Page 47 of For Pucking Ever

One drill. One skate. One day at a time. Like Mom always said on the days when she was struggling with her MS the most: you don't have to climb the whole mountain today, just find the next foothold.

I'm processing everything I've experienced today as I peel myself off the changing room bench, muscles protesting after the intensity of today's session with Willis. The locker room's mostly cleared out, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the lingering scent of athletic tape and sweat. I take my time grabbing my bag, not entirely sure I'm ready to face Bast yet.

The hallway to the parking lot stretches longer than usual, or maybe it's just my reluctance making it seem that way. Each step feels weighted, my muscles already telegraphing tomorrow's soreness. I spot Bast's sleek black Audi immediately in the player's lot but it's the man who steals my breath.

He's leaning against the passenger door, scrolling through his phone with that focused frown that makes the tiny lines between his eyebrows deepen. The late afternoon sun catches on his profile, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw, the slight shadow of stubble. Even dressed down in gray sweats and a Vipers hoodie that's seen better days, he looks like he stepped off a magazine cover.

My pulse does that stupid little skip it's been doing since that first day of summer camp when I first laid eyes on the actual human version of the man I'd admired from afar for most of my teenage years. Get it together, Shaw. You're a professional, not some starstruck kid anymore.

He glances up as I approach, his eyes finding mine with an intensity that still catches me off-guard. He pockets his phone in one fluid motion, pushing himself off the car with casual grace. "There you are. I was beginning to think you fell asleep in the shower." His voice carries that hint of French-Canadian accent that thickens when he's tired or turned on. A detail I've been cataloging with embarrassing precision these past weeks.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." I adjust my duffel bag on my shoulder, trying to sound casual when everything inside me feels like it's vibrating at the wrong frequency. "Willis wanted to run extra drills."

Bast's eyes flicker over my face, that perceptive gaze missing nothing. "How did it go?"

"Better than yesterday," I echo Willis's assessment, finding it easier than crafting my own. "Still working through some things."

He nods, not pushing for more as he opens the passenger door for me. The gesture is small but loaded with a considerate intimacy that makes my chest tighten.

Once we're both settled in the car, the quiet envelops us like a blanket. Bast starts the engine, the low purr filling the space between us as we pull out of the parking lot. Seattle's skyline glitters in the distance, the Space Needle piercing the dusky sky like an exclamation point.

I wait for questions that don't come. Bast navigates through traffic with the same quiet confidence he brings to everything, occasionally glancing at me but never demanding explanations. The silence isn't empty or awkward; it's comfortable, like a deep breath after being underwater too long.

My phone buzzes with a text from my mom, a photo of her physical therapy session with a thumbs up. The sight of her smile, determined despite everything, hits me in that soft, vulnerable place behind my ribs. I send back a heart emoji, because sometimes words aren't enough.

"Your mom?" Bast asks, catching my small smile.

"Yeah, she's crushing her PT today." I turn the screen so he can see. "She's stronger than I'll ever be."

Bast's expression softens. "The Shaw resilience is genetic, then."

The compliment washes over me, unexpected and warming, like sunshine breaking through Seattle's perpetual cloud cover. I look out the window, watching raindrops begin to race each other down the glass, tracing invisible paths that remind me of the strategy diagrams Coach Willis had drawn on the whiteboard earlier.

"I'm trying," I admit quietly, the words feeling heavier than they should. "But some days it feels like I'm skating uphill with weights strapped to my ankles."

"We all have those days," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the space between us, resonating somewhere deep in my chest. "Even me."

It's hard to imagine Sebastian Bergeron, the man whose highlight reels I used to watch on repeat in my dorm room, the legend whose poster hung above my bed until embarrassingly recently, doubting himself. The concept seems as impossible as water flowing upward.

"You?" I can't keep the disbelief from my voice, turning to study his profile. "Mr. Unflappable? The guy who stopped forty-seven shots in Game Seven like it was a casual Tuesday practice?"

His laugh is short but genuine, a rare sound that I've been mentally collecting like sea glass. "The press calls me the Ice King for a reason, Derrick. It's not just about being cold under pressure." He signals for a turn, the city lights painting his profile in gold and shadow, highlighting the slight tension in his jaw that I wouldn't have noticed weeks ago. "It's because no one gets to see what's underneath. The cracks, the doubts, they stay buried where they belong."

The confession, simple as it is, feels like being handed something precious and breakable, a trust I'm not entirely sure I've earned. This glimpse behind the carefully constructed walls of Sebastian Bergeron feels more intimate than any physical touch we've shared.

As we stop at a red light, Bast reaches across the center console. His hand finds mine, warm and calloused from years between the pipes, fingers threading through mine with casual confidence that makes my insides liquify. My throat tightens, and I fight the urge to look at our joined hands like I can't believe they're real, like they might disappear if acknowledged directly.

"You don't have to pretend with me," he says, eyes fixed on the road ahead, though I can see something vulnerable flickering in their depths. "Not ever. The mask stays on the ice." He squeezes my hand once before releasing it to shift gears as the light changes. "Now, let's get home and get you fed. Willis may run you ragged, but I draw the line at letting you starve."

Later, after a shower, I pad down the stairs, still drying my hair with a towel. The scent hits me first. Garlic, lemon, something buttery and rich. I follow it like a cartoon character drawn toward a fresh pie on a windowsill, practically floating on the aromatic current. The house is quiet except for the soft clinking of utensils against pots and pans, the occasional sizzle of something hitting hot oil, and the low, melodic hum of a song I don't recognize playing from the kitchen speaker, something with a gentle bass line that seems to sync with my footsteps.

Then I see him. Barefoot, shirtless, wearing only a black apron tied snugly around his waist and those god damned gray sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips. He looks more delectable than whatever he's cooking, all muscle and smooth skin, the tattoo sleeve of fighting dragons rippling with each movement of his arm. I can't help the saliva pooling in my mouth at the thought of licking every inch of him, tracing the contours of his back with my tongue, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his waistband.

He's stirring a pot with practiced ease, wine glass balanced elegantly in his other hand, the glow of the stove casting golden light over his light brown skin, highlighting the definition of his shoulders, catching in the soft edges of his close-cropped hair. The concentrated expression on his face, brow slightly furrowed, lips parted in focus, makes him look almost vulnerable. He hasn't noticed me yet, and for a moment, I'm content to just drink in the sight of him, this private, unguarded version of Sebastian that so few people get to see.

I stop in the doorway and just watch him for a moment. My chest does this tight, aching thing. This feels so normal, so easy, like we’ve done this for years. . .and that’s exactly when it hits me.

I'm not a guest anymore. I have a new contract. I have a new team. There's no real reason, no official reason, for me to still be here. Not with Bast. I'm not recovered completely, but enough to take care of myself. We haven't even had the conversation. About us. About what this is. We've been living in this beautiful bubble, dancing around definitions, letting touches and kisses speak what words haven't.