Page 13 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Twelve

Trey

T he first thing I noticed when I woke was the weight of Beau's head on my chest, copper hair tickling my chin, his breathing slow and even. Sunlight filtered through the hotel curtains, casting strips of gold across the tangled sheets. My arm had gone numb where it was pinned beneath him, but I didn't care. Some things were worth the discomfort.

I studied him while he slept, memorizing details I'd never had the chance to observe before. The constellation of freckles scattered across his shoulders. The slight curve of his lips relaxed in sleep instead of pressed into that tight line of concentration. The way his eyelashes cast feathery shadows against his cheeks.

This version of Beau Sullivan was miles away from the uptight defenseman with the perfect posture and the color-coded notes. This Beau drooled slightly on my chest, one leg thrown possessively over mine, all of his careful walls completely dismantled by sleep.

And by what we'd done last night.

Jesus. The memory of it hit me like a body check, stealing my breath. Beau coming apart beneath me, those precise Harvard consonants dissolving into raw, desperate pleas. The trust in his eyes as he let me inside him for the first time. The way he'd looked at me afterward, like I'd given him something he hadn't known he needed.

My cock stirred with interest at the memories, but I forced myself to stay still. Let him sleep. God knows the guy probably had his rest scheduled down to the minute, usually.

The digital clock on the nightstand read 6:17 AM. Forty-three minutes until team breakfast. I knew because Beau had mentioned it last night, that incredible brain of his keeping perfect time even while he was falling apart in my arms.

He stirred against me, his breathing changing rhythm, body tensing slightly as consciousness returned. I felt the exact moment he realized where he was, who he was with, what we'd done. His muscles locked for a split second before deliberately relaxing again.

"Morning, Harvard," I murmured, my voice rough with sleep.

He tilted his head to look up at me, those green-gold eyes cloudy with confusion before clearing. "Morning." A pause, then, "What time is it?"

Of course that would be his first question. I bit back a laugh. "Six-eighteen. Plenty of time before breakfast."

He nodded, then carefully extracted himself from our tangle of limbs, sitting up and running a hand through his copper hair, which stood up in all directions. The movement exposed the pale expanse of his back, and I couldn't help but notice the marks I'd left there—faint bruises in the shape of my fingers, a reddish spot where I'd sucked too hard at the junction of his shoulder.

"You okay?" I asked, suddenly uncertain. Morning-after regret was something I'd experienced too often with guys still wedged firmly in the closet. "You're not freaking out, are you?"

He turned back to me, something complicated flickering across his features. "Analyzing, not freaking out."

"There's a difference?"

"Significant," he said, but his lips quirked slightly. "Freaking out would involve elevated cortisol levels and irrational decision-making. I'm simply... processing new data points."

"New data points," I repeated, unable to stop the grin spreading across my face. "Is that what you're calling my dick now?"

His cheeks flushed pink, but he didn't look away. Progress. "Among other things."

I sat up, wincing slightly at the protest from muscles used enthusiastically the night before. "And what's the analysis saying? About these... data points?"

Beau's flush deepened, spreading down his neck to his chest. "That I'd like to collect more. For accuracy."

Holy shit. I hadn't expected that, not from Beau "I've got a spreadsheet for everything" Sullivan. The confession sent heat pooling low in my stomach, despite how thoroughly we'd exhausted ourselves last night.

"Is that right?" I leaned closer, watching his pupils dilate slightly. "How thorough are we talking here? Because I've got lots of data I'd be willing to share."

Beau's eyes dropped to my mouth, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Very thorough," he murmured, voice dropping lower. "Multiple trials. Different variables."

I reached out, tracing the curve of his jaw with my fingertips. "I like the way you think, Harvard."

When our lips met, it was different from last night. Slower, more deliberate, but no less intense. His mouth opened beneath mine, tongue sliding against mine in a way that sent electricity down my spine. My hand found the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, holding him steady as the kiss deepened.

His palm pressed flat against my chest, right over my heart, which was hammering like I'd just skated a double shift. The intimacy of the gesture, so simple yet so meaningful, made something twist in my chest.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing harder, his eyes had darkened to the color of moss in shadow. "We should shower," he said, voice rougher than usual. "Team breakfast is in thirty-eight minutes."

