Page 14 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Thirteen

Beau

T he alarm wasn't necessary. I'd been awake for thirty-seven minutes, watching the numbers on the digital clock shift precisely. 5:23 AM. Game day. Lakeside University.

The day my father would be watching.

Trey slept beside me, one arm flung across my chest, his breathing deep and even. The weight felt both comforting and constricting, my body simultaneously craving the contact and fighting the urge to slip away, to reclaim the space I needed to think.

To prepare.

Last night replayed in fragmentary images behind my eyes. Trey's hands tracing patterns across my skin. The way he'd whispered "beautiful" against my neck, the word so at odds with how I'd always seen myself. How he'd held me afterward, not clinically like a completion of biological imperatives, but with genuine tenderness that terrified me more than anything we'd done physically.

I'd never factored emotional variables into my performance equations. Sex had always been a statistical probability, calculated like any other interaction. But this thing with Trey followed no predictable pattern. It wasn't quantifiable. And that made it dangerous.

My usual game day routine involved waking at exactly 6:00 AM. Twenty minutes of stretching. Protein shake with precisely measured ingredients. Game film review while consuming a balanced breakfast at 7:15 AM. All carefully calibrated to optimize performance.

But today, nothing was calibrated. Nothing followed the pattern.

I eased out from under Trey's arm, careful not to wake him as I slipped from the bed. The hotel room air felt cool against my bare skin, raising goosebumps as I moved silently to the bathroom. I caught my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing myself.

Hair disheveled beyond its usual boundaries. Marks on my neck and chest that hadn't been there two days ago. Eyes that looked both clearer and more uncertain than I'd ever seen them.

"Sullivan men excel." The mantra echoed in my head, my father's voice perfectly preserved in memory. "Excellence requires discipline. Control. Sacrifice."

Where was the discipline in falling into bed with a teammate two nights before an NHL scout would be watching? Where was the control in letting Trey Harrington beneath my carefully constructed walls? What was I sacrificing by indulging in something that couldn't possibly fit into the Sullivan plan?

The shower provided momentary structure. Water temperature: precisely 105 degrees. Shampoo. Rinse. Body wash applied in the same pattern I'd used since preparatory school. Rinse. Four-minute duration, optimized for cleanliness without excessive water usage.

But my mind refused to follow the routine, jumping tracks to memories of yesterday's shared shower with Trey. His hands exploring places I'd never been touched before. The way he'd pressed me against the tile wall, whispering things that made my skin flush hot despite the cooling water.

I shut off the shower with more force than necessary, wrapping a towel around my waist. My father would be in the stands tonight. Watching. Judging. Accompanied by someone who could determine the trajectory of my future with a few notes on a clipboard.

The bathroom door opened, startling me out of my spiraling thoughts. Trey stood there, hair flattened on one side, eyes still heavy with sleep.

"You're up early," he said, voice rough. "Even for you."

"Game day," I replied, the explanation insufficient, but all I could manage.

He studied me, more observant than most people gave him credit for. "Your dad's got you freaked out."

"I'm not freaked out," I countered automatically. "I'm preparing mentally."

"At 5:30 in the morning?" He stepped closer, hands finding my waist, the heat of his palms burning through the thin towel. "That's not preparation, Beau. That's anxiety."

"My father expects excellence. The NHL connection he's bringing could be instrumental in my professional prospects. It's logical to ensure optimal readiness."

Trey's thumbs traced circles against my hipbones, the gesture unexpectedly grounding. "Your father expects perfection, which is different from excellence," he said softly. "And it's bullshit."

"You don't understand," I said, moving away from his touch, needing distance to think clearly. "This isn't just any game for me."

"I know." His voice lacked its usual edge, surprising me with its gentleness. "But you played the best hockey of your life yesterday. Nothing about your dad being there changes who you are on the ice."

But it did. That was what Trey couldn't understand. My father's presence changed everything, rewiring my neural pathways, altering my perception, transforming confident execution into second-guessing and analysis paralysis.

