Page 9

FIVE

SEBASTIAN

T he morning light slices across the hardwood floors of my studio, thin and sharp as a blade. I would usually appreciate the chiaroscuro of nature’s artistry but not this morning. The spark isn't there.

Beyond the wide windows, Lake Washington glitters in the early sun, still and endless. Tranquil in a way that would normally motivate me to capture it with fervor. Instead, it feels like the scene is mocking the fuck out of me.

I sit on the worn stool in front of a blank canvas, brush hanging limp between my fingers, and try to summon something, anything that doesn't look like Derrick Shaw's handsome fucking face.

It's no use.

The colors blur together in my mind, useless and flat.

Reds that should be fire, blues that should bleed into stormy grays, everything refusing to take shape the way it normally does when I lose myself in my work.

My fingers tighten around the brush handle until my knuckles ache.

Beside checking on Derrick and tending to his needs, I’ve sat here for five hours with nothing to show but a wasted canvas and dried paint.

Because I can't stop thinking about yesterday morning.

About him. The way he flinched when I called him Princesse, that subtle protective recoil I've never seen before, like my voice had become something harmful.

The way he shoved the omelet around his plate like it personally offended him, cutting it into smaller and smaller pieces until it was just yellow confetti.

The way he looked at me, like I was a stranger, those warm brown eyes suddenly distant, searching my face for something he couldn't find. That look hollowed me out.

He meant it, too. The moment we shared all boiled down to nothing. What else could it have been? That's what he said. Honestly, he‘s right.

I drag a hand over my hair, frustration curling hot in my gut.

You wanted this, remember? Distance. Safety. No mess. Then why does it feel like I'm crawling out of my own skin?

My phone vibrates against the scarred worktable. A quick glance shows the group text lighting up like a goddamn Christmas tree. With a sigh, I thumb it open.

Tor: Status update on our wounded Toronto bird?

Devan: Please tell me he's at least flashing you puppy dog eyes. Or flipping you off. Either way, iconic.

Ridley: Brea says if you don't feed him properly, she's staging a rescue mission.

Tor: Seriously though. How's he doing, Bast?

Devan: And how are you doing? (You're allowed to answer, Bast. I know you think you're allergic to feelings.)

Me: Recovering. Both of us. Stop being nosy.

Ridley: Pfft. You're the most emotionally constipated person we know. Nosy is required.

Tor: You've always been good at locking shit down. But Bast. . .what if this time you didn't? Share with the class ole broody one.

Ridley: Yeah. What if, for once, it's not just about surviving? We get it big guy. There's a lot you keep close to your chest. We are here when you want to spill. I've been there.

Devan: Maybe it's about. . .I don't know. . .living a little. Preferably with someone who looks at you like Derrick does. Come on Bast. . .we all saw it last summer.

Me: You guys don't know what you're talking about.

Tor: Maybe not. Or maybe we know you better than you think.

Ridley: Nobody's saying you gotta marry Baby Shaw, dude. Just. . .don't wall yourself off so fast this time. Maybe you deserve good things too.

Me: Enjoy your road trip, Rid. Tor and Devan go raise your unborn children and leave me alone.

Tor: Can't. We're invested now. Also, Alexis says hi. She's literally yelling it from the couch. She says she's loving the entire age gap, grumpy/sunshine trope you've got going on. Oh wait. . .now, I’m going to have to stop my wife from going into the writing cave.

Ridley: Brea says you're probably brooding dramatically by a window. Is she right? Crossing my fingers.

Me: . . .fuck off.

Devan: Brooding Bastian. Has a nice ring to it. Tor, Alexis, I'm going with ‘forced proximity’.

Tor: FYI: Devan. I am not telling Alexis that. Bast, just think about it, yeah? Doesn't have to be more than it is. You've opened yourself up to him by letting him in your home. Communicate. Whether he returns to Toronto or not. There's something there.

I toss my phone onto the table with more force than necessary. It skids across the scarred wood, sending a tube of paint rolling onto the floor. A streak of cerulean, the exact color of the ocean on a clear day.

"Fuck," I mutter.

The word echoes in the empty studio, bouncing off exposed brick walls and glass. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until colors burst behind my lids. They're all conspiring against me, trying to make this into something it isn't. It can't be.

Just because they've all found their fucking soulmates doesn't mean everyone gets that story. Some of us are meant to be alone. Some of us function better that way.

I push up from the stool, muscles stiff from sitting too long, and grab a palette.

My lower back protests and I am suddenly rethinking my chair of choice.

