Page 15 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Fourteen

Trey

I knew something was wrong the moment Beau missed that backdoor coverage.

Harvard Sullivan didn't miss assignments. Ever. The guy could recite opposing teams' zone entry patterns in his sleep. But there he was, looking like he'd never played hockey before, his usually fluid movements jerky and uncertain.

When our eyes met during that whistle, I saw it immediately. That same vacant, overwhelmed look from the shower after practice. From the Voyagers game. His pupils were blown wide, skin ghost-pale beneath his helmet, breathing too shallow and too fast.

Full sensory meltdown. Right in the middle of a fucking game.

"Beau," I called, skating closer as the refs sorted out the faceoff. "Hey. Look at me."

He tried, I could tell, but his eyes wouldn't focus. His body swayed slightly, like he was fighting to stay upright.

Davis appeared beside us, his brow furrowed. "What's wrong with Sullivan?"

"He's fine," I snapped, positioning myself between them. Last thing Beau needed was more people crowding him. "Back off."

"Doesn't look fine," Davis pressed, concern evident in his voice. "Is it like what happened during the Voyagers game?"

"Can't," Beau choked out, the single word strangled. "Too much."

Shit. This was bad. Worse than the shower incident. Worse than the Voyagers game.

"Okay. We need to get you off the ice," I said, just as the whistle blew again.

Too late. The ref was dropping the puck. No time for a line change.

Beau's breathing had gone ragged, his eyes darting frantically around the arena. I recognized all the signs from years of watching Mia struggle through her own episodes. The sensory input was overwhelming him, every light too bright, every sound too loud, every sensation too intense.

And his father was watching from the scouts' box, alongside a guy who could determine Beau's entire hockey future.

Perfect fucking timing.

The puck dropped. Lakeside won the draw clean. Their cycle started, and Beau just... froze. Completely locked up, his body rigid, eyes unfocused.

"Sullivan!" Coach Barnes roared from the bench. "What the hell are you doing?"

He wasn't doing anything. Couldn't. I'd seen Mia like this before, when the world became too much for her nervous system to process.

I abandoned my own coverage, skating to Beau's side just as his knees buckled. My arm went around his waist automatically, supporting his weight as best I could with both of us on skates.

"I got you," I murmured, holding him upright. "I got you, Beau."

The whistle blew again. Medical timeout? Maybe the refs thought he was injured.

"What's wrong with him?" Matthews asked, skating over.

"Back the fuck up," I growled, still supporting Beau's weight. "Give him space."

Coach was at the boards now, face twisted with concern and confusion. "Harrington! What's going on?"

"He needs to get off the ice," I called back. "Now!"

Our trainer jumped over the boards, sliding toward us with surprising speed for someone not on skates. One look at Beau's face and he nodded, understanding immediately.

"Help me get him to the locker room," he said quietly.

Between us, we managed to guide Beau off the ice. His skates barely moved, his body stiff and uncooperative as we half-carried him down the tunnel. Behind us, I could hear the confused murmurs of the crowd, the announcer saying something about an apparent injury to number 28.

The noise of the arena faded as we moved deeper into the tunnel, but Beau wasn't improving. His breathing had accelerated further, coming in short, panicked gasps that wouldn't deliver enough oxygen to his brain if they continued.

"It's sensory overload," I told the trainer as we reached the locker room. "My sister gets these. He needs quiet, pressure, and minimal stimuli."

The trainer nodded, not questioning how I knew or why I cared so much. "The equipment room's quieter. Fewer lights."

We guided Beau to the small equipment room adjacent to the visitor's locker room. It was dimly lit, the only sound the distant hum of the arena's ventilation system.

"Beau," I said once we'd settled him on a bench. "You're having a meltdown. Just like in the shower. Remember? I need you to focus on my voice."

His eyes were unfocused, breathing still shallow. No response.

"I'll get Coach," the trainer said, already backing toward the door.

"No!" I said sharply. "No more people. He needs less input, not more."

The trainer hesitated, clearly torn between protocol and my unexpected expertise.

"Give us five minutes," I said, softening my tone. "If he's not improving, then get Coach."

After a moment's consideration, he nodded. "Five minutes. I'll be right outside."