"I need to follow my routine," I said, reaching for my clothes, laid out the night before in precise order of application. "I've deviated too much already."

Trey's expression shifted, something like hurt flashing across his features before being replaced with careful neutrality. "Right. The routine." He gestured vaguely between us. "The deviation."

"That's not what I meant," I tried, but the words felt hollow even to me. "This is just... complicated."

"Yeah." He turned away, reaching for his own clothes. "It always is with guys like you."

The comment stung more than it should have. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." He pulled on his boxers, movements sharper than necessary. "Forget it. Let's just get ready for the game."

We dressed in silence, the easy intimacy of the past two nights evaporating like morning fog. I could feel Trey watching me as I meticulously buttoned my shirt, tucked it into my slacks, adjusted my belt to precise tension. The ritual usually calmed me, reinstating control. Today, it felt like applying armor against an inevitable battle.

"When's your dad getting here?" Trey asked as we prepared to leave for team breakfast.

"His text said he would meet me at noon," I replied, checking my phone again to confirm. "The Assistant GM from Boston will be with him."

Trey nodded, hand hesitating on the doorknob. "Want me to be there?"

The offer caught me off guard, kindness where I'd expected continued frustration. "That's not necessary," I said automatically, then seeing his expression fall slightly, added, "But thank you. For offering."

"Yeah, well." He shrugged, the casual gesture contradicting the intensity in his eyes. "That's what teammates do, right? Have each other's backs."

Teammates. The word felt simultaneously accurate and wholly insufficient to describe what we'd become to each other. But it was safer than alternatives I wasn't ready to name, especially today.

Team breakfast passed in a blur of nutrition calculations and performance metrics. How many carbohydrates for optimal energy levels. Protein requirements for muscle recovery. Hydration status as measured by urine color that morning. I ate methodically, barely tasting the food as I reviewed Lakeside's defensive zone coverage patterns on my iPad.

"You're extra intense this morning, Harvard," Williams commented from across the table, mouth full of scrambled eggs. "Even for you."

I didn't look up from the screen. "Lakeside's neutral zone trap has an 87.3% success rate against transition offense. We need to adjust our breakout strategy."

"Jesus, did you two even sleep last night?" Reynolds asked, glancing between Trey and me. "Both looking like zombies this morning."

I froze, fork halfway to my mouth. Had he noticed something? Was there some visible evidence of what had happened between us?

"Some of us take game preparation seriously," Trey replied smoothly, not missing a beat. "Wouldn't expect you to understand the concept, Reynolds."

"Fuck off, Harrington," Reynolds shot back, but without real heat. "I'm just saying Sullivan's usually robotic, but today he's practically short-circuiting."

Davis laughed, diffusing the tension. "Leave them alone. They played their asses off yesterday. Probably just tired."

The conversation shifted, but I caught Matthews watching us with slightly narrowed eyes, his gaze calculating in a way that made my stomach tighten. Had we been too obvious?

Coach Barnes stopped behind my chair, glancing at my analysis. "Good eye, Sullivan. We'll address that in pre-game." He placed a hand on my shoulder, the weight unexpected. "Your old man's coming today, right? With Flanagan from Boston?"

The question drew attention from several teammates, heads turning toward our conversation. I nodded once, keeping my expression neutral despite the sudden acceleration of my pulse. "Yes, Coach."

"Good opportunity," Barnes said, moving on before I could respond. "Morning skate in thirty, gentlemen. Bus leaves in ten."

Across the table, Trey caught my eye, a silent question in his gaze. I looked away, unable to process the concern I saw there.

The morning passed in fragments. Morning skate at Lakeside's arena, the ice surface 2.6% smaller than regulation, requiring minor adjustments to defensive coverage. Systems review in the visitor's locker room. Pre-game meal at a local restaurant, where I mechanically consumed the same chicken and pasta combination I'd eaten before every game since freshman year.

