Page 10 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

The question hung between us, weighted with implications I wasn't ready to examine. His face was close enough that I could see the individual flecks of amber in his dark eyes, the way his pupils dilated slightly as he watched me.

"You should ice it again before you sleep," I said, ignoring his question. "Alternating cycles of twenty minutes on, twenty off, will reduce inflammation and accelerate healing."

"You worried about me, Harvard?" The teasing note in his voice didn't fully mask something more vulnerable beneath.

"Concerned about optimal recovery," I corrected. "You're statistically 22 percent more effective as my defensive partner than any other player on the roster. Your physical wellbeing affects team performance."

"Wow, when you sweet talk like that, how can I resist?" He laughed, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his split lip.

"Your lip needs antibiotic ointment," I observed. "Do you have a first aid kit?"

"Bathroom cabinet," he said, gesturing toward the hallway. "But seriously, I've had worse."

I ignored his protest, heading for the bathroom. The small space was surprisingly neat. Towels hung evenly on the rack, products arranged by height on a shelf beside the sink. Another sign of Kai's influence, I suspected. The medicine cabinet revealed a basic first aid kit, from which I retrieved antibiotic ointment and a small cotton swab.

When I returned, Harrington had stretched out further on the couch, his legs extended, head tipped back against the cushions. He looked exhausted, the adrenaline of the game and fight clearly wearing off.

"This will sting," I warned, sitting beside him again.

"I think I can handle it, Sullivan," he said, but he flinched slightly when I applied the ointment to the split in his lip.

"Sorry," I murmured, my touch gentling automatically. My fingers brushed his jaw, steadying his face as I worked. The casual intimacy of the moment struck me suddenly. How natural it felt to be caring for him like this. How different it was from the clinical detachment of first aid training.

Harrington's eyes never left mine, dark and unreadable. When I finished, my hand lingered on his jaw, thumb brushing against the stubble there. A completely unnecessary touch that I couldn't seem to stop.

"Thanks," he said, his voice rougher than before.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The familiar heat was building again, that inexplicable pull that had gotten me into this situation in the first place. But instead of the explosive desire of last night, this was something softer. Something that made me want to trace the lines of his face, to catalog every scar and freckle.

Harrington's phone buzzed on the coffee table, breaking the moment. He checked it with a frown. "Kai's staying at his mom's another night. Doctors want to keep an eye on him."

"Is he okay?" Genuine concern surprised me. I barely knew Kai beyond occasional team interactions.

"Yeah, just being careful. His mom's worried after what happened with his brother's concussion last year." Harrington tossed the phone aside, stretching his arms above his head. The movement revealed a strip of skin between his t-shirt and sweatpants. I forced my eyes away.

"You should get some rest," I said, suddenly aware of how late it had gotten. "Adequate sleep is essential for recovery."

"You leaving?" He asked it casually, but something in his expression seemed almost disappointed.

Logic dictated I should. Return to my apartment. My own bed. My carefully structured routine. But the thought of leaving this warm space, with its mismatched furniture and comfortable silence, held no appeal.

"I don't have to," I heard myself say. "Not immediately, anyway."

Harrington nodded, reaching for the remote. "Hockey Night rerun's on in ten minutes. Canada vs. USA from last year's World Championships. Thought I might watch for a bit if you want to join."

The suggestion was so normal, so casual, that it caught me off guard. Not sex. Not heated exchanges. Just watching hockey together. Like friends. Or whatever we were becoming.

"Okay," I agreed, settling back against the cushions.

Harrington flicked on the TV, fingers moving quickly through the channels until he found the right station. As the pre-game analysis began, I found myself relaxing incrementally. The familiar patterns of hockey talk, the statistics flashing across the screen, created a comfortable backdrop.

"Watch Eriksson's neutral zone transitions," Harrington said, gesturing at the Swedish defenseman featured in a highlight package. "Guy moves the puck like it's on a string."

I nodded, appreciating his technical observation. "His first-pass completion percentage leads the tournament at 94.3 percent."

"Of course you know the exact stat," Harrington laughed, but it sounded fond rather than mocking.