The door closed behind him, leaving Beau and me alone in the dimly lit room. I moved deliberately, removing my gloves and helmet, then reaching for his.

"I'm going to take your helmet off," I explained, keeping my voice low and even. "It'll help reduce the pressure and noise."

He didn't resist as I unbuckled the chin strap and gently lifted the helmet from his head. His copper hair was dark with sweat, plastered to his forehead.

"Good," I murmured. "Now your gloves."

One by one, I removed his gloves, setting them aside. His hands were ice cold, trembling slightly.

"Beau," I said softly. "I need you to breathe with me. Like in the shower, remember? Four counts in, four counts hold, four counts out."

Nothing. His eyes still wouldn't focus, his breathing still too fast, too shallow.

I remembered what had worked before. Pressure. Weight. Something to push back against all the sensory chaos overwhelming his system.

I knelt in front of him, taking his hands in mine. "I'm going to hold you now. Just like before. The pressure will help."

Carefully, I moved to sit beside him on the bench, wrapping my arms around his rigid form, pulling him against my chest. Through our pads, I could feel the jackrabbiting of his heart, the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

"Breathe with me," I instructed, pressing one of his hands against my chest so he could feel my breathing pattern. "Feel that? Match it, Beau. In for four, hold for four, out for four."

For several long moments, nothing changed. Then, gradually, I felt the first shift. His breathing slowed fractionally, his body relaxing by degrees against mine.

"That's it," I encouraged. "You're doing great. Just breathe."

I held him like that for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, murmuring encouragement, maintaining steady pressure, my heart aching for what he must be experiencing.

Gradually, the trembling subsided. His breathing deepened, syncing with mine. The rigid tension in his muscles began to release.

"Trey?" His voice was barely a whisper, rough and uncertain.

Relief flooded through me. "Yeah, Harvard. I'm here."

"What happened?" he asked, still not pulling away from my embrace.

"Sensory overload. On the ice. Middle of the first period."

He stiffened in my arms, reality crashing back. "My father..."

"Don't worry about that right now," I said firmly. "Focus on getting regulated."

"The game..."

"Still happening. First period's probably almost over."

"I need to go back," he said, trying to pull away. "I need to play."

"Whoa, slow down," I countered, reluctantly loosening my hold but not letting go completely. "You just had a full meltdown, Beau. You need time."

"No." His voice was stronger now, that familiar Sullivan determination returning. "My father is watching. Flanagan from Boston is watching. I need to be on the ice."

"Beau..."

"Please, Trey." His eyes met mine, clear again but filled with a desperation I couldn't ignore. "I have to do this."

I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him his father's opinion didn't matter, that no hockey game was worth what I'd just witnessed. But this wasn't my choice to make.

"Okay," I conceded reluctantly. "But you tell me if it starts happening again. Immediately. No heroics."

He nodded, already reaching for his gloves, his movements mechanical but purposeful. "How much time is left in the period?"

I checked the small clock on the wall. "About four minutes, probably."

"Coach will expect me back for the second."

The door opened before I could respond, the trainer poking his head in cautiously. His eyebrows rose in surprise when he saw Beau sitting upright, gearing up to return.

"Sullivan, you okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine," Beau replied, voice steady in a way that didn't match what I'd just witnessed. "Minor episode. It's passed."

The trainer didn't look convinced. "Coach wants to know if you're cleared to return."

"Yes," Beau said firmly, standing up. "Ready for the second period."

The trainer looked to me for confirmation, which said a lot about how obvious my concern for Beau must have been.

"He's regulated," I said carefully. "But he should be monitored."

Beau shot me a look that managed to be both grateful and irritated, but didn't contradict me.

"I'll inform Coach," the trainer said, still looking uncertain. "First period's almost over. Rest until the second."

The moment he left, Beau's shoulders sagged slightly. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For knowing what to do."

"My sister," I reminded him. "I've had practice."

He nodded, eyes fixed on his gloves as he adjusted them with methodical precision. "My father can't know. About the meltdown. About any of it."

"The team already saw something was wrong," I pointed out.

"I'll tell them it was low blood sugar. Dehydration. Something mechanical, not..." he gestured vaguely at his head, "this."

The instinct to protect him surged through me again, fierce and unexpected. "Beau..."

"Please, Trey." His voice had dropped to a whisper. "I need to salvage this."