I laughed, pressing my forehead against his. "Of course you know the exact time."

"It's a useful skill," he defended, but he was smiling too.

"Shower together?" I suggested, waggling my eyebrows. "Save water. Environment and all that."

Beau rolled his eyes, but he didn't say no. "For efficiency purposes only."

"Oh, absolutely," I agreed, already pulling him toward the bathroom. "I'm all about efficiency."

Turned out showering with Beau Sullivan was anything but efficient. Between stolen kisses under the spray and my hands wandering to places that definitely didn't need soap, we barely managed to get clean in time. By the time we emerged, toweling off and scrambling for clothes, we had exactly twelve minutes to get down to the hotel restaurant.

"Coach will notice if we're late," Beau said, buttoning his shirt with those precise movements I'd come to recognize as his way of regaining control. With each carefully secured button, I could see him rebuilding the walls that separated Sullivan, the defenseman from Beau, who'd begged for my cock last night.

It was fascinating to watch, like seeing someone put on armor piece by piece.

"We won't be late," I assured him, pulling on jeans and hunting for a clean shirt. "Besides, if we are, we'll just say we were reviewing game footage."

Beau raised an eyebrow. "At 6:45 in the morning?"

"You're the one who analyzes stats in your sleep. They'd believe it coming from you."

He conceded the point with a slight nod, adjusting his collar with careful fingers. The transformation was almost complete now—posture straightened, expression schooled into neutral focus, only the lingering dampness of his hair betraying our shared shower.

Just before we left the room, I caught his wrist, pulling him back for one last kiss. He stiffened for a moment, then melted against me, his hand coming up to cup my jaw. When I pulled back, his eyes were wide, cheeks flushed.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"Last one until tonight," I said, suddenly feeling like I needed to explain myself. "Once we're out that door, it's back to teammates, right?"

Something complicated flickered across his face. "Right. Teammates."

The transition back to public personas hit harder than I'd expected as we entered the hotel restaurant. The team was already gathered at several tables, the familiar cacophony of conversation and laughter filling the space. Williams spotted us first, waving us over to where he sat with Davis and Reynolds.

"Look who finally made it," Williams called out. "Sullivan actually drag you out of bed on time, Harrington?"

If he only knew. "Had to finish watching film from yesterday," I lied easily, sliding into a seat beside Davis. "Eastern's penalty kill is garbage."

Beau took the chair across from me, his face giving away nothing as he reached for the coffee pot. "Their defensive zone coverage collapses too aggressively toward the slot," he added, voice steady and analytical. "Creates opportunities for our defensemen to activate into the play."

Just like that, we were back to being Harrington and Sullivan, teammates discussing strategy. The surreal disconnect between this conversation and what we'd been doing twelve minutes ago made my head spin, but I forced myself to play along, to fall back into familiar patterns of team breakfast.

"Their goalie looked shaky in warmups yesterday," Reynolds said, spreading cream cheese on a bagel. "Got a tendency to drop his glove hand early on high shots."

The conversation flowed around hockey, classes, the usual safe topics. I found myself watching Beau whenever I thought no one would notice, cataloging the subtle tells that gave away his discomfort—the slightly too precise way he cut his pancakes, the three sips of water he took between bites, the careful distance he maintained from everyone around him.

No one else would notice these things, these tiny fractures in his perfect Sullivan mask. But I did.

"Earth to Harrington." Davis snapped his fingers in front of my face. "You in there?"

I blinked, realizing I'd completely missed whatever he'd been saying. "Sorry, what?"

"I said Reynolds is setting up a team night after the Lakeside game tomorrow," Davis repeated, looking at me oddly. "His parents know some bar owner who'll look the other way on IDs."

"Oh, right," I nodded, forcing my attention back to the conversation. "I'm in."

Reynolds caught my eye across the table. "Sullivan, you joining us this time? Or you got more important Harvard shit to do?"

The challenge in his voice was subtle, but clear. Beau looked up, his face perfectly neutral, but I saw his fingers tighten slightly around his fork.