The game began, and we fell into a rhythm of commentary and analysis, pointing out defensive coverages and offensive strategies. Harrington's observations were insightful, focusing on elements I might have missed, while my statistical knowledge provided context for the plays developing.

"We should be taking notes for the Eastern game," Harrington said during a commercial break. "Their coach trained under the Swedish national team program. Same zone entry patterns."

"I've already analyzed their neutral zone trap," I admitted. "I have charts."

"Of course you do," he said, but he was smiling. "Bring them to the film session on Monday. Could be useful."

The casual acknowledgment of my analytical approach—not as something to mock, but as a valuable contribution—sent a warm current through me. I found myself talking more, sharing observations I usually kept to myself, theories about play development and statistical anomalies I'd noticed.

Harrington not only listened, he engaged, challenging some points while agreeing with others. His perspective was different from mine—more intuitive, less data-driven—but complementary in ways I hadn't expected.

At some point, I must have dozed off. The next thing I knew, I was waking to unfamiliar shadows, a weight against my side, and the gentle rhythm of someone else's breathing. Disoriented, I blinked in the dim light from the TV, now playing some infomercial with the volume nearly muted.

Harrington was asleep beside me, his head resting against my shoulder, one arm thrown casually across my waist. The intimacy of the position sent a flutter of panic through me, quickly followed by an unexpected sense of rightness. His weight was grounding, solid without being overwhelming. The soft puffs of his breath against my collar created a rhythmic pattern that seemed to synchronize with my own breathing.

I should move. Should wake him. Should return to my own apartment with its familiar layout and predictable silence. But my body refused to cooperate, sinking deeper into the unexpected comfort of human contact.

I carefully reached for my phone on the coffee table, checking the time. 3:17 AM. Too late to drive home. Too late to disturb both our sleep patterns. Logical to stay where I was, at least until morning.

Harrington stirred slightly, mumbling something unintelligible before settling closer, his face pressing into the curve of my neck. His stubble scratched lightly against my skin, an oddly pleasant sensation. In sleep, his features had softened, the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones less pronounced than they appeared during games. This version of Harrington was entirely different from the one I'd cataloged on the ice, where every muscle seemed coiled and ready for explosive movement. Different too from what I'd witnessed during his fight with Daniels, when his usual fluid movements had transformed into something deliberately rigid, his shoulders squared at precisely the angle needed to generate maximum force.

This sleeping Harrington presented new data points that challenged my understanding. The rhythm of his breathing created a predictable pattern against my collar. His black hair, usually carefully styled even after games, now stuck up at mathematically improbable angles. One strand fell across his forehead in a perfect arc that I resisted the urge to measure. I found myself cataloging the points of contact between us, the varying pressures and textures, analyzing why this particular form of touch didn't trigger my usual sensory aversions.

My eyes grew heavy again, the warm weight beside me oddly comforting. The last thought before sleep reclaimed me was that I'd need to add this new variable to my data collection: falling asleep with Trey Harrington, heart rate steady, sensory input balanced, mind unusually calm.

A statistical anomaly worth further investigation.

The sound of a key in the lock jolted me awake. Sunlight streamed through half-closed blinds, illuminating unfamiliar surroundings. Harrington was still asleep, now sprawled half on top of me, his head on my chest, arm thrown possessively across my torso.

Morning had transformed him yet again. Where hockey-Trey was all controlled power and fighting-Trey was calculating aggression, morning-Trey existed in a state of unguarded vulnerability I'd never witnessed before. Sunlight caught in his eyelashes, casting precise shadows against his cheeks. The bruise around his eye had darkened overnight to a purple-blue constellation that stood out starkly against his olive skin. His usually sharp features appeared softer, younger somehow, with his perpetual guard completely lowered. I found myself staring at the curve of his mouth, relaxed in sleep instead of quirked in its usual challenging smirk.

The door opened before I could react, revealing Kai, a duffel bag over his shoulder, looking pale but steady. He froze in the doorway, eyes widening at the scene before him.

"Oh," he said, voice carefully neutral. "Wasn't expecting company."

Beside me, Harrington stirred, blinking awake. He took in the situation with remarkable speed, sitting up but making no move to create distance between us. "Hey, man. Thought you were staying at your mom's."