I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that hiding who he was for his father's approval wasn't worth the price. But the raw desperation in his eyes stopped me.

"Okay," I surrendered. "Whatever you need. I've got your back."

Relief flickered across his features, quickly replaced by that neutral Sullivan mask I was growing to hate. "We should return to the bench. The period's almost over."

We made our way back through the tunnel just as the buzzer signaled the end of the first period. The team was filing off the ice, confusion and concern evident on their faces when they spotted us waiting in the tunnel.

"Sullivan!" Coach barked, reaching us first. "What the hell happened out there?"

"Low blood sugar," Beau replied smoothly. "I didn't eat enough before the game. It won't happen again, Coach."

Coach's eyes narrowed skeptically. "You sure that's all it is?"

"Yes, sir," Beau nodded. "I'm ready for the second period."

"We'll see," Coach muttered, glancing between us suspiciously before turning to address the whole team. "Locker room. Now."

The intermission passed in a blur of tactical adjustments and system corrections. We were down 1-0, but it could have been worse given how the first period had gone. Our goalie had stood on his head, keeping us in a game where we'd been thoroughly outplayed.

I watched Beau throughout Coach's speech. His color had returned somewhat, but his eyes had that distant, analytical quality that told me he was forcing himself to focus, performing calculations rather than actually engaging.

"Sullivan, Harrington," Coach said as we prepared to return to the ice. "You're still my shutdown pair, but I need better from both of you. That coverage breakdown can't happen again."

"It won't," Beau assured him, his voice unnaturally flat. "I've adjusted my anticipatory positioning to compensate for their cycle patterns."

Even Coach looked taken aback by the robotic response. "Right. See that you do."

As we filed back onto the ice for the second period, I stayed close to Beau's side. "You sure about this? We can tell Coach the truth."

"Absolutely not," he replied, voice still eerily calm. "I'm fine, Trey. Just focus on the game."

From the first shift of the second period, I knew we weren't going to win. Not like this. Beau was skating, positioning, even passing with technical perfection. But the fluidity was gone. The instinct. The connection that had made us so effective together.

He wasn't playing hockey anymore. He was executing a highly efficient algorithm that approximated hockey.

"Wide coverage on the weak side," he murmured during a line change, the instruction delivered with all the emotion of a GPS navigation system. "Their left winger tends to drift high in the offensive zone."

"Beau," I started, concerned by the robotic quality of his analysis.

"Sullivan," he corrected sharply. "We're on the bench. Team setting."

I bit back a frustrated response. This was his coping mechanism, I realized. The only way he could get through the game without another meltdown was to retreat completely into the analytical part of his brain, shutting down everything else.

The rest of the second period was the most technically perfect and emotionally vacant hockey I'd ever seen Beau play. He didn't miss a single coverage assignment. Didn't make a single positional error. But there was no creativity. No joy. No chemistry between us.

We held Lakeside scoreless in the second, but couldn't generate any offense ourselves. The period ended with us still down 1-0, the game slipping away not because of effort or skill, but because half of our shutdown defensive pair was functioning on autopilot.

I kept stealing glances at the scouts' box, where Sullivan Senior sat watching with cold calculation, occasionally leaning over to speak to the Boston assistant GM. His expression never changed, even when Beau made a perfect defensive play to break up a two-on-one chance. No pride. No acknowledgment. Just critical assessment.

No wonder Beau was so fucked up about living up to expectations. His father showed all the emotional range of a stone statue.

The third period began with the same mechanical precision from Beau. Coach had adjusted our system slightly, trying to generate more offense, but it wasn't working. Lakeside added a second goal five minutes in, a power play tally after Reynolds took a slashing penalty.

"We need to activate more from the blue line," I told Beau during a TV timeout. "Create some offense. They're collapsing too much defensively."

He nodded, eyes tracking patterns on the ice that only he could see. "Their penalty kill formation leaves the high slot vulnerable to cross-ice passes. Reynolds should adjust his shooting angle by approximately twelve degrees to increase scoring probability."

"Or we could just fucking shoot more," I suggested, trying to break through the analytical fog surrounding him.

No response. Just that same vacant Sullivan stare, taking in data, processing variables, calculating probabilities.

