Page 36 of For Pucking Ever

The room is warm, loud with chatter and laughter and the clinking of glasses. The scent of fresh-baked cookies mingles with someone's subtle perfume. Pictures of the couples at various stages of their relationships line the walls, testament to the history we all share. Through the archway, the second living room remains quiet, perfect for a conversation that's been waiting to happen, its emptiness beckoning like a promise.

Tor, Ridley, and Devan join me by the windows while Derrick stays behind, perched on the arm of a chair near Alexis, listening as Brea launches into her pitch about some new art gallery show she's dragging Ridley to. Her hands move animatedly as she speaks and I catch Derrick nodding politely, though his eyes flick to his phone when he thinks no one's watching.

I glance through the archway at him. Derrick's smiling, listening, but I can see it. He's trying too hard. He's here but he's not. I can see the crease in his brow, the subtle shift of his body as he tries to keep still.

"So, what's happening with Derrick?" Tor asks, pulling my eyes away from him, his voice pitched just low enough that it doesn't carry across the room.

Pulling us into a very suspicious huddle, I lower my voice to barely above a whisper, feeling the warmth of their bodies as they lean in. "There's a chance Toronto's letting him go." The words taste bitter on my tongue, like I've swallowed something rotten.

"What?" Ridley's head jerks toward me, his brows furrowing deep, eyes widening with that intensity he usually reserves for third period comebacks. "Why the hell would they do that?"

"They're saying the recovery timeline's too long. That it's uncertain." My jaw clenches so tight I can feel the muscles strain along my temples. I flex my fingers, trying to release some of the tension building in my chest. "Tony, Derrick's agent, has been doing what he can, working the phones day and night but the team's radio silent. Not even returning his calls anymore."

"Jesus," Devan mutters, running a hand over his face. His wedding ring catches the light. "The kid's what, twenty-two? They're gonna throw away his whole career over this?"

"Almost twenty-three," I correct, remembering the birthday plans I've been quietly making. "He's scared shitless. He tries to hide it behind that smile but I've seen him staring at his phone, waiting for news that never comes."

Tor folds his arms across his chest, thoughtful, his captain's face firmly in place. "What do you need from us, Bast? You know we've got your back."

"Just. . .be there," I say, glancing back through the archway where Derrick sits, his laugh a little too loud, his posture a little too stiff. "Preseason's still weeks away. If he gets traded, cut, or benched, we don't know which way this is going to fall. He's trying to act like he's okay, putting on a brave face for everyone, but I saw it this morning. The headaches are back. Found him in the bathroom at five AM, lights off, head in his hands."

"Concussions are brutal," Ridley says, his voice softer than usual, tinged with the memory of his own battles. "You think you're fine, back to normal, then it slams you out of nowhere. One bright light, one loud noise, and you're down for the count again."

"Yeah," I agree, swallowing hard. "And hockey players are the worst at admitting pain. We're all trained to push through it, skate it off, pretend it's nothing. He's still trying to prove himself, thinks showing weakness will just confirm their decision."

"He's lucky he's got you," Tor says, giving me a knowing look, the same one he gave me when I first admitted my feelings for Derrick months ago.

I knew then what was happening between us, the electricity that sparked whenever our eyes met across a room, but I convinced myself it meant nothing. He was in Toronto, playing for the Stars and I was here in Seattle. Distance was our reality, our shield, our excuse. It couldn't be anything but what it was, fleeting, temporary, impossible. A moment I deliberately walked away from, shoulders squared, jaw clenched, telling myself it was the professional thing to do. The smart thing. The safe thing. A moment I couldn't stop replaying for months after.

A moment I thought I'd successfully buried in the past, locked away behind the fortress of my focus on the game, on my career, on my art. It wasn’t until the moment that high-velocity puck struck him down on the ice, everything I'd denied came rushing back with the force of a broken dam.

I don't answer. Because luck has nothing to do with it. If anything, he's unlucky he got stuck with me, someone who's still figuring out how to open a damn door without slamming it shut again. Someone whose own walls are so high that sometimes I wonder if I'm helping or hurting him more.

"Whatever the outcome we'll do what we can to help." Tor reassures me with a back pat, his hand warm and solid against my shoulder blade, grounding me in the moment.

Through the archway, I hear Brea's voice float in. "We've got tickets to the B. Ardent gallery in two months! Have you ever seen any of his works?"

Ridley grunts. "Art's not my thing. Walking around some pretentious art gallery pretending I know what the hell is going on. That’s a no, Luna.”

"But you'll go," Brea says sweetly, sauntering over to his side. "Because I love you."

He mutters something under his breath that earns him a kiss on the cheek.

My stomach knots. I go still.

B. Ardent. The show. I hadn't forgotten. I just didn’t expect anyone in this room to get tickets. Well, Fuck.

My worlds are colliding faster than I planned. They're going to see the paintings of Derrick. In a matter of weeks. It’s too soon and I'm not ready.

I glance at Derrick again, just as he laughs at something Alexis says. He catches my eye across the room, his expression softening into something private, something that squeezes around my heart like a fist.

Before I can spiral further, there's a knock at the door.

Brea leaves us and opens it, revealing a tall, imposing figure in the doorway. The man stands at least 6'5", his light brown skin catching the golden afternoon light streaming through the windows. A silver eyebrow ring glints as he shifts, balancing a large bag of takeout and a gift bag in his hands. The takeout sends savory aromas wafting into the house. He follows behind Brea as she ushers him through the foyer and into the opposite sitting room. His hazel eyes sweep confidently across the gathered faces before landing on Devan, where they linger with unmistakable recognition.

I feel Devan tense beside me, his entire body going rigid. Before I can lean over to ask if he's okay, he abruptly stands and makes his way over to Lia and the baby, putting deliberate distance between himself and the newcomer.

"Tobias Groves," the man announces, raising his free hand in a casual wave that somehow manages to command everyone's attention. His closely cropped black hair accentuates the sharp angles of his handsome face. "Trade from Vegas. Brought some food to introduce myself to the neighborhood."