Page 73 of For Pucking Ever

I set him down gently, my hands still gripping his shoulders, and look him in the eyes, gray to brown, seeing everything we've been through reflected back at me. And then, without thinking, without hesitating, I kiss him. Right there, center ice, in front of cameras, fans, and Lachlan fucking Devereaux. A declaration. A promise. A line drawn in the ice that says: This is who I am. This is who we are.

When I pull back, he's beaming, radiant with victory and love and the pure, unfiltered joy of the moment.

"I'm so proud of you," I whisper, my voice rough with emotion.

He blinks, like he's trying not to cry, his lashes dark against his flushed cheeks.

"I love you," I say, loud enough that the wind might carry it up into the stands, past the press box, beyond the arena walls.

He grins so wide I swear it could split the sky, could crack the very foundations of the arena.

"I love you too."

Right there, on the blood-spattered ice, under the stadium lights, in front of ghosts and gods and everything that ever tried to break us, we win. Not just the game. Something bigger. Something that matters more than points or standings or even championships.

As the team surrounds us, as the crowd roars its approval, I catch sight of Lachlan standing alone at the Winnipeg bench, watching us. For a moment, our eyes lock across the distance. Then he nods once, a small gesture of acknowledgment, perhaps even respect, before turning away.

I turn back to Derrick, to my team, to the life I've built after the ruins Lachlan left behind. For the first time in a long time, I feel nothing but gratitude for the path that led me here.

THIRTY

DERRICK

The locker room hums with quiet anticipation, that strange stillness before the storm. Jerseys hang on open lockers, skates are half-laced, and the sharp scent of menthol, sweat, and fresh tape cuts through the air like pre-battle incense. Equipment managers bustle around silently, making final preparations while players sit in various states of readiness, some lost in thought, others going through their game-day rituals. It's just another game night, on the surface. But I know better.

It's not just any game. It's Toronto.

I adjust my pads, feeling the familiar weight settle against my skin, and glance up at the whiteboard across the room. My number is circled in bold red marker. Starting goalie. Tonight, I'm in the crease. Not Bast. Me. The significance isn't lost on anyone, least of all me.

There's a strange ache in my chest, equal parts pride and nerves. My fingers tremble slightly as I tighten my gear. It's been two months since Coach Willis and Coach Lennox started rotating me and Bast, letting us trade games and find our rhythm. Coach Willis has been working with me one-on-one, pushing me beyond what I thought possible. Tonight, this night, against this team, it feels personal. Against the team that wanted to bench me indefinitely after my injury, the team that decided I wasn't worth the investment anymore.

Coach Lennox's voice echoes in my mind from this morning's skate: "They're going to come hard, Shaw. Expect them to test you early and often. Prove they made a mistake." His eyes had been steady, confident in a way that made me stand taller.

Damn right I will. I've been waiting for this moment since the day I got the call about the buyout.

Across the room, I catch movement. Devan's sitting at his stall, talking with Tobias. They're sitting a little too close, shoulders almost touching, and then Tobias says something that makes Devan smile, like smile-smile, like the kind that should be private. One of those rare, unguarded moments that reveals more than words ever could. Devan's eyes drop, like he's caught doing something he shouldn't, a flush creeping up his neck.

Next to me, Ridley leans in, stage-whispering, "Did you see that?" His eyebrows are raised almost comically high.

Tor whistles low from the stall beside me, shaking his head with a knowing grin. "Well, that was. . .something."

I smirk, taping my stick with practiced precision. "You saw that too, huh?"

"Whole damn room saw it," Bast replies, his voice dry as he adjusts his own equipment. He's been quiet tonight, more focused than usual. I know he wants this win for me as much as I do.

I snort under my breath, watching as Devan and Tobias finally separate, moving to their respective stalls. "Do we even know what's going on with that? They've been dancing around each other for weeks."

Sebastian straightens in front of me, his broad shoulders blocking my view as he adjusts my chest guard like it's the most normal thing in the world, fingers methodically checking each strap. "Let's gossip less and focus more so we can steamroll Toronto," he says dryly, but there's warmth in his eyes that's meant only for me.

Ridley grins, holding up his stick like a toast. "Steamroll it is. They won't know what hit them."

Sebastian doesn't say much after that, but I can feel the pressure of his hand on my wrist, solid and reassuring. His touch is firm, confident, the same way he handles everything else in his life. He kneels in front of me, finishing the strap with meticulous care, his fingers moving with practiced precision. Then he looks up, and the rest of the world fades away, until it’s just us.

His eyes are steady. Proud. Loving. Gray like the Seattle sky before a storm, but infinitely warmer. There's something almost fierce in his gaze, a silent promise that transcends the chaos around us. In moments like these, when the noise of the locker room fades and it's just his eyes finding mine, I still can't believe that this man is mine. It's a reality that sometimes feels too good to be true, even now.

"You ready?" His voice is low, intimate despite the bustling room around us.

I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "Always."