"I'll be there," he said simply, surprising everyone at the table, including me.

Reynolds raised his eyebrows. "No statistical analysis to complete? No color-coded notes to organize?"

"I can multitask," Beau replied, taking a sip of his water. His eyes flicked to mine briefly, something almost like humor glinting there. "Besides, team cohesion is statistically correlated with performance outcomes."

Reynolds snorted, but there was less hostility in it than usual. "Whatever you say, Harvard."

As breakfast wrapped up, Coach Barnes stopped by our table, clipboard in hand as always. "Bus to the rink leaves in twenty. Anyone not on it skates extra tomorrow."

We nodded our understanding, finishing up quickly. The transition from hotel to bus to arena passed in a blur of routine—gear bags loaded, headphones on, the familiar pre-game quiet settling over the team as we approached Eastern's campus.

Morning skate was light, as always, before a game. Basic drills, special teams work, just enough to get our legs under us without taxing energy reserves. Beau and I were paired together for defensive zone coverage drills, our movements syncing with an ease that hadn't been there before.

When he called for a switch on coverage, I was already moving, anticipating his decision before he vocalized it. When I pinched down the wall to keep a puck in, he was already rotating to cover my position. It was like we shared a brain, our bodies moving in perfect harmony without conscious thought.

"Looking good, Harrington, Sullivan," Coach called from center ice. "Keep that connection going tonight."

If he only knew what kind of "connection" we'd established.

The rest of the day passed in the familiar rhythm of game day. Pre-game meal back at the hotel. Nap in our separate beds, though I spent most of mine watching Beau sleep across the room, his face peaceful in a way it rarely was when awake. The bus ride back to Eastern's arena as the sun began to set, tension building with each mile.

By the time we hit the ice for warmups, I could feel the electricity in the building. Eastern's arena was older, more intimate than ours, with steep seating that put fans right on top of the action. Their student section was already filling in, chanting and jeering as we took our pre-game laps.

Beau skated beside me, his movements fluid and precise as always, but there was something different in his posture tonight. A confidence, an ease I hadn't seen from him before. When our eyes met briefly during stretches, I saw none of the anxiety that had haunted him during the Voyagers game.

"You good?" I asked quietly, as we finished our final warmup shots.

He nodded, eyes tracking the movement of Eastern's top line across the ice. "Better than good," he replied, voice steady. "I've analyzed their offensive zone entries. Their transition game relies heavily on stretch passes through the neutral zone."

I laughed, bumping his shoulder with mine as we skated toward the bench. "Only you would be turned on by neutral zone trap analysis, Harvard."

His eyes met mine, a hint of mischief in them that took my breath away. "Not the only thing that turns me on," he murmured, so quietly I barely caught it before he skated ahead, leaving me staring after him like an idiot.

Holy shit. Was Beau Sullivan actually flirting with me? Minutes before a game?

I didn't have time to process this new development before we were lining up for the national anthem, the pre-game rituals taking over. The familiar surge of adrenaline pushed everything else aside as the puck dropped, the game erupting into motion around us.

From our first shift together, it was clear something had changed. The chemistry we'd shown in practice translated to game situations with stunning effectiveness. Beau's usual calculated positioning complemented my more aggressive style perfectly. When I jumped a passing lane to create a turnover, he was already rotating to cover my position. When he pinched down the wall to keep a puck in, I instinctively dropped back to protect against an odd-man rush.

"You two are fucking telepathic tonight," Davis said as we came back to the bench after a particularly effective penalty kill. "Like watching the fucking Sedins out there."

I grinned, catching Beau's eye down the bench. He didn't smile back, but something flashed in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment that we both knew exactly why our play had reached new levels.

Midway through the second period, we found ourselves out against Eastern's top line. Their captain, a stocky center with quick hands, carried the puck through the neutral zone with speed, looking to create a two-on-one against me. Beau read the play perfectly, stepping up to angle him toward the boards, forcing him into a bad position.

The puck squirted loose as Beau's stick disrupted the play. In one fluid motion, I scooped it up and pivoted, spotting Beau already activating into the rush. I feathered a pass through traffic, the puck landing perfectly on his tape as he crossed the blue line.

