Page 1 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

One

Trey

T he scrape of blades against ice echoed through Steel City University's Monongahela Arena. Sharp. Rhythmic. Hypnotic. I dug my edges in deeper, pushing harder with each stride. Practice had started twenty minutes ago, and already my jersey was sticking to my back, sweat trickling down my spine despite the rink's chill.

Across the ice, a flash of copper caught my eye.

Sullivan.

His movements were fluid, effortless. While the rest of us hacked at the ice like we were trying to break through it, he glided. Each stride precise. Calculated. Minimal. The same way he did everything.

My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.

It had been like this since the first team meeting six weeks ago. Coach Barnes introduced Beau Sullivan as our new transfer defenseman with an enthusiasm he rarely showed. "Sullivan here was top of his conference in blocked shots last season at Hartford College," Coach had said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Some of you could learn a thing or two from his dedication."

And there it was—that subtle nod, that fleeting moment when Coach's eyes had found mine across the locker room. The implication was clear as day. Unlike Sullivan, I was a problem to be solved. Too aggressive. Too undisciplined. Too much.

The comparison stung worse because last season should have been mine. Eight goals and eighteen assists, third in the Great Lakes Conference for points by a defenseman. Until that final game against Keystone State, when I'd let my temper get the better of me. When I'd dropped gloves with their captain after a dirty hit on Davis, our youngest player. The fight had cost us the championship and landed me on probation with Coach.

"One more incident, Harrington," he'd warned me over the summer, "and I'll bench you for the season. I don't care how many goals you score."

And then Sullivan had arrived, like some kind of walking redemption story. The anti-Trey.

Sullivan, with his perfect manners and his perfect stats and his perfect fucking control, had nodded politely at the introduction. Never smiled. Never spoke beyond a quiet, "Looking forward to playing with you all." Like we were lucky to have him grace us with his presence.

I watched as he methodically adjusted his gloves between drills, tugging each one exactly three times.

And when Williams had joked about getting Sullivan laid that weekend as a proper welcome to the team, Sullivan's ears had turned the faintest shade of pink—barely visible beneath his copper hair—as he'd murmured something noncommittal.

That blush. That was when I'd first felt the itch under my skin. When I'd decided I needed to crack that composure, just to see what would happen.

"Harrington!" Coach's voice cut through the cacophony of sticks on pucks, skates on ice. "You planning on joining us today?"

I realized I'd been standing motionless, watching Sullivan run through passing drills with Matthews. My fingers flexed inside my gloves, the leather creaking.

"Sorry, Coach," I muttered, skating into position.

The drill was simple—two-on-one rush, forwards versus defender. Sullivan was up, planted at the blue line, knees bent, stick low and ready. Williams took the puck, with me flanking his right side. We crossed the red line, building speed.

Williams passed to me. The puck hit my tape with a satisfying thwack.

Sullivan's eyes locked on mine, those green-gold irises tracking my movement, giving nothing away. No tension, no anticipation. Just that steady, detached focus.

The space between us narrowed. Five feet. Three feet. A bead of sweat traced the edge of his jaw, disappearing beneath the strap of his helmet.

I flicked the puck back to Williams, my eyes never leaving Sullivan's face—searching for a reaction, for frustration, for something—but his expression remained impassive as he pivoted smoothly, cutting off Williams's lane to the net.

A perfect defensive play. Again.

Williams lost the puck. Whistle blew. Reset.

"Nice read, Sullivan," Coach called out.

Sullivan nodded once, no smile, no pride. Not even a flicker of satisfaction. Just a slight adjustment of his stance as he prepared for the next rush.

The back of my neck prickled with heat that had nothing to do with exertion.

Three more drills. Two more close encounters with Sullivan. Each time, that same controlled precision. That same infuriating neutrality. Like I wasn't even a challenge worth acknowledging.

By the time Coach divided us for scrimmage, my skin felt too tight for my body, every muscle coiled and ready to spring.

Reds versus blues. Sullivan on the opposing team. Of course.

Face-off at center ice. Sullivan positioned himself near his own blue line, watching the play develop with those calculating eyes. I hung back, covering the point, but really just waiting.

The puck came loose from a tangle of sticks and skates. Sullivan swooped in, collecting it with a casual flick of his wrist. He turned up the ice, head up, surveying his options.

I saw my chance.

Three hard strides to build speed. The sound of my blades cutting through ice like knives. Sullivan sensed me coming—a slight turn of his head, but too late.

I caught him just as he released the puck, shoulder driving into his chest, the impact jarring through both our bodies. Sullivan went down, sprawling onto the ice. His stick clattered away.

A whistle shrieked. "Harrington! What the hell was that?"

I circled back, heart hammering against my ribs, not from exertion but from something darker, something that flared hot at the sight of Sullivan on the ice.

"Clean hit," I said, the lie tasting metallic in my mouth.

Davis glided over, brow furrowed beneath his helmet. "Jesus, Trey, take it easy. It's just practice."

I ignored him. Davis was a good kid, but he didn't understand. Every time Sullivan came near me, there was just this electric sensation under my skin, and occasionally, I had to do something about it.