At 11:58 AM, two minutes before my scheduled meeting time, I stood outside the arena entrance, my posture perfectly aligned as I'd been taught since childhood. My father valued punctuality above almost all other traits. "Time is the one resource you can never replace," he'd told me. "Wasting others' time demonstrates fundamental disrespect."

At exactly noon, a black Audi sedan pulled into the parking lot, the vehicle so pristine it looked as if it had been detailed moments before arrival. My father emerged from the driver's side, his movements economical and precise. The passenger door opened to reveal a shorter man with salt-and-pepper hair and the compact build of a former hockey player who'd maintained his fitness decades after retirement.

"Beaumont." My father extended his hand formally, as if we were meeting for a business transaction rather than a father seeing his son. No hug. No warmth. Just the expected firm handshake, maintained for precisely three seconds before release.

"Father." I matched his tone, sixteen years of conditioning making it automatic. "Thank you for coming."

"Mark Flanagan," the other man introduced himself, his handshake slightly warmer than my father's. "Assistant GM with Boston. Your father speaks highly of your defensive awareness."

My father speaks highly. Not my father is proud. The distinction was significant.

"I appreciate the opportunity to showcase my abilities," I replied, the response practiced and polished to a perfect shine.

"Beaumont has been studying video on Boston's defensive system since he was fourteen," my father added. "His understanding of positional play is exceptional."

Not I'm proud of how hard he works. Not My son loves the game. Just another data point in the Sullivan sales pitch, as if I were a product rather than a person.

"I've watched some footage," Flanagan nodded. "Good stickwork on the penalty kill. Gap control needs refinement for the professional level. Physicality is... adequate."

The assessment was delivered matter-of-factly, neither complimentary nor condemning. Just observation, analysis, evaluation. I was being scouted before even stepping on the ice.

"Beaumont has been addressing the physicality component this season," my father said smoothly. "His plus-minus rating has improved significantly since transferring to Steel City."

Transferring. As if it had been my father's idea rather than my choice to pursue the specialized kinesiology program. As if he'd supported my decision instead of arguing against it, calling it a "step down" from Hartford's prestige despite Steel City's superior biomechanics department.

"The competition level in this conference will challenge him appropriately," Flanagan agreed. "Tonight should be illuminating."

"I look forward to the assessment," I said, the words tasting like ash. "If you'll excuse me, I need to prepare for pre-game warmups."

"One moment, Beaumont." My father's voice stopped me as effectively as a physical barrier. His eyes flicked to the collar of my shirt, where I knew a small mark from Trey's mouth was just barely visible if you knew to look for it. "Your appearance is not up to standard. Fix it before warmups."

Heat flooded my face, shame and anger tangling in my chest. "Yes, sir."

"Professional prospects require professional presentation," he continued, adjusting his own collar in pointed demonstration. "Details matter."

"Yes, sir," I repeated, the response automatic.

"We'll be watching from the scouts' box," Flanagan said, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents between my father and me. "Good luck tonight."

Luck had nothing to do with Sullivan success. Preparation, execution, excellence. Never luck. But I nodded my thanks, desperate to escape the suffocating pressure of my father's presence.

"Beaumont." My father's voice stopped me again as Flanagan walked ahead toward the arena entrance. "I expect your best tonight. No distractions."

The emphasis on the last word sent ice through my veins. Did he know? Could he somehow sense the change in me? The "deviation" from my routine? From his expectations?

"Of course," I managed, voice steadier than I felt. "No distractions."

He studied me for a long moment, eyes cataloging every detail, every potential flaw. Then he nodded once, the gesture containing neither approval nor disappointment. Just acknowledgment.

"Good. Make it count."

It wasn't until they disappeared into the arena that I realized I'd been holding my breath, my lungs burning with the need for oxygen. I inhaled sharply, the cold air painful in my chest.

"Your dad's even more charming in person than you described."

