Page 29 of For Pucking Ever

I kill the engine but don't move, just staring at my house through the windshield. The massive windows reflect the sunset, turning them into sheets of fire. It's too beautiful for the storm brewing inside me.

My life has always been compartmentalized. Hockey in one box. Art in another. Never shall the twain meet. It's how I've functioned. How I've survived.

Now Christian wants to display that fucking painting. The one of Derrick caught mid-laugh, his head thrown back, throat exposed, vulnerable and beautiful in a way I never should have captured. The one where I let my brush betray every emotion I'd worked so hard to conceal. The painting doesn't just show Derrick—it exposes me, strips me bare for anyone with eyes to see.

The moment people see it, the whispers will start. First quietly, then growing louder. Wealthy art collectors murmuring at gallery openings, critics connecting dots I've spent years scattering far apart.

I've managed to keep B. Ardent separate from Sebastian Bergeron for over a decade. A perfect double life. Not even Tor knows, and he's our captain, for fuck's sake. Not Ridley or Devan. Nobody on the team suspects that their surly, private goaltender has paintings hanging in the MoMA, that the hands they see blocking shots create works that sell for six figures.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles going white. My father's voice echoes in my head, ‘Art is a hobby, Sebastian. Not a career’. Yet here I am, successful at both and terrified of losing everything.

Here I am, about to lose it all because I couldn't keep my boundaries intact when it came to Derrick. I let him slip through the cracks between my worlds. Lose or gain, Sebastian. Lose or gain. Whichever one. I know I'm royally fucked. There's no scenario where this ends without something precious being sacrificed.

When I finally drag myself out of the car, muscles stiff from tension more than physical exertion, I notice immediately that something's wrong. The studio door at the side of the house is open, spilling golden light onto the garden path. The door is never locked and that's my fault. Derrick has been bedbound for weeks. I should have known he'd want to explore.

Fuck.

I don't run but my strides lengthen as I approach. My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I step inside the doorway and freeze.

Derrick stands in the center of my studio, surrounded by canvases, some covered, some not. His back is to me and I can tell from the set of his shoulders that he's seen everything. The sketches. The paintings. The studies of his hands, his jawline, the curve of his neck. All the pieces of him I've been collecting in secret.

Then he turns and I see it in his face, shock, awe, disbelief and something else flickering beneath it all. Hurt?

I keep my voice even. "Well," I say, "I guess I have some explaining to do."

"You're B. Ardent." It's not a question. His voice is quiet and steady.

I swallow hard. "Yes."

"And you've been painting me." Again, not a question.

I nod once, slow and deliberate. "Yes."

He moves through the space like he's in a gallery, careful not to touch anything but taking it all in. His fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to reach out but won't allow himself.

"These are yours." He gestures toward the hallway. "The ones in the guest room. Throughout the house. I thought you bought them. Maybe a little artist worship. Man was I wrong. Way off base."

"I did," I admit. "At auction. To throw people off."

"You're. . ." His voice falters. "You've been in museums." He stares at me like he's seeing me for the first time. "And no one knows?"

"Christian knows." The words come out automatically.

His head snaps toward me. "Christian? Who's Christian?"

Something in his voice makes my chest tighten. "My art dealer," I explain quickly. "And a friend. That's all."

The tension visibly drains from his shoulders. "Right. Art dealer. Okay." He nods, processing. "That tracks."

I tilt my head. Is he jealous of Christian? Interesting. . .and maybe a little adorable. We stand in silence, surrounded by the ghosts of my secret life, half-dried oils and the sharp scent of turpentine filling the space between us.

"I wasn't hiding this from you to lie," I finally say, my voice lower than I intended. "I just. . .I didn't want to give it away before I was ready. This has always been mine. The only thing that was ever just mine. With you being here, I knew it was only a matter of time. It's not like I deemed anything in my home off limits."

Derrick nods slowly, his gaze drifting back to the sketch on the easel, a detailed incomplete study of the side of half of face. "You painted me. How long has this been going on?"

I look at the sketch, remembering the night I drew it. "Since the first week you arrived."

His breath catches audibly.