It hurt to see him like this, retreated so far into his analytical brain that the Beau I'd held last night seemed like a different person entirely. I'd started to care for both versions of him—Harvard Sullivan with his stats and perfect posture, and just Beau, who gasped my name in the darkness and traced patterns on my chest while falling asleep. The realization hit me like an unexpected body check. This wasn't just physical anymore. Wasn't just blowing off steam or satisfying curiosity.

I was falling for him. For all the complicated, contradictory parts that made him who he was. And watching him shut down like this, knowing I couldn't reach him, felt like someone had carved out something essential from my chest.

With five minutes left in the third period, still down 2-0, Coach pulled our goalie for an extra attacker. A desperate move, but necessary given our complete inability to generate offense.

Predictably, Lakeside scored into the empty net thirty seconds later. 3-0. Game effectively over.

The final buzzer sounded on a 3-0 loss that felt much worse than the score indicated. As we filed toward the locker room, I noticed Sullivan Senior and Flanagan from Boston making their way down from the scouts' box, and my stomach twisted with dread.

Inside the locker room, Coach's assessment was blunt.

"Not good enough," he said simply. "Defensive structure was solid in the second and third, but we generated nothing offensively. We play better than that. We know it, they know it." He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Bus leaves in forty minutes. Get showered, get your heads straight. We'll break this down more tomorrow."

As the team dispersed toward the showers, I noticed Beau lingering at his stall, methodically removing his gear with the same robotic precision he'd displayed on the ice. His movements were so controlled they almost seemed painful, like he was physically restraining himself from acknowledging what had happened.

I had just finished removing my shoulder pads when a sharp voice cut through the locker room chatter.

"Beaumont. A word."

Sullivan Senior stood in the doorway, Flanagan hovering behind him. Beside me, Beau stiffened, his hands freezing on the laces of his skates.

"Yes, sir," he replied, voice carefully neutral as he stood.

I watched as they moved to a corner of the locker room, far enough from the team for privacy but still within my line of sight. Beau stood at perfect attention, spine straight, chin up, the picture of respect despite having just played sixty minutes of hockey.

I couldn't hear what was being said, but I didn't need to. Sullivan Senior's expression said it all. Cold disappointment. Clinical assessment. The occasional sharp gesture toward the ice, clearly referencing specific moments in the game.

Beau just stood there, taking it. No defense. No explanation. Just accepting whatever criticism his father deemed necessary, his face a careful blank mask that didn't quite hide the devastation in his eyes.

Several teammates had noticed now, the uncomfortable scene drawing attention even as guys tried to pretend they weren't watching.

"That's Sullivan's dad?" Williams whispered, pausing beside me with a towel around his waist. "Looks like he's reaming him out."

"Brutal," Davis agreed. "Especially after whatever happened to Sully in the first period."

I watched as Sullivan Senior moved closer to his son, lowering his voice but somehow looking even more severe. Beau's carefully constructed mask was slipping, minute cracks appearing at the corners of his eyes, in the tightness of his jaw.

Flanagan, the Boston assistant GM, looked increasingly uncomfortable, shuffling his feet and checking his watch as if regretting his decision to accompany Sullivan Senior on this post-game debrief.

Something inside me snapped when I saw Beau's hands begin to tremble faintly at his sides. Before I could think better of it, I was moving across the locker room, determination propelling me forward.

"Mr. Sullivan," I said, my voice carrying more confidence than I felt. "I don't think this is the time or place for this conversation."

Three heads swiveled toward me. Beau's eyes widened in what looked like panic. Sullivan Senior's narrowed in displeasure. Flanagan just looked surprised.

"Excuse me?" Sullivan Senior's voice was like ice. "This is a private discussion."

"In the middle of our locker room after a tough loss?" I challenged, unable to stop now that I'd started. "Your son played his ass off tonight. The score doesn't reflect that."

"My son," Sullivan Senior said, emphasizing the relationship as if I'd questioned it, "knows the standard expected of him. Tonight's performance was... insufficient."

"With all due respect, sir," I pressed, anger rising at his dismissive tone, "Beau is one of the smartest defensemen in our conference. His hockey IQ is off the charts. One tough game doesn't change that."

Sullivan Senior's gaze flicked between Beau and me, something calculating in his expression. "Beau?" he repeated, the nickname hanging in the air between us like an accusation.

