I have space. It's quiet. Private." Each word measured, practical, like he's explaining a play rather than offering to upend both our lives.

"And why would you do that for me?" I ask, lifting my chin through the pain, feeling the movement reverberate through my skull. The hospital gown scratches against my skin, a constant reminder of my vulnerability, my newfound fragility.

The question hangs between us, loaded with all the things we've never said. All the hurt I've carried since last summer. I knew what it was. One night. But weren't we at least friends? Not a word all season. Forget that he left like a thief in the night. I thought. . .well. . .it doesn't matter.

Bast's expression softens, just slightly, a crack in the granite facade. "Because I want to help you." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "I know you probably don't want that but I'm not walking away this time. Not again."

I don't say anything. I want to rage, to scream, to throw everything within reach but I can't. The energy required feels impossibly distant, like trying to touch the moon.

The tears I've been holding back finally fall, hot trails down my cheeks, and I don't care if he sees me break.

This moment of weakness feels inevitable, like the tide finally washing over a crumbling sandcastle.

I'm sure this is just the beginning of my unraveling.

I can only hope that the man standing sincerely in front of me, this complicated ghost from my past, can help piece me back together, while I fumble to hold on to what's left of me. Mom always said I built my dreams too tall; now I'm just trying not to disappear beneath the rubble.

"Laisse-moi prendre soin de toi, Princesse," Let me take care of you, Princess, he whispers softly as he places his hand gently on my blanket-covered foot, the warmth of his palm seeping through the thin hospital linens.

I look up, wiping away my wayward tears with the back of my hand. I think he’s saying he wants to take care of me, but attempting to translate only makes my head hurt.

"Okay," I say, because I don't think he would take no for an answer and I don't think I could say no if I tried.