"Doctor cleared me this morning," Kai said, setting his bag down carefully. A purple bruise spread from his temple into his hairline, stark against his skin. "How's your face?"

"Better than yours," Harrington replied with a small smile. "You sure you're okay?"

"Mild concussion. No contact for a week." Kai's eyes flicked between us, assessing but not judgmental. "So... this is new."

The comment hung in the air, demanding explanation. I felt heat creeping up my neck, awareness of our position—clearly more intimate than teammates should be—settling over me like a weight.

"It's..." I started, but vocabulary failed me. What was this, exactly? Not just sex. Not friendship in any conventional sense. Something without clear statistical precedent in my experience.

"Complicated," Harrington finished for me, his voice steady.

Kai nodded slowly. "Team know?"

"No." Harrington's hand found mine on the couch between us, a silent statement of solidarity that sent an unfamiliar warmth through my chest. "And we'd appreciate if it stayed that way."

Kai studied us for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shrugged. "Not my business who you hook up with. But Reynolds finds out, he'll make both your lives hell." He paused. "Especially yours, Sullivan."

The assessment was accurate, if blunt. Reynolds had made his homophobic views clear enough. But Kai's apparent acceptance caught me off guard. I'd expected shock, disgust, or at minimum, uncomfortable questions.

"You're not... surprised?" I asked, unable to stop myself.

A small smile crossed Kai's face. "Dude, Trey hasn't shut up about you since you transferred. 'Sullivan this, Sullivan that.' Just didn't know it had gotten to the sleeping together stage."

Harrington made a strangled noise beside me. "That's not... I didn't..."

Kai laughed, then winced, pressing a hand to his temple. "Whatever, man. I'm going to shower, then sleep for about twelve hours. You two figure your shit out." He hefted his bag again, heading toward the hallway. Kai shrugged, giving us one last look before heading toward the hallway, duffel bag in hand. He disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

Silence descended on the living room. Harrington—no, Trey, my mind supplied, after what we'd shared—still held my hand, his thumb tracing small circles against my palm. The casual intimacy of the gesture seemed far more significant than our previous, more heated encounters.

"So," he said finally, "that happened."

"Indeed," I agreed, staring at our joined hands. "Your roommate appears surprisingly accepting of finding his teammate asleep with another male teammate on his couch."

"Kai's not exactly straight himself," Trey said, surprising me again. "He's... private about it. For good reasons. Family stuff. But yeah, he's not going to judge."

Another piece of information I'd missed, another layer to the team dynamics I'd failed to observe. "I should go," I said, the familiar anxiety returning. "I need to return home for my recovery routine and meal prep."

Trey nodded, but made no move to release my hand. "This wasn't what I expected when you came over last night," he said finally.

"No," I agreed. "The probability of us watching hockey and falling asleep on your couch was statistically insignificant based on previous interactions."

He laughed, the sound warming something in my chest. "Only you would analyze a sleepover in terms of statistical probability."

"It's how I process unexpected variables," I admitted.

"And am I an unexpected variable, Harvard?" His voice softened, something vulnerable flickering behind the teasing.

I considered the question, allowing myself to really look at him in the morning light. Tousled black hair. Sleepy eyes. Bruised face from defending a teammate. The confusing, exhilarating mix of antagonism and attraction that had defined our relationship from the beginning, now complicated by this new, softer connection.

"The most unexpected," I said finally, the honesty surprising even me. "But my performance metrics suggest you might be a favorable one."

Trey smiled, something genuine and unguarded that transformed his face. "High praise from Sullivan."

He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth. The gentleness of it, so different from our previous heated exchanges, sent a different kind of warmth through me. Something quieter but no less powerful.

"See you at practice, Harvard," he said, pulling back. "Bring those charts on Eastern's neutral zone trap. Could be useful."

As I gathered my things to leave, I found myself cataloging the new data points from the night. Not just the physical closeness, but the conversations. The shared analysis of hockey plays. The way Trey had listened to my observations without judgment. The comfort of falling asleep beside someone without sensory overload.

Sullivan men excel through isolation. Through control. Through suppressing weakness and imprecision.

Yet I'd played the best hockey of my career immediately after breaking all those rules with Trey Harrington.

A statistical anomaly worth further investigation indeed.