Eastern's defense scrambled to adjust as Beau drove wide, drawing attention before threading a pass back to me as I followed the play. The puck hit my stick in perfect position for a one-timer, and I let it rip, feeling that perfect connection as the puck exploded off my blade.

The sound of the goal horn was almost anticlimactic. I knew it was in the moment I shot it, the puck finding the top corner before the goalie could even move. The red light flashed as our bench erupted, teammates pouring over the boards to celebrate.

Beau reached me first, his arms wrapping around me in what looked like a standard goal celebration to anyone watching. But the way his gloved hand gripped the back of my neck, the slight tremble I could feel even through our equipment, told a different story.

"Fucking beautiful pass," I said into his ear, squeezing him tighter than was strictly necessary for teammates.

"Fucking beautiful finish," he replied, the curse word sounding deliciously foreign in his precise accent.

The goal energized the whole team, our play elevating to match the chemistry Beau, and I had found. We scored twice more in the third period, cruising to a 3-0 victory that felt almost effortless. Eastern never found an answer for our defensive structure, their top line rendered completely ineffective by Beau's positioning and my aggressive puck pursuit.

"Sullivan, Harrington," Coach called as we celebrated in the locker room afterward. "That's how you play defense. Best game I've seen from either of you all season."

The praise from Barnes, usually so sparing with compliments, felt like vindication. Not just of our play, but of whatever was developing between us off the ice as well.

The victory celebration started in the locker room and spilled onto the bus for the hour-long drive to Lakeside University, where we'd play tomorrow night. Williams had somehow procured a bluetooth speaker, and soon the bus was thumping with music, the usual post-win energy amplified by the dominant performance.

"To Sullivan and Harrington," Davis called out, raising a water bottle like it contained something stronger. "The shutdown pair from hell!"

"The Sullivan-Harrington defensive clinic," Matthews added, bumping fists with me across the aisle.

"Just call them Sullington," Williams suggested with a grin. "Or Harrivon?"

"Both of those are awful," I laughed, settling into my seat beside Beau. "Stick to our actual names, please."

The bus rolled through the Pennsylvania countryside, darkness gathering outside the windows. Beside me, Beau sat with his usual perfect posture, but his knee pressed against mine under the cover of our jackets, a secret point of contact hidden from the team's view.

"Twenty-two percent improvement in our defensive metrics tonight," he said quietly, eyes on his iPad, where he was already reviewing game footage. "Our transition from defense to offense was particularly effective in the second period."

"Is that your way of saying we kicked ass?" I asked, leaning slightly to see the screen.

A small smile tugged at his lips. "In statistical terms, yes."

I stretched, deliberately extending my arm along the back of our seat, fingers just brushing his shoulder. A casual gesture that could be explained away if anyone noticed, but sent a clear message to Beau.

"You were fucking incredible tonight," I murmured, pitching my voice low enough that only he could hear. "That pass on the goal? Poetry."

His cheeks flushed slightly, but his eyes remained on the screen. "Your positioning on the penalty kill was exceptional as well. Much better gap control than previous games."

"Are you critiquing my defense right now?" I asked, amused despite myself. "After I just complimented you?"

"Providing balanced analytical feedback," he corrected, but there was a playful edge to his voice I'd never heard before. "Your gap control has historically been inconsistent."

"Didn't hear you complaining about my gap control last night," I whispered, unable to resist.

The flush on his cheeks deepened, spreading down his neck. "Inappropriate comment in a team setting," he muttered, but I caught the slight quirk of his lips, the way his breathing hitched.

As the victory high settled into a more mellow satisfaction, conversations quieted, players drifting toward sleep or disappearing into their headphones. In the relative privacy of the darkened bus, I found myself studying Beau's profile, illuminated by the blue light of his iPad.

"You worried about tomorrow?" I asked softly. "Your dad being there and all."

He stiffened slightly, finger pausing on the screen. "Not worried," he said after a moment. "Preparing."

"That's not an answer."

He sighed, setting the iPad on his lap. "Yes, I'm concerned about my father's presence tomorrow. He brings... expectations."

