Page 6

THREE

SEBASTIAN

T he morning light filters through the hospital blinds, casting stripes across Derrick's frustrated face as he tries and fails, for the third time, to button his shirt.

His fingers aren't cooperating, and I can see the frustration building in the tight set of his jaw as he sits on the side of his hospital bed.

I lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching him struggle. I want to step in and help but I know he needs to work through this himself. The doctors warned me about this, saying coordination issues will come with irritability and confusion. It’s pretty common with concussion.

"Fucking buttons," Derrick mutters, his voice scratchy from days of hospital-dry air. "Who invented these torture devices anyway?"

I bite back a smile. Even concussed and irritable, he's still charming.

Three days ago, I watched him crumple on the ice, becoming motionless.

Three days of sitting beside his hospital bed, listening to the steady beep of monitors as the medical team kept watch over Derrick with keen eyes, even after he woke.

The days of bargaining with whatever higher power might be listening.

Three days of relieved exhales each time he opened his eyes.

"The nurse is bringing the discharge papers," I say, keeping my voice deliberately calm and even. "The doctor wants to go over some instructions with us before we leave."

Derrick shoots me a look. "Us? Last I checked, I'm the one with the brain injury."

I raise an eyebrow. "And I'm the one who's going to be making sure you don't make it worse."

He abandons the buttons, letting his shirt hang open.

His Toronto Stars sweatpants hang low on his hips.

White button down and sweatpants, he's like a kid playing dress up.

But I wouldn't dare say that out loud. One of his teammates, Reagan Johnson, I think, had brought over some of his things yesterday before the team flew back to Toronto.

The duffel bag from his locker still sits untouched in the corner of the room, a reminder of the night everything changed.

The night I should have been celebrating our Stanley Cup victory. Instead, I was following a long-gone ambulance to the hospital, still in my game-day suit.

"I can take care of myself," Derrick insists, but the way he's squinting against the hospital lights tells me everything I need to know.

I push off from the wall and walk over to him, positioning myself between his legs. Derrick inhales sharply but I ignore his reaction as I reach for his shirt without asking. "Let me."

He doesn't fight me as I button his shirt, though I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, intense despite the concussion. My fingers brush against his chest, and I work systematically from bottom to top, careful not to let my touch linger.

"I hate this," he whispers, so quietly I almost miss it.

I look up, meeting his gaze. "I know."

Before I can say anything else, a knock on the door interrupts us as Dr. Patel enters, clipboard in hand. She smiles professionally, though her eyes betray her exhaustion after what was likely another long shift.

"Mr. Shaw, ready to escape?" she asks, her tone light but her expression serious. "Mr. Bergeron, I have some paperwork for you."

She holds out a clipboard with several forms. I take it, scanning the pages that essentially make me Derrick's official caretaker for the foreseeable future. I sign without hesitation.

"So," Dr. Patel begins, turning to Derrick, "We need to discuss your recovery protocol."

Derrick groans, falling back against the pillows. "I've heard it all already. Rest, hydrate, no screens, no?—"

"No screens," Dr. Patel repeats firmly, "No reading, no strenuous activity, no bright lights, no loud noises. Your brain needs complete rest."

"For how long?" Derrick demands, and I can hear the edge of panic in his voice. Hockey players are always afraid of being sidelined but for Derrick, hockey is his entire identity. He's heard the doctor's initial prognosis but I guess he's hoping for something different 48-hours later.

"At least three weeks before we reassess," she says. "Maybe longer."

"Three weeks?" Derrick jolts forward too quickly, then grimaces, his hand going to his temple. "That. . .that's not possible. I know it's summer but I don't have that much time off until training camp, I have?—"

"You have a brain injury," I interject, my voice firm. "Hockey will wait."

The doctor nods approvingly at me before continuing her instructions.

I listen carefully, mentally taking notes about medication schedules, warning signs, follow-up appointments.

Derrick, meanwhile, is slumping further into himself, his earlier brattiness giving way to something that looks alarmingly like defeat.

I remember his teammates visiting yesterday, somber and concerned but trying to keep things light. Johnson had brought the overnight bag, clapping me awkwardly on the shoulder as they left.

"Take care of our boy," he'd said, giving me a meaningful look. "We're counting on you."

The weight of that responsibility settles heavy on my shoulders as I watch Derrick pretend to listen to the doctor's instructions. I don't know how we got here—a summer fling to avoidance to whatever we are now—but I know I won't let him down.

Even if he fights me every step of the way. I promised to get him through this, and I am a man of my word.