I spun to find Trey leaning against the wall of the arena, hands shoved into the pockets of his team jacket. From his position, he would have heard everything.

"How long have you been there?" I asked, embarrassment heating my face.

"Long enough." He pushed off from the wall, moving closer but stopping short of touching me. "You okay?"

"Fine," I replied automatically.

"Bullshit." His voice was soft, but firm. "He talks to you like you're a fucking investment portfolio, not a person."

"That's just his way," I defended, the response programmed by years of rationalizing my father's behavior. "He wants what's best for me."

"Does he?" Trey's eyes were darker than usual, anger simmering beneath the surface. "Or does he want what's best for the Sullivan legacy?"

The question echoed too closely what I'd asked myself that morning. I looked away, unable to maintain eye contact. "I need to prepare for warmups."

"Beau." His hand caught mine, hidden from view between our bodies. "Whatever happens tonight, your worth isn't measured by what that man thinks of you."

The words hit with unexpected force, cracking something in my chest that I'd spent years carefully reinforcing. "I have to go," I managed, pulling my hand away. "I need to focus."

He let me go, understanding in his eyes that somehow hurt worse than anger would have. "I'll see you in the locker room."

The visitor's locker room at Lakeside University was smaller than Eastern's, the stalls crowded together, the ceiling lower, the air thicker with the scent of sweat and equipment. I changed into my under-gear, following the exact order I'd followed since junior hockey.

Compression shorts. Performance layer top. Protective cup. Athletic socks to mid-calf. Left side first, then right. Hockey socks secured with Velcro tabs. Shin guards positioned exactly 1.2 inches above the ankle bone for optimal mobility.

The familiar routine should have been calming. Instead, my heart rate continued to accelerate, a physical manifestation of anxiety that no amount of statistical analysis could control.

"Sullivan looking like he's solving differential equations over there," Reynolds commented from across the room. "More intense than usual pre-game. What's up, Harvard? Nervous about your old man watching?"

I didn't respond, continuing my methodical preparation. Shoulder pads adjusted to precise tension. Elbow pads secured. Practice jersey pulled over, the fabric settling comfortably against the protective layers.

"Leave him alone," Davis said, surprising me with the defense. "His dad brought an NHL scout. I'd be focused too."

"Assistant GM," Williams corrected. "That's bigger than a scout. That's the guy who actually makes decisions."

"Whatever," Reynolds shrugged, turning back to his own preparation. "Just don't choke out there, Sullivan. We need your defensive brain functioning tonight."

"Seven minutes to warmups," Coach Barnes announced, entering the locker room with his ever-present clipboard. "Lakeside's riding a three-game winning streak. Their power play is clicking at 34% over that stretch. Discipline is key tonight."

I nodded along with my teammates, absorbing the information while simultaneously calculating angles of attack, defensive coverage responsibilities, penalty kill positioning. Numbers and percentages flowed through my mind, usually a comfort but now accelerating into an overwhelming flood.

Trey appeared in my peripheral vision, taking his stall beside mine. He bumped my shoulder lightly, the contact casual enough to look like normal teammate interaction to anyone watching.

"Breathe, Harvard," he murmured, voice pitched for my ears only. "You got this."

The kindness nearly undid me. I managed a tight nod, focusing on the laces of my skates, pulling them to exactly the right tension. Not too tight to restrict blood flow. Not too loose to allow unnecessary movement within the boot. Optimal performance required optimal equipment preparation.

"Sullivan." Coach's voice cut through my concentration. "You're with Harrington tonight. Shutdown pair against their top line. Just like yesterday."

Yesterday. When everything had clicked. When our bodies had moved in perfect synchronization, on the ice and off it. When hockey had felt fluid and natural rather than a series of calculations and contingencies.

Before my father arrived to remind me what was at stake.

Warmups passed in a blur of muscle memory and visualization. The ice surface felt minutely different under my blades, requiring slight adjustments to the pressure distribution in my turns. Lakeside's arena lighting was 12% brighter than Eastern's, creating sharper shadows and more pronounced contrast between the white ice and the colored lines.

