Page 66 of For Pucking Ever

“The Seattle Vipers fully support Sebastian Bergeron and Derrick Shaw as individuals and as teammates. We remain focused on building a winning season with the best talent, character, and leadership the league has to offer.”

– The Seattle Vipers Executive Team

The Vipers locker room is buzzing when I walk in. Guys are already half-dressed in their base layers, stretching, talking over each other, energy high and ridiculous. I spot a copy of the team statement on one of the benches, someone having printed it out and circled Sebastian's name in red pen.

After a whirlwind week, three preseason games, one viral scandal, and a dozen calls from both our agents, the team finally released the official statement. Sebastian read it three times while pacing the kitchen barefoot, a cup of coffee clutched in one hand, my hand in the other. He didn't say much, but I saw the change in his shoulders, the way the weight shifted. He finally let out a breath I think he'd been holding since we left the meeting with the GM the morning after the gallery show.

Now, standing in the middle of the locker room, I feel it too. The edge has dulled. The danger has passed. Not entirely, but enough.

"Shaw!" Tor grins, pulling a jersey over his head. "You’re dating a damn zillionaire and didn't think to buy the team lunch?"

I smirk. "I'm still third string, remember? I'm only good for orange slices and tape."

"Bullshit," Ridley throws in, clapping Sebastian on the back as he passes. "I mean, B. Ardent? Really? Like, I think Tor and I need matching yachts."

Tor laughs as Devan gears up for his pregame music serenade that I'm still getting used to.

Sebastian doesn't flinch, but his fingers twitch where they brush mine as I sit beside him. He hasn't let go of my hand since we walked into the locker room, and I'm not about to pull away.

"So let me get this straight," Devan says from his stall phone in hand. "You're the most mysterious, famous artist in the world and the best goalie in the league? No offense but fuck off. That's greedy."

Sebastian actually laughs, and I swear it might be the first real one I've heard since this whole thing started.

"Painting doesn't win championships," he mutters, shrugging. "Hockey does."

The banter explodes around us, fast and familiar. It's like nothing ever changed. Except everything did. Devan dances on top of the bench in front of his stall as Cardi B's, I Like It, blares from his phone, his pregame ritual now in full swing. He's bobbing his head dramatically, mouthing every word with the confidence of someone who practices in the mirror. Ridley and Tor join in, throwing towels at each other while shouting lyrics they definitely don't know correctly.

Everyone is hyped, bouncing with that electric energy that only comes before game time. The locker room smells like a mixture of sweat, athletic tape, and that weird cologne Maxwell insists isn't too strong. Sticks clack against the floor as guys tape and re-tape, a nervous habit we all share.

I can't believe how lucky I am to be part of this team. These guys who ribbed Sebastian about his secret talent moments ago are the same ones who've had my back since the moment I became a Viper. Now they're here, accepting us both.

That's when Coach Lennox walks in, whistle around his neck, and clipboard under his arm. The room immediately goes quiet.

"You ladies done talking about each other's feelings? Good. We've got Chicago on the schedule tonight, and I want your heads in the game. Not on Instagram. Not on TMZ. Hockey."

He looks straight at Sebastian. Pauses. Nods once.

"Bergeron is here to work. Shaw is here to play. Everyone else is here to win. Act like it. Gear up."

No one argues. Everyone moves.

Sebastian finally drops my hand to pull on his pads. As he bends down, his shoulder brushes mine, solid and steady, and I take a breath.

We're still here, still standing, and we're just getting started.

The roar of the crowd hits like a physical force as Chicago's forward skates a desperate breakaway toward our net. I lean forward on the bench, my mask pushed up on top of my head, heart hammering against my ribs.

"Come on, Bast," I whisper, the words lost in the thunderous noise of the arena.

Sebastian is a statue between the pipes, weight balanced perfectly on the edges of his skates, glove hand raised, stick positioned low. I know that stance. I've studied it for years, had posters of it on my wall, and now I get to witness it in real-time, wearing the same colors he is.

The Chicago forward fakes left, shifts right, then fires, a wicked slap shot that would get past most goalies in the league.

But Sebastian isn't most goalies.

His glove snaps up, snatching the puck from the air like it's moving in slow motion for him while everyone else is stuck at regular speed. The crowd explodes, and I'm on my feet before I realize I've moved, pounding the boards with my glove.

"Jesus Christ," Javier mutters next to me, shaking his head. "That's just showing off."