Sullivan pushed himself up, one gloved hand brushing ice shavings from his jersey. His movements were slower now, more deliberate. A wince—so brief I nearly missed it—flashed across his features as he tested his shoulder.

But his eyes, when they met mine, held nothing. No anger. No resentment. Nothing but that same cool assessment, like I was a problem to be solved rather than a person who'd just tried to put him through the boards.

"Sullivan!" Coach barked. "You good?"

Sullivan retrieved his stick, flexed his fingers around the shaft. "I'm fine."

His voice was level, controlled—giving away nothing. Not a tremor of pain, not a hint of the fury that should have been there.

"Scrimmage over," Coach announced, his face flushed beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. "Hit the showers. Harrington, my office when you’re done."

Matthews skated past me, giving me a subtle head shake. "Coach is gonna have your ass," he muttered. "Get it together, man. We need you for the Voyagers game."

The locker room filled with the familiar symphony of post-practice chaos—equipment being shed, showers running, conversations overlapping. Williams slapped my shoulder as I passed. "Party at the Theta house tonight. Brings lots of single ladies." He winked. "Or dudes. Whatever floats your boat."

I managed a tight nod. The team knew I was gay, not that I advertised it. It was just another thing that made me different, made me stand out when all I'd ever wanted was to belong somewhere.

"Speaking of which," a voice said from nearby. Reynolds, our senior captain. Hulking defenseman. NHL hopeful. "Keep all that gay shit out of the locker room, Harrington. Scouts are starting to show up, and nobody wants that kind of attention on the team."

The locker room quieted briefly, a few guys suddenly finding their skate laces fascinating. Davis shot me an apologetic look from across the room. Williams shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

"Cool, man," I said, voice tight but controlled. It wasn't the first time Reynolds had made his opinions clear. Wouldn't be the last.

I hung back, taking my time removing my gear, piece by piece. Helmet. Gloves. Shoulder pads. Each item landing in my stall with more force than necessary.

Davis stopped by my locker, already showered and dressed, a concerned frown on his boyish face. "Don't let Reynolds get to you. He's always been a homophobic asshole."

I shrugged.

“You and Kai coming to the party tonight?”

I shook my head. "Nah. I have a paper to write, and I promised my little sister I’d help her with this project she’s working on. We have a video call set up tonight."

"She's the only one who can get you to smile these days," Davis observed.

I felt a twinge of guilt. Davis was right. I'd been an asshole lately. "Someone has to put up with my shit," I said, softer than I'd spoken to anyone all day. "Besides, Kai's cooking tonight."

"Lucky," Davis grinned. "Your roommate's food is better than the caf any day."

By the time I hit the showers, the room had mostly cleared out. Friday night. Parties to get to. The endless pursuit of willing bodies and cheap beer.

The hot water sluiced over my skin, easing some of the tension from my muscles but doing nothing for the knot that had taken up permanent residence in my chest these past weeks. Steam filled the tiled space, wrapping around me like a shroud, isolating me from the few remaining voices in the locker room.

I stood there until my fingertips wrinkled, until the water began to cool. Until I was alone.

Or so I thought.

I wrapped a towel around my waist and padded back to my stall. The squeak of my wet feet against the concrete floor was the only sound until—

The soft click of a locker closing.

Sullivan sat on the bench across the room, his back to me, hair still damp and darkened to the color of aged pennies. He wore just his jeans, the pale expanse of his back exposed.

And there, on his shoulder, an angry red mark bloomed against his fair skin, edged with the beginnings of a bruise. The exact spot where I'd hit him.

I froze, water dripping from my hair down my spine, raising goosebumps in its wake.

Sullivan didn't turn, didn't acknowledge my presence. Just continued his meticulous post-practice ritual. Folding his practice jersey with careful, precise movements.

A drop of water tracked from his hairline down the nape of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt as he pulled it on. My mouth went dry.

The urge to crack that perfect composure surged through me like an electric current. I'd tried words. I'd tried hitting him. Nothing worked. The guy was made of fucking stone.

Maybe it was time for a different approach.

I let my towel slip—just slightly—on my hips as I crossed the locker room toward him. Three strides and I was there, close enough to see the constellation of freckles across his shoulders, to smell the clean scent of his soap.

Sullivan's head dipped lower, eyes fixed on the contents of his locker as if they held the secrets of the universe. His shoulders tensed, drawing in slightly.

"You got a problem with me too, Sullivan?" I braced one arm against the locker next to his, effectively caging him in. Water dripped from my hair onto the concrete between our feet. "Or is it just everyone else who gets to have an opinion about Trey Harrington?"

Sullivan swallowed—I watched the movement in his throat—but didn't look at me. "I don't have a problem with you," he said quietly. "Just trying to get changed."

"Bullshit." I leaned in closer, my bare chest nearly touching his back. "You've been ducking away every time I come near you for weeks. Everyone else on this team has made it pretty clear what they think of me. What's your deal?"

He didn't answer, just continued folding his shirt with those careful, precise movements that made me want to grab his hands and squeeze.