"Sit down. Don't argue, I'm not carrying you out of here, Princesse." At the mention of his nickname, Derrick finally stops fighting the wheelchair.

I watch his jaw tighten as he lowers himself into the seat, his movements slow and careful despite his obvious frustration.

The nurse behind the chair throws me a grateful look and I give her a slight nod.

After three days of Derrick's stubbornness, the hospital staff probably can't wait to see the back of us.

"This is humiliating," Derrick mutters as she begins to wheel him toward the exit. "I can walk."

"Hospital policy," the nurse reminds him cheerfully, clearly immune to his complaints. I bet she’s used to dealing with difficult patients over the years.

I walk alongside them, carrying Derrick's duffel bag and the folder of discharge instructions. "The sooner you cooperate, the sooner we're out of here."

Derrick's glare could melt ice, but he falls silent. His knuckles are white where they grip the armrests, and I notice the slight tremor in his hands. He's putting on a brave face but I can see the pain behind his eyes.

Once we reach the hospital entrance, I leave them briefly to bring my car around. The June air is warm, Seattle showing off its perfect summer weather. It feels strange stepping outside after days in the fluorescent lighting of the hospital, almost like emerging from a time capsule.

The BMW beeps as I unlock it and I pull up to where Derrick is now arguing with the nurse about whether he needs help getting into the car.

"I got it," I interrupt, moving to Derrick's side. The nurse looks relieved and steps back.

"Fine," Derrick grumbles, but he accepts my hand as I help him stand. When he sways slightly, I steady him with a firm grip on his elbow.

"Easy," I murmur, guiding him to the passenger seat.

He settles in with a wince, immediately leaning his head against the window and closing his eyes. The nurse gives me final instructions that I've already memorized, then we're free to go.

As I pull away from the hospital, I glance over at Derrick. His face is ashen, tension lines bracket his mouth, betraying his discomfort. The doctors warned that the trip home might be rough, movement, changing light conditions, road noise, all potential triggers for his symptoms.

"You good?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

He doesn't open his eyes. "Just drive."

I focus on the road, trying to avoid potholes and taking turns as smoothly as possible.

With Derrick quiet beside me, my thoughts drift to the commission I need to complete and a show I need to prepare for in the fall.

Christian Styles, my art dealer, has been nagging me for weeks about a piece for a high-profile client.

I'd planned to dedicate my off-season to finishing it and a few more pieces but now. . .

I glance at Derrick again. Maybe this won't be so bad.

He'll need to rest most of the time anyway.

I could slip away to my studio while he sleeps.

No one knows about my secret life as an artist; not my teammates, not my coaches, certainly not the public.

The hockey world knows Sebastian Bergeron, star goalie with the most shutouts in the league.

They don't know B. Ardent, whose abstract realist landscapes hang in galleries and private collections worldwide.

My father's voice echoes in my head: "Drawing is fine for school projects, Sebastian, but hockey, that's where your future lies.

" Classic toxic masculinity at its finest. He never saw value in art, only in the physically demanding, ‘manly’ pursuit of sports.

My mother was different, she saw my talent, smuggled art supplies into my room and encouraged me to keep painting, even as hockey consumed more of my life.

Now I have both but one remains my secret. Sometimes I wonder what my teammates would say if they knew. What Tor, Devan, and Ridley would say. They would probably embrace my secret life considering how intermingled their own lives are in various other art forms.

"Well, star goalie for The Seattle Vipers. Damn, Bast, your home is beautiful." Derrick's voice pulls me from my thoughts as the car approaches the wrought iron gate of my property in Montlake.

I enter the security code, and the gates swing open to reveal the craftsman-style house beyond. Painted blue with white trim, it sits back from the road, surrounded by mature trees that provide privacy without isolation. It's not ostentatious, it's perfect. My sanctuary away from the spotlight.

"I do alright," I reply, pulling into the circular driveway.

I catch him swallowing hard before he covers it with small grin. Good. Let him pretend he's not impressed. I prefer that to seeing fear in his eyes.

Derrick chuckles, though it sounds strained. "Alright my ass. This is?—"

"Your home for as long as you're here with me," I tell him in no uncertain terms.

His eyes meet mine, and something passes between us; vulnerability, gratitude, and something deeper I'm not ready to name. He looks away first.

"Let's get you inside," I murmur, killing the engine. Whatever lies ahead for us, it starts now.

Welcome home, Princesse. I don't say it out loud—not yet—but the words settle heavily on my tongue, waiting. I shouldn't think it. I shouldn't. But having him here in my home. Maybe.