30 - Sebastian
SEBASTIAN
“MOVE, SEB!”
“I’m moving!” I shot back, half-running across the parking lot with my gear bag slamming against my hip like it was trying to take me out before the team bus could.
Behind me, the arena doors burst open again — voices spilling out, loud and angry.
“Dude, they’re coming!”
“I KNOW!”
I hit the last stretch of pavement just as the bus door folded open with a hydraulic hiss. Zack leaned halfway out, waving both arms like I was landing a plane.
“GO! GO! GO!”
“I’ve got skates!” I barked, hauling myself up the steps. “I can’t exactly sprint!”
“You’re doing just great, princess,” Caleb called from inside.
I half-stumbled, half-fell onto the bus, breath fogging in the cold air as I dragged my gear in after me. The second both feet cleared the step, the door slammed shut behind me.
And the bus lurched forward.
“Jesus,” I muttered, grabbing the nearest seat to steady myself. Outside, I caught a glimpse of a couple of Ottawa guys, spilling into the lot, one of them pointing at the bus like he was making a note of it for later.
Good. Let them.
“Did you hear?” Asher said, leaning across the aisle. “Solomon’s probably got a cracked rib.”
“Good,” Zack said instantly.
Then, after a pause—
“…I mean, not good, but—”
“No, it’s good,” Dorian cut in. “Screw that guy.”
“Fucker got flattened,” Caleb added, shaking his head. “I felt that hit from the bench!”
Zack leaned back in his seat, grinning like a man who had absolutely no regrets.
“Worth it.”
“You’re one to talk,” Asher said. “Half the reason they’re chasing us is because you poisoned the bathroom.”
Zack didn’t even try to deny it.
“They started it,” he said.
“With what?” demanded Caleb.
Zack pointed a finger like he was about to make a very important legal argument.
“First of all,” he said, “that bathroom was in bad shape before I got there. It smelled like that one time we tried opening the basement door, and—”
“We don’t talk about that!” growled Caleb. “Remember?”
“Fine then,” Zack conceded. “It smelled like someone microwaved a cod in there.”
“A cod?” Dorian chimed in.
“A rotten cod,” Asher corrected.
“Exactly!” Zack nodded. “I was only defending myself.”
“You carpet-bombed a public space,” Caleb said flatly.
“It was tactical,” Zack insisted. “Besides, why should I be subjected to something so foul, without some retaliation of my own?”
Laughter rolled through the bus. Loose. Relieved. Still riding the edge of something that wasn’t quite a loss. No one said anything about the seven goals I let up. Not even Mercer. Yeah, sure, some of the breakaways were on penalties that never got called. But the rest were straight up on me.
I eased into a seat near the back, dropping my gear with a heavy thud and leaning forward, elbows on my knees.
My breathing slowed. Eventually.
But my head didn’t.
Because no matter how loud the bus got— I couldn’t stop seeing it:
Her. Stepping out of Grayson’s room.
His shirt.
His sweatpants.
I exhaled slowly, through clenched teeth. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t have to.
Except that it probably did.
Fuck.
I stared down at the floor, my jaw tightening slightly as the bus rattled over a rough patch of road. I’d told myself not to get involved. Not like that. Not here.
I was the new guy. Barely holding onto a spot. Still trying to prove I belonged.
All of which meant— I didn’t get distractions. I wasn’t allowed the luxury of complications. And I certainly didn’t get to screw this up because I couldn’t keep my dick in my pants.
But your dick hasn’t even been out of—
I threw my head back in frustration, then glanced up just long enough to find her. Haven sat a few rows ahead, tucked near the window, her tablet resting loosely in her lap. She wasn’t working. Not really. Just staring off at nothing, which seemed pretty good right about now.
At just the sight of her, something went tight in my chest.
Don’t.
I forced myself to look away.
“Did you hear about Sutherland?”
The voice cut through my thoughts. I was grateful for it.
Riley. Across the aisle. Talking to Jackson.
“What now?” Jackson asked.
“He won again,” Riley said. “That’s six straight. Two of them were shutouts.”
Jackson let out a low whistle. “Six?”
“Yeah,” Riley nodded. “Guy can’t lose right now.”
“Lucky bastard,” Jackson muttered.
“Right?” Riley agreed. “Where was that when he was with us?”
I remained still. Listening.
“Seriously,” Jackson went on. “Dude couldn’t stop a beach ball half the time.”
“Yeah, and now he’s suddenly elite?” Riley scoffed. “Doesn’t add up.”
“Nope.”
They kept talking, but I wasn’t listening anymore. Because something about that stuck. Sutherland. Losing here. Winning there. I pulled out my phone, and started checking things for myself.
Five minutes later, I was even more confused than before. Something was off. Not just tonight, not just the refs. Something that felt… bigger.
Before I could overthink it, I pushed myself up and moved down the aisle. Grayson sat near the front, head tilted back, eyes closed, headphones in. I hesitated for a second, then slipped into the empty seat across from him.
He didn’t move, or even react. I almost got up. Then… his eyes opened.
“What do you want?”
No greeting. No softness. I shifted slightly in my seat.
“Quick question.”
He pulled one earbud out.
“Sutherland,” I said.
That got his attention. Just a flicker, but I saw it.
“What about him?” Grayson asked.
“They’re saying he won six straight.”
Grayson didn’t answer. That was answer enough for me.
“Does that surprise you?” I asked.
His gaze held mine. Measured.
“No,” he said finally.
“He wasn’t like that here, though?”
Something tugged at the corners of his mouth, forcing it into a frown.
“He’s on a hot streak,” Grayson shrugged. “Good for him.”
“Six straight,” I repeated. “Ten of the last twelve. GAA hovering around 1.8. And his save percentage—”
“You driving at something?” Grayson cut me off, pulling his hood back.
I changed my tone to something calmer, more careful.
“I’m just saying he’s different now. Way different than he was here.”
The stats didn’t lie. It wasn’t like Carter Sutherland lucked into a winning team, his entire game had been transformed. His stats with the Reavers had taken a crash dive in the weeks before he was traded. And now…
“People aren’t always what they look like,” Grayson said, strangely.
I studied him for a moment.
“That supposed to mean something?”
A beat. Then—
“No,” he said, unconvincingly.
Grayson popped his earbud back in and pulled his hood low, over his face. The conversation was over. I lingered for a second longer, then stood up and walked back down the aisle.
As I passed her, Haven looked up. Our eyes met. She smiled.
It was soft. Easy. Like nothing had changed.
I almost smiled back.
Almost.
Then I kept walking. Because maybe… that was all it was ever going to be.
I dropped back into my seat and stared out the window. The glass was cold. Frost crept along the edges, distorting the dark landscape rolling past.
The team laughed behind me. Talked. Moved on.
But I stayed quiet. Watching. Thinking. And of course, wondering if I was ever really going to fit in here.
Or if I was always going to be—
Just outside of it.