I reached around him and planted my palm flat against his locker door, slamming it shut with a bang that echoed through the empty room. Sullivan flinched, a small, startled movement that sent a thrill of satisfaction through me.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," I growled, low and close to his ear.

Slowly, reluctantly, Sullivan turned. His back pressed against the lockers now, eyes still downcast, a faint flush spreading across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, highlighting those damn freckles.

"What do you want from me, Harrington?" he asked, his voice so soft I almost missed it.

I didn't have an answer for that. Not one I could admit to, anyway. So instead, I crowded closer, deliberately letting my towel slip another inch. Sullivan's eyes flickered down, then quickly back up to fix somewhere around my collarbone.

"A reaction," I said finally. "Anything other than this... this fucking robot act. Get angry. Push back. Do something."

Sullivan's eyes finally met mine, green and gold and wary. There was something there I couldn't read, something that made my heart kick against my ribs.

"You hit me," he said, stating the simple fact. "Hard enough to bruise. That wasn't enough for you?"

"Not nearly enough."

The air between us seemed to thin, charged with something dangerous. Heat radiated from his skin. His breath hitched.

"Coach is waiting for you," Sullivan said, the words barely a whisper. It wasn't a challenge or a dismissal. It sounded like a plea.

"Let him wait," I said, not moving.

Sullivan's eyes darted to the door, then back to me. “Please…just leave me alone.”

That crack in his voice was new. That was something.

I pushed away from the locker, releasing him from the cage of my arms. Sullivan didn't move, still pressed against the metal as if it could swallow him up.

"I told Coach it was a clean hit," he said, eyes fixed on the floor again.

That stopped me cold. A surge of anger, hot and sharp, flashed through me.

"I don't need your fucking charity, Sullivan." My voice came out low and dangerous. "I don't need you to cover for me. I don't need you to save me from Coach or the penalty box or whatever the fuck you think you're doing."

Sullivan flinched again—a real reaction, finally—but still wouldn't look at me.

"It wasn't charity," he said quietly.

Around us, I could hear voices in the corridor. The other guys returning from Coach's office, fragments of conversation about the upcoming party floating through the closed door.

"Then what was it?"

Sullivan's mouth opened, then closed, like he was searching for words he couldn't find. The silence stretched between us.

"That's what I thought," I said, disgust dripping from every syllable. "Next time, mind your own fucking business. I can handle myself."

I pulled on my jeans and t-shirt, fury coursing through my veins. The last thing I needed was Sullivan, of all people, thinking I needed his protection. His pity.

But as I yanked the locker room door open, his soft voice stopped me.

"It's not pity. I just wanted…" He paused, swallowed hard. "The team needs you."

The acknowledgment caught me completely off guard. Sullivan had recognized what I could do on the ice, beyond just seeing me as a liability. It shouldn't have mattered, but somehow it did.

I didn't stay to hear more. Let him stew in whatever explanation he was concocting.

But underneath the anger, something else clawed at the edges of my consciousness: he'd reacted. Really reacted.

I'd found a crack in his perfect facade. And if lying to Coach was what got him to finally show something real, then I had plenty more buttons to push.

Come Monday, Beau Sullivan wouldn't know what hit him.

As I headed toward Coach's office, I nearly collided with Kai coming around the corner, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. My roommate was already showered and changed, probably trying to beat the post-practice crowd in the locker room—another one of his careful strategies for avoiding too much team scrutiny.

"Hey," he said, eyes darting past me down the hall. "I'm stopping by the Asian market on the way home. Want anything?"

"Just get whatever you need for that rice bowl thing you made last week," I said.

He nodded. "Katsudon. I'll make extra." He hesitated, then added, "Don't forget your half of the water bill. It's on the counter."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll Venmo you."

"And Trey?" Kai's voice dropped lower. "You good? Reynolds was being a total dick today."

I shrugged, not wanting to get into it. "Nothing new."

Kai gave me a look that said he understood completely. At five eight, he was small for hockey, but what he lacked in size he made up for in speed. The team's only walk-on this season, he'd earned his spot through sheer determination and talent. We had an unspoken agreement, Kai and I. I didn't press him about the dating app I'd accidentally glimpsed on his phone—the one exclusively for queer Asian men—and he provided me with plausible deniability when I needed to skip team functions that were basically Reynolds-sponsored heterosexuality parades.

"See you at home," he said with a small nod before disappearing down the hall.

My phone buzzed. My mom: Call tonight? Worried about you, honey.

I texted back: Will call after dinner. I'm fine.

Her response was immediate: You're never "fine" when you say you are. 8pm sharp.

Despite everything—Coach's impending lecture, Sullivan's infuriating existence, my own twisted emotions—I felt my lips curl into the ghost of a smile. She knew me too well from three states away.

Ever since Dad walked out when I was fourteen, telling me I was "too much" for him to handle, Mom had been my anchor. The only one who never told me to tone it down, to be less, to contain the fire that burned in me. The only one who saw my intensity as a strength instead of a liability.

And now, inexplicably, Sullivan had seen it too.

The team needs you.

For some reason, those words meant more coming from him than they would have from anyone else. And I didn't want to examine too closely what that said about me.