Variables. Adjustments. Calculations. My mind raced to process each new input while maintaining optimal preparation protocols.

"Their defensemen pinch hard on the half-wall," Trey said as we completed our passing drills. "We should use that against them, catch them with stretch passes through the neutral zone."

I nodded, his tactical observation aligning with my pre-game analysis. "Their weak-side winger tends to collapse too deeply in the defensive zone. Creates opportunities for our defensemen to activate off the rush."

He grinned, the expression so familiar it sent an unexpected pang through my chest. "See? We're still in sync. Nothing's changed from yesterday."

But everything had changed. My father was here. Flanagan from Boston was watching. The trajectory of my future could be determined by the next sixty minutes of hockey.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice whispered that Trey was right. That I could play like I had yesterday. That what had happened between us had somehow unlocked something in my game that years of technical training hadn't achieved.

The buzzer signaled the end of warmups. As we filed off the ice, I caught sight of my father in the scouts' box above the lower bowl. His expression was neutral, evaluating, revealing nothing about his assessment of my warmup performance.

In the locker room, Coach delivered his final instructions. Systems adjustments. Line matchups. Special teams personnel. I absorbed it all, filing each detail into its proper place in my mental framework.

"Sullivan, Harrington," he said as the team prepared to return to the ice for the national anthem. "I want your game from yesterday. Shutting down their top line will be the difference tonight."

Trey nodded confidently. "No problem, Coach."

I tried to match his certainty, but my response felt mechanical. "Yes, Coach."

The national anthem provided ninety-seven seconds of enforced stillness, a chance to regulate my breathing and focus my thoughts. I stared at the Steel City logo at center ice, the familiar blue and silver colors slightly distorted by the Lakeside arena lighting.

Then the puck dropped, and everything fell apart.

My first shift was a disaster of miscalculations and hesitation. Lakeside's top line forward beat me wide, forcing me to pivot awkwardly, my edges catching in the ice rather than cutting cleanly through it. Trey covered defensively, but the momentary advantage allowed Lakeside to establish offensive zone pressure.

"Beau!" Trey called, using my first name despite the public setting. "D-side!"

I rotated to the defensive side position, movements a fraction of a second slower than optimal. My usual spatial awareness felt compromised, peripheral vision narrowing as my focus narrowed to the puck carrier.

We escaped the shift without damage to the scoreboard, but the pattern continued. Where yesterday my positioning had been fluid and instinctive, today I found myself overthinking every decision, mentally calculating angles and probabilities instead of simply reacting.

"What's going on with you?" Trey asked during a line change, voice low but urgent. "You're playing like you're calculating physics equations instead of playing hockey."

"I'm fine," I insisted, but the data contradicted my assertion. Reaction time: decreased by 18.4%. Successful zone exits: down 22% from yesterday's metrics. Gap control: inconsistent.

On our third shift, disaster struck. A miscommunication between Trey and me left Lakeside's top center alone in front of our net. He converted the opportunity with a quick shot that found the top corner before our goaltender could react.

1-0 Lakeside, 8:43 into the first period.

My fault. The realization hit with crushing certainty. I'd failed to communicate my coverage intention, assuming Trey would read my positioning as he had yesterday. The mental lapse created a scoring opportunity that professional hockey players convert at a 68.7% rate.

Coach's voice cut through the disappointment. "Sullivan! What the hell was that coverage? Get your head in the game!"

I nodded, unable to formulate a response that wouldn't sound like an excuse. Sullivan men don't make excuses. Sullivan men excel.

But I wasn't excelling. I was crumbling under the combined pressure of my father's presence and my own internal chaos.

The arena suddenly seemed too bright, the lights reflecting off the ice with painful intensity. The crowd noise, which I normally filtered to background levels, began to intrude on my concentration, each cheer and jeer jarring my focus.

