Page 26 of For Pucking Ever

I slide off his lap on shaky legs, feeling suddenly cold despite the summer heat. Bast reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, glancing at the screen.

His expression shifts, something unreadable passing over his features. "I need to take this."

I nod, trying not to look as wrecked as I feel, and step away to give him privacy but I can still hear his side of the conversation.

"Oui, Christian." His voice is different now, sharper, more clipped. "Je sais, je sais. Ça ne peut pas attendre?" I know, I know. Can't it wait?

Christian. The name hits me like a sucker punch. Is that a boyfriend? I didn't think Sebastian dated anyone, at least, that was the impression I got last summer. Nothing serious, he'd said. Maybe things changed. Maybe there's someone he hooks up with, someone who knows all his secrets, someone who⁠—

No. I'm spiraling. Projecting. Christian could be anyone. A teammate. A friend. A coach.

But why is Bast speaking French if it's just hockey business?

"Très bien. Je serai là dans une heure." Alright. I will be there in an hour. He sighs, running a hand over his face. "Yes, I understand. I'll bring the sketches with me."

Sketches? What sketches?

Bast hangs up and turns to me, his expression apologetic. "We need to go. I have work I need to finish back home."

Work? On a Saturday? During the off-season? There's so much about Sebastian Bergeron I still don't know, layers I never got to peel back last summer when everything between us was intense but temporary. Things I wanted—still want—but I want him to share with me willingly. A man can dream.

"No problem," I say lightly, as if my lips aren't still tingling from his kiss, as if he hasn't just upended my entire world again.

We pack up quickly, gathering the scattered remains of our snack. The easy rhythm we'd found earlier seems fractured now, tainted by the interruption and the questions swirling in my head.

As we start back down the trail, the moment vanishes like morning mist, here and gone before I could really grasp it. The sunlight filtering through the trees suddenly seems too harsh, highlighting all the ways this isn't a fairy tale. We're two men with complicated lives, standing on opposite sides of too many divides.

Then Bast reaches for my hand. His fingers thread through mine, warm and solid and real. He squeezes once, like it's a promise, and I squeeze back, holding on like he might disappear if I let go.

Maybe this isn't a dream after all. Maybe it's something better, something real, with all its messy complications and unanswered questions. Something worth fighting for.

I tighten my grip on his hand and follow him down to the car.

TEN

SEBASTIAN

The city blurs past the windshield as I steer into Belltown, the sharp curve of the road dipping toward the water. Seattle's summer sun is out in full force but it's wasted on me. My thoughts are too loud. My skin still tingles from the press of Derrick's mouth on mine. No matter how many red lights I hit, I can't slow down what just happened or how badly I already want more.

The gallery sits tucked into a brick building with tall windows and antique ironwork. One of those spaces that looks like it should smell like espresso and pretension but somehow always smells like cedar, turpentine and raw possibility. It's Christian's domain, which means it's mine too, at least the side of me no one else sees.

I park around back and let myself in through the private entrance. The space is quiet except for the soft hum of the lights and the distant sound of Christian talking to someone in the front.

When he rounds the corner, tablet in hand, his eyes flick immediately to the newly framed canvas I’m carrying under one arm.

"You bring me something finished or another tortured metaphor in oil?" he asks, half-grin already forming.

"Little of both." I shrug with a growing smile, feeling a flicker of warmth cut through the tension I've been carrying. Christian is not only my art dealer but one of my closest friends. The rare kind who sees past the surface to substance. During hockey season we barely see each other, our friendship sustained through text messages and facetime calls at odd hours when the rest of the world is sleeping.

He takes the canvas from me without ceremony and props it against the nearest wall, his movements practiced and familiar.

"Let me guess. Moody background, impossible texture, and some vaguely recognizable man hidden behind a wall of brushstrokes?" His voice carries that particular blend of affection and exasperation I've come to rely on.

I give him a look, crossing my arms. "You sound surprised." There's a defensiveness in my tone I can't quite mask.

Christian snorts, his fingers already tracing the air an inch from the canvas, following the lines only he and I would recognize as meaningful. "Please. You've been painting him for weeks."

I tense, shoulders drawing up toward my ears. The gallery suddenly feels smaller. "You don't know that." The denial sounds hollow, even to me. I know he knows. Christian comes and goes from my studio whenever he needs to. He has a key to my home, has had it for years. Whatever is in there is up for grabs if he deems it's finished. That's the kind of trust we've established over the years, built on late nights, brutal honesty, and a shared understanding that art reveals what words can't.