Page 70 of For Pucking Ever

I haven't told Derrick. Haven't told anyone. Just shut the phone off and stared at the lake for an hour afterward, too angry to move, too hollow to breathe.

My mother's silence on the matter only hurt further. She sent a text only to say she was ‘processing’, a single word that carried the weight of decades of complicated loyalty. After all she did for me, all the things she allowed me to do, even when my father protested. The art lessons smuggled in as extra tutoring, the supplies hidden in her craft room, the quiet encouragement when no one else was looking. She'd been my silent champion, my secret ally in a house where dreams had strict parameters.

Now, it feels he's finally silenced her. Decades of her careful rebellion crushed under the heel of his disappointment. I wonder if she stands in their kitchen now, staring out the window like I stared at the lake, searching for words that won't come, for courage that's momentarily fled. The betrayal stings. It's not unexpected but I'd foolishly allowed myself to hope for better, even after all these years.

Here, now, Elaine has given me something I didn't realize I needed. A place. A yes. A quiet, unwavering welcome.

I don't respond right away when she asks if I'm okay. I just nod. Maybe, for the first time in a long time, I am.

Derrick leans into the room then, apron smudged with flour, a smile breaking across his face. "Turkey's almost ready. Hope y'all are hungry." There's a smear of gravy near his collarbone that he hasn't noticed, and flour dusting his forearms like snow. In the doorway, he looks lighter than I've seen him in weeks.

Elaine smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Starving."

I look at him like he hung the stars, arranged constellations by hand just to guide me home. The way sunlight catches on his curls, how his shoulders relax when he's not carrying the weight of expectations, the tiny crease between his eyebrows that appears when he's focusing on something he loves. I've memorized it all, cataloged every detail like precious artifacts.

God help me, I love him. The realization sits in my chest, no longer a visitor but a permanent resident. It's terrifying and steadying all at once. This feeling that existed long before I had the courage to name it, will remain long after the words fade from the air between us. When the time is right, I won't wait to say it.

TWENTY-EIGHT

DERRICK

Ialready miss her. My mom spent the holidays with us, filled the house with laughter and peppermint tea and that humming sound she makes when she's deep in thought—a melody that's been the soundtrack to my childhood. The guest room feels too empty without her, like she left a soft echo behind that the walls aren't ready to let go of, as if they're still hoping she'll walk back through the door with another story about my awkward teenage years.

I promised we'd visit Lark Bay once the season wraps. If we don't make the playoffs, we could go for a week, maybe longer if we volunteer for Tor's summer camp. She didn't say it, but I know she's tired more often now. The cane isn't just for bad days anymore, it's become an extension of her, a permanent companion. Still, she made Christmas magic for us. Let me cook despite her protests. Watched me fuss over a turkey I wasn't sure how to carve, coaching from her chair with that patience she's always had, and teased me every step of the way about how I could stop a projectile traveling ninety miles an hour but couldn't figure out which end of the bird to start with. Told Bast, over slices of sweet potato pie that tasted exactly like my childhood, that he was family now.

That was the first time I really saw her look at him like a son-in-law. Like someone she trusted to catch me if I fell, to be there when she couldn't. The thought of Bast and I married sends a jolt of warmth through me that settles deep in my bones, but we are nowhere near ready for that. I haven't even told the man I love him, though the words sometimes rise up in my throat when he's not looking, when he's just existing in our shared space.

The kettle whistles, sharp and insistent, and I turn it off just as Sebastian walks in, barefoot, hair damp from his shower, droplets still clinging to the nape of his neck. He looks unfairly good in a long-sleeved shirt and sweats, like some kind of moody magazine ad for domestic bliss that I'd tear out and keep. He leans in to kiss my temple, his lips warm against my skin, murmuring, "You okay?" His voice is low, intimate in the morning quiet.

"Yeah," I lie, knowing I'm not convincing anyone, least of all myself.

If he notices—of course he does, Bast notices everything—he doesn't push, and I'm grateful for this small mercy, this moment of understanding without words.

We settle in on the couch, protein smoothies in hand, and bowls of fruit in our laps while the morning news plays in the background, a gentle hum of voices filling the space between us. Neither of us are really watching, lost in our own thoughts, until I hear my teammates name cutting through the comfortable silence, yanking me back to reality.

“…Seattle Vipers goalie Javier Gossman was injured late last night in what authorities are calling a weather-related car accident. He was transported to Seattle General Hospital with a broken tibia and multiple contusions. Sources within the team say Gossman will miss the remainder of the season.”

My mouth drops open in shock and I almost drop my smoothie, the glass nearly slipping from my suddenly nerveless fingers. The world narrows to the news anchor's face, her professionally neutral expression as she delivers words that will reshape my entire career.

Sebastian grabs the remote and mutes the TV, already turning to look at me as my phone begins to ring, its shrill tone somehow matching the panic rising in my chest. His eyes, sharp and focused, track my every movement.

Pulling it from my pocket with clumsy fingers, I can see it's Coach Lennox. The name flashes like a warning light.

I answer on the second ring, throat dry as sandpaper. "Hello?" My voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else.

"Shaw. We need to talk," he says frantically, none of his usual measured calm present.

I stand, pacing toward the kitchen, my legs moving on autopilot. Placing my bowl of fruit and smoothie on the counter with exaggerated care, I brace my arm in front of me to steady myself and lean against it, feeling the cool granite ground me. "I just heard about Javier. Is he⁠—"

"Alive, yes. Lucky, even. But his leg is crushed. Compound fracture. He's been in surgery this morning. He won't return this season." There's a pause, heavy with implication, then Lennox continues, "We're pulling you up. You're the second goalie now."

My heart lurches, a reckless leap that steals my breath. The kitchen spins slightly around me, reality recalibrating.

"We'll talk more when you come in. You ready for this?" he asks, cutting through my whirling thoughts.

I don't answer right away, paralyzed by the enormity of what this means. Months of practice, watching from the sidelines, suddenly crystallizing into opportunity.

"Derrick?" he snaps to get my attention, impatience edging his tone.