"You're okay," Trey said during a stoppage, his gloved hand tapping my shin pad. "Shake it off. Next shift."

I nodded mechanically, but the walls were already closing in. My heartbeat accelerated beyond optimal performance range, the sound of blood rushing in my ears competing with the arena noise. My vision tunneled further, details at the periphery blurring as my focus narrowed to an unsustainable degree.

The familiar symptoms of sensory overload crawled across my skin like insects. Too much input. Too many variables. Too much pressure.

I tried my breathing exercises. Four counts in. Four counts hold. Four counts out. But the pattern slipped away, lost in the cacophony of stimuli bombarding my system.

"Sullivan and Harrington, you're up!" Coach called as the referee prepared for a faceoff in our defensive zone.

I forced myself over the boards, skates hitting the ice with jarring impact. The scrape of blades against the surface, normally a comforting rhythm, now sounded like nails on a chalkboard, each stride sending shivers of discomfort up my spine.

Lakeside won the faceoff cleanly, their top line initiating their offensive zone cycle. The patterns I'd studied for hours suddenly seemed foreign, my brain unable to track the puck movement with my usual precision.

"Watch backdoor!" Trey called, his voice distorting in my ears. Too loud and yet somehow distant.

The lights above the ice brightened impossibly, each reflection a needle in my visual cortex. The arena sounds amplified, individual voices becoming distinguishable from the general crowd noise.

"Come on, Sullivan! What the hell are you doing out there?"

My father's voice, cutting through everything else. I whipped my head toward the scouts' box, momentarily losing track of my defensive assignment. The movement was enough. Lakeside's winger slipped behind me, receiving a perfect pass from the corner.

I lunged desperately to interrupt the play, but my timing was off, my stick missing the puck by millimeters. The shot rang off the post, the metallic ping reverberating through my skull like a physical blow.

The whistle blew as our goalie froze the puck. A momentary reprieve that did nothing to halt the sensory cascade overwhelming my system.

"Beau." Trey was suddenly in front of me, his face swimming in my narrowing vision. "Hey. Look at me."

I tried to focus on him, to anchor myself in the familiar angles of his face, but the arena continued to assault my senses. The crowd noise swelled, individual sounds blending into an unbearable wall of auditory pressure. The lights reflected off sweat-slick ice, creating patterns that overwhelmed my visual processing.

Somewhere in the chaos, I registered Davis skating close, concern evident even through my fractured perception.

"What's wrong with Sullivan?" His voice sounded distorted, too loud yet distant.

"He's fine," Trey snapped, positioning himself between us, his body creating a barrier. "Back off."

"Doesn't look fine," Davis persisted. "Is it like what happened during the Voyagers game?"

"Can't," I managed, the word strangled in my throat. "Too much."

Trey's eyes widened with recognition. "Shit. Okay. We need to get you off the ice."

But the whistle had blown again, the referee dropping the puck for another faceoff. No time for a line change. No escape from the sensory nightmare closing in around me.

I tried once more to regulate my breathing, to implement the coping strategies I'd developed over years of managing my neurodivergence. But with my father watching, with an NHL future hanging in the balance, with Trey's concerned eyes searching mine for signs of the controlled defenseman he'd played alongside yesterday, nothing worked.

The world compressed to sensory fragments. The scrape of skates against ice, amplified to unbearable levels. The flash of arena lights against white jerseys, burning into my retinas. The press of equipment against my skin, suddenly restrictive and suffocating. The taste of salt and copper as I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to ground myself through pain.

"Sullivan!" Coach's voice, distorted and distant. "What the hell are you doing?"

I wasn't doing anything. I couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't process the bombardment of stimuli overloading my neural pathways.

The last thing I registered before the world went completely sideways was Trey's arm around my waist, supporting me as my legs gave way beneath me.

"I got you," he said, the words cutting through the chaos. "I got you, Beau."

Then nothing but white noise and confusion as the meltdown claimed me entirely.