The brushes, the paints, all muscle memory now.

I've been creating for as long as I've been playing hockey.

Since I was seven, hiding in my mother's craft room with watercolors while my father shouted downstairs about ‘wasting time’.

It was the one place I was free to be messy, imperfect, real.

No expectations. No one watching. No consequences for failure. My studio gives me the same freedom.

My style is abstract realism. Layer after layer, color colliding with shape until something familiar emerges from the chaos.

It's the opposite of hockey's rigid precision.

Here, I'm allowed to break the rules. Allowed to bleed outside the lines, to transform ugliness into something worth looking at.

Normally the work pours out of me. Today, it's a slow, reluctant bleed. Like trying to squeeze the last drops from something already drained dry.

I swipe cobalt across the canvas, then black, letting the colors clash, smear, drip.

The blue streaks across the white like a bruise forming.

I don't think, I don't plan. I just move.

Let my arm work independently of my brain, the way I've trained it to for years.

I try to lose myself the way I always do—the way I have since I was a teenager, locking myself away from my father's disappointment. But then I hear it.

A muffled thump from upstairs.

The shuffle of slow and cautious footsteps. Derrick’s trying to make his way to the bathroom, probably. Still unsteady after four days of rest. Still vulnerable.

The sound slices through me sharper than any shot on goal. Worse, it yanks me straight out of the canvas and back into my complicated reality.

I press harder against the canvas. Paint, Sebastian.

The colors turn darker, harsher. Lines slash across the blank space. I dig the brush in until the bristles splay, threatening to snap.

Anger, frustration, fear, it's all there, leaking out through the bristles. The feelings I've refused to name since I witnessed his seemingly lifeless fall to the ice, since I held his limp hand in mine, since I brought him to stay at my home.

Somewhere along the way, my movements change. My hands move slower. Each stroke careful, curving instead of the sharp edges. Soft sweeps where there should be violence.

The anger bleeds into something else, something I haven't allowed myself to feel in years. Not since Winnipeg. I’ve seen what happens when you let yourself believe you deserve someone. I’ve seen how fast they can be ripped away. Or, more so, they rip out your heart without a parting glance.

When I finally step back, breathless, the figure staring back at me from the canvas isn't a stranger.

Not even close. It’s almost laughable, of course. Tangled curls, rendered in loose strokes of midnight and copper. Sharp cheekbones that somehow still look soft, touchable. Full lips, parted slightly like he's about to laugh or cry. Like he's about to say something that might completely unravel me.

Derrick.

Raw. Exposed. Beautiful in a way that hits me square in the chest.

I drop the brush. It clatters against the hardwood, forgotten.

For a long moment, I just stand there, staring at what I've done. I should destroy it. Paint over it. Burn the whole goddamn canvas.

Instead, I sink onto the stool, burying my face in my hands.

"Je suis tellement foutu." I am so fucking screwed.

And the worst part? Some twisted, broken part of me doesn't even want to be saved.

I've spent the last couple of years perfecting the art of keeping people at arm's length.

Calculated distance. Safe and controlled.

Even my teammates, the closest thing I have to family, don't get all of me.

They never have. They know the goalie, the veteran, the silent observer.

Not the artist. Not the man who can't sleep most nights because his mind won't quiet down.

But Derrick, fuck, he's already seen more than most. And he's barely been here a week.

I look back at the canvas, at his face rendered in blues and blacks and angry strokes of red. The painting isn't just good. It's honest. That's the problem.

My phone buzzes again. I ignore it.

Another sound from upstairs. Heavier this time. My body tenses automatically, ready to move, to help if needed. The protective instinct surges through me like an electric current. It's not just about hockey anymore, not just about salvaging a career.

"Shit," I mutter, running a hand over my face.

What if they're right? Tor. Ridley. Devan. What if I'm walling myself off from something that could actually matter?

The thought is terrifying and I don't know what to do with it.

I pick up a cloth, wipe my hands clean of paint. My routine of hiding the evidence of my secret. These are the things that have kept me sane, kept me functioning at the elite level required of me year after year. I've made a career, a life, out of shutting down, shutting out.

But the painting stares back at me, defiant. It's fresh and new. Christian will be absolutely mesmerized by something new from me.

I hear another thud upstairs, followed by a muffled curse.

That's it. Decision made. I toss the cloth aside and head for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Whatever this is, this thing between us that I refuse to name, I can't hide from it down here anymore.

Time to face it head on. Just like I've faced every other challenge in my life.

Alone. Determined. And absolutely fucking terrified.