Page 7 of For Pucking Ever

"Do you have anyone here?" the doctor asks. "Family, friends?"

The question lands like a sucker punch. No, I don't have anyone here. I don't have anyone anywhere except my mom, and she can barely take care of herself on her bad days, let alone me with a brain injury. The guys on the team, my team, the team that's three thousand miles away, they'd help, but they're not here.

I'm alone.

"Let me arrange something," Tony jumps in, already pulling out his phone. "We can get a medical assistant, rent a place⁠—"

I zone out as they discuss me like I'm not even in the room. The logistics of my broken life laid out in clinical terms. The beeping of the monitors speeds up slightly, matching my rising panic. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing.

I can't go home to Lark Bay. Mom's MS has been flaring up; the last thing she needs is to worry about me. And I've spent every cent I have on making her life easier, the accessible house renovations, the live-in nurse five days a week, the treatments that insurance won't cover. I'm a rookie, my starting salary was beyond what I could have ever asked for, thanks to Tony. But if I can't continue to play. . .

Now I'm stuck in the city where the man who wrecked me lives, unable to even function on my own.

The voices around me rise and fall like waves, washing over me without penetrating. I hear fragments, "cognitive rest," "follow-up appointments," "media statement", but they don't stick. Nothing sticks except the crushing weight of everything I've lost.

The door closes with a soft click. They've gone, giving me "time to rest," which really means time to fall apart in private.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, fighting the burn of tears. I will not cry. I will not⁠—

The door opens and I quickly drop my hands, blinking rapidly.

There he is. Sebastian fucking Bergeron, standing in my hospital room doorway like he walked straight out of my fevered imagination. His tailored suit is rumpled, tie loosened, like he's been tugging at it constantly. His grey eyes are locked on mine with an intensity that steals what little breath I have left.

He didn't leave.

"I came back," he says, his voice carrying that slight French-Canadian lilt that used to make my stomach flip. Still does, apparently, if the sudden flutter in my chest is any indication.

"You were here," I manage, hating how weak my voice sounds. "I thought I dreamed it."

Something flickers across his face, relief? Guilt? Both?

"As soon as it was humanly possible, I arrived as soon as I could."

"Why?" The question comes out sharper than I intended.

He takes a step forward, then hesitates. "Derrick⁠—"

"No, seriously. Why now? After ten months of radio silence, why show up now? Feeling guilty your teammate destroyed my career?" I wince as soon as the words leave my mouth. Bitter. Childish. But I can't help it.

Bast's jaw tightens, but he doesn't fire back. Instead, he moves closer to my bed, each step deliberate, like he's approaching a wounded animal.

"I just stepped out, my intention was to leave but I remained in the hallway," he says quietly. "I overheard them talking about you needing to stay in Seattle. About you having nowhere to go."

I look away, humiliation burning hotter than the pain in my head. Great. Now he knows just how pathetic I am.

"You're coming home with me," he says determinately.

My head snaps back toward him so fast that stars explode behind my eyes. "What?"

"You're coming home with me," he repeats, firmer this time. Not a question. Not an offer. A statement of fact, delivered with that quiet authority that made him a legend in the net and in my teenage dreams.

"I don't need your pity," I spit out, the words tasting like acid on my tongue. The fluorescent lights above make my head throb with each pulse, punctuating my defiance.

"Good, because I'm not offering it." His eyes hold mine, unwavering, storm-gray and resolute. "You need somewhere to recover. I have space. It's quiet. Private." Each word measured, practical, like he's explaining a play rather than offering to upend both our lives.

"And why would you do that for me?" I ask, lifting my chin through the pain, feeling the movement reverberate through my skull. The hospital gown scratches against my skin, a constant reminder of my vulnerability, my newfound fragility.

The question hangs between us, loaded with all the things we've never said. All the hurt I've carried since last summer. I knew what it was. One night. But weren't we at least friends? Not a word all season. Forget that he left like a thief in the night. I thought. . .well. . .it doesn't matter.