"You played amazing tonight," I pointed out. "Why would tomorrow be any different?"

"Because tonight my performance was for the team," he said quietly. "Tomorrow it becomes an audition."

The weight behind those simple words made something in my chest ache. I wanted to take his hand, to offer some physical comfort, but the risk was too great with teammates all around us. Instead, I pressed my knee more firmly against his, the only touch I could safely offer.

"Whatever happens tomorrow," I said, keeping my voice low, "tonight was real. What we did on the ice. What we did off it. That's real, Beau."

His eyes met mine in the dim light, something vulnerable flickering in their depths. "I know," he said finally. "That's what scares me."

The admission hit harder than I expected, his honesty leaving me without a clever comeback or easy deflection. This was Beau without the Sullivan mask, without the analytical distance he used to protect himself.

"We'll figure it out," I promised, wishing I could offer more than just words. "One day at a time, remember?"

He nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "One day at a time," he repeated, like he was testing the concept, this idea of living in the moment rather than plotting statistical probabilities three steps ahead.

The rest of the drive passed in comfortable silence, our bodies connected in that single point of contact. By the time we reached the hotel at Lakeside University, most of the team was half-asleep, the post-victory adrenaline crash hitting hard. We shuffled off the bus, collected our room keys, and dispersed down various hallways with mumbled goodnights.

Our room was smaller than the one at Eastern, with a single king bed instead of two queens. Beau paused in the doorway, taking in this new variable with visible calculation.

"I can sleep on the floor," I offered, suddenly uncertain. "If you need space."

He turned to me, something resolute settling over his features. "That won't be necessary," he said, setting his bag down carefully. "The bed is adequate for two people."

I closed the door behind us, the soft click of the lock engaging feeling strangely significant. "You sure? Your dad's going to be here tomorrow. If you need to focus, get into your zone or whatever..."

"I perform better with you," he said simply, the directness catching me off guard. "The evidence is indisputable."

"Evidence, huh?" I couldn't help the smile spreading across my face. "Is that Sullivan-speak for 'I want you in my bed'?"

"It's Sullivan-speak for 'the data supports continued physical proximity,'" he corrected, but his eyes had softened, that rare hint of humor I was beginning to recognize. "But yes, I want you in my bed."

I crossed the room in two strides, pulling him against me, finally allowing myself the contact I'd been craving all day. His body fit against mine perfectly, his hands coming up to grip my biceps as I claimed his mouth.

The kiss was hungry, desperate, all the tension of maintaining our public facade dissolving in an instant. His tongue slid against mine, one hand moving to tangle in my hair, holding me close as the kiss deepened. I backed him toward the bed, only breaking away when his legs hit the mattress.

"We should sleep," he gasped, eyes dark with want that contradicted his words. "Game tomorrow."

"Yeah," I agreed, even as my hands slipped under his shirt, seeking the warmth of his skin. "Sleep. Important."

His laugh was soft, breathless. "Your actions don't match your stated intentions."

"Never claimed to be consistent," I murmured, pressing kisses along his jaw, down to the sensitive spot below his ear that I'd discovered last night. "Besides, we won tonight. Victory celebration."

"Superstition suggests maintaining pre-game routines that preceded successful performance," he said, his analytical tone undermined by the way he tilted his head to give me better access to his neck.

I pulled back to look at him, raising an eyebrow. "Are you saying we should have sex because it's statistically correlated with winning hockey games?"

"I'm saying the data supports continued physical intimacy as a component of optimal performance preparation," he replied, a hint of pink coloring his cheeks.

I laughed, forehead dropping to rest against his shoulder. "Only you, Harvard. Only you could make 'let's fuck for good luck' sound like a scientific hypothesis."

His hands slid down my back, pulling me closer against him. "Are you mocking my analytical approach?" he asked, but there was no heat in it, just that newfound playfulness I was quickly becoming addicted to.

"Never," I assured him, nipping at his lower lip. "Your analytical approach is incredibly hot."

Beau's smile transformed his face, softening the sharp angles, lighting his eyes from within. It was a rare, genuine expression I'd only glimpsed a handful of times, usually when he thought no one was watching.

"I believe further data collection is warranted," he said, fingers finding the hem of my shirt again. "For scientific validity."

"Far be it from me to argue with science," I grinned, helping him pull my shirt over my head.

As exhaustion from the game battled with desire, we fumbled together on the hotel bed, movements less coordinated than the night before, but no less intense. Clothes discarded haphazardly, hands exploring with increasing familiarity, rediscovering sensitive spots and reactions, building on what we'd learned about each other's bodies.

This time was different—slower, less urgent, more about comfort than desperation. As we moved together in the dim light of the hotel room, the victory high blending with something deeper and more dangerous between us, I found myself thinking about tomorrow. About Beau's father in the stands. About pressure and expectations and what came after.

But for now, there was just us. Beau Sullivan in my arms, his usual precision giving way to instinct and feeling. His father's visit, Lakeside's team, all of it could wait.

Tonight, we'd won. Tonight, we'd created something beautiful on the ice, a chemistry that translated perfectly off it. Tonight, for a few precious hours, Beau was just Beau, not another Sullivan man carrying generations of expectations.

As we collapsed together afterward, sweat cooling on our skin, Beau's head finding its now-familiar place on my chest, I allowed myself to acknowledge the truth I'd been avoiding.

This wasn't just physical anymore. This wasn't just blowing off steam or exploring curiosity or even "enemies with benefits." This was something else entirely—something that terrified me as much as it thrilled me.

"What are you thinking about?" Beau asked, voice rough with approaching sleep, fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest.

I hesitated, the truth too raw, too new to speak aloud. "Tomorrow's game," I lied. "Lakeside's top line is fast."

"Hmm," he hummed, not quite believing me but too tired to press. "We'll be ready."

"Yeah," I agreed, pressing a kiss to his temple as his breathing began to even out. "We will."

I stayed awake long after Beau had drifted off, watching the rise and fall of his chest, feeling the weight of him against me. My thumb traced idle patterns across his shoulder, memorizing the constellations of freckles there like I'd need to navigate by them someday.

This thing between us was growing into something I hadn't planned for. Something that terrified the part of me that had always kept one foot out the door with guys I hooked up with. Something that made me want to protect him from everyone—his father, Reynolds, the world that wanted to stuff him into boxes labeled "Sullivan" and "straight" and "NHL prospect."

My phone lit up with a notification, casting blue light across the darkened room. A text from Kai.

How's it going? Heard you guys crushed Eastern. Doc cleared me for light workouts tomorrow.

I smiled, carefully typing a response one-handed to avoid waking Beau.

3-0 shutout. Harvard and I connected for the game winner. How's the head?

His reply came quickly: Better. Mom's driving me crazy with the hovering. You being careful with Sullivan?

My fingers stilled over the screen. Careful could mean so many things. Careful not to get caught. Careful not to hurt him. Careful not to get hurt myself.

Trying to be, I replied finally. It's complicated.

Always is with guys like him, Kai texted back. Just watch yourself. His dad's world and yours don't exactly overlap.

The message hit harder than Kai probably intended. Before I could respond, another text appeared.

But hey, whatever's happening seems to be good for your hockey. Coach sent me the highlights. You two looked like you've been playing together for years.

I glanced down at Beau, his face peaceful in sleep, copper hair mussed across my chest. Yeah, I typed. Something's definitely clicking.

Setting my phone aside, I pulled Beau closer, feeling him instinctively curl against me even in sleep. Tomorrow loomed like a storm on the horizon—Beau's father, another game, team celebrations where we'd have to pretend to be just teammates. But for the first time in my life, I wanted to fight for something more complicated than a championship or a good grade or even a starting position.

I wanted to fight for him. For us. For whatever this was becoming.

As sleep finally claimed me, Beau's steady heartbeat against my side, I made a silent promise to myself. When Sullivan Senior showed up tomorrow with his NHL connections and crushing expectations, I wouldn't let Beau face him alone. Whatever came next, we would handle it together.

Because some things were worth the risk. And Beaumont Sullivan IV, with his statistics and his perfect posture and his carefully hidden heart, was quickly becoming the biggest risk I'd ever wanted to take.