Shit. I'd slipped up. Sullivan never went by Beau with the team.

"Harrington," Beau said quietly, a warning in his voice. "This isn't necessary."

"It is," I insisted, too far gone to back down now. "Your father needs to understand that you're more than just statistics and performance metrics. You're a complete player who makes everyone around him better."

The locker room had gone completely silent now, everyone openly watching the confrontation. Even Coach Barnes had emerged from his office, alerted by the unusual tension.

"I appreciate your... loyalty to your teammate," Sullivan Senior said, his voice dangerously smooth. "But I think I know my son's capabilities better than you do, Harrington." The dismissive way he dropped my name made it clear exactly what he thought of me.

"Do you, though?" The words escaped before I could stop them. "Because from where I'm standing, all you see are the mistakes, not the player. Not the person."

Flanagan cleared his throat awkwardly. "Maybe we should pick this up later, Sullivan," he suggested, clearly eager to escape the increasingly awkward situation.

Sullivan Senior ignored him, eyes fixed on me with cold assessment. "You seem unusually invested in my son's welfare, Harrington. Makes me wonder exactly what's going on here."

The implication hung in the air, clear as crystal. He knew. Or suspected. Either way, the threat was obvious.

"Because he's my defensive partner," I replied, forcing myself to maintain eye contact despite the chill running down my spine. "And a hell of a hockey player when he's not paralyzed by the pressure of living up to impossible expectations."

"Trey." Beau's voice was quiet but firm. "Enough."

I glanced at him, saw the silent plea in his eyes. Stop. Please.

"Perhaps," Sullivan Senior said, turning back to his son, "we should continue this conversation privately. In light of your... passionate defense from your teammate."

The emphasis on "teammate" couldn't have been clearer if he'd used air quotes.

"Yes, sir," Beau replied mechanically.

Sullivan Senior turned to Flanagan. "Mark, I believe we've seen enough for tonight. Thank you for your time."

Flanagan looked relieved to be dismissed. "We'll be in touch about next steps, Sullivan. And... good game, son," he added awkwardly to Beau before following Sullivan Senior toward the exit.

At the doorway, Sullivan Senior paused, turning back to fix Beau with a meaningful stare. "I'll expect you at the hotel in thirty minutes. We have much to discuss regarding your future prospects." His eyes flicked to me briefly. "And your current... distractions."

The door closed behind them, leaving an uncomfortable silence in the locker room.

"Well," Williams finally said, "that was intense."

Coach Barnes studied us both for a long moment before addressing the team. "Shower up. Bus leaves in thirty minutes."

As the team dispersed, muttering among themselves, Beau remained frozen in place, his face completely drained of color.

"Beau..." I started, reaching for him.

He stepped back, avoiding my touch. "Why did you do that?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"Because he was being an asshole," I replied honestly. "You didn't deserve that."

"It wasn't your place," he said, something hardening in his expression. "You made it worse."

"Worse? How could it possibly be worse than watching him tear you down after you just played through a sensory meltdown to avoid disappointing him?"

"Because now he knows," Beau hissed, voice low enough that only I could hear. "Or at least suspects. About us."

"So what?" I challenged, frustration boiling over. "Is that really the end of the world?"

"For my NHL prospects? Yes." His voice was flat, defeated. "My father has connections throughout the league. Without his support..."

"Fuck his support," I snapped. "You're good enough on your own. You don't need his politics and networking to succeed."

Beau laughed, a hollow sound entirely devoid of humor. "You really don't understand how this works, do you? Talent isn't enough. It never has been."

"So what are you going to do?" I asked, dread pooling in my stomach. "Let him dictate your entire life? Your identity? Who you can and can't be with?"

"I don't know," he admitted, suddenly looking exhausted. "But I need to meet him now. Process the damage."

"Let me come with you."

"Absolutely not," he said sharply. "You've done enough."

The words hit like a physical blow. "Beau..."

"I need to do this alone," he insisted, gathering his things. "Tell Coach I'm getting a ride back to campus with my father."

I watched helplessly as he packed his bag, his movements returning to that mechanical precision that meant he was shutting down, retreating into the analytical safety of his Sullivan persona.

"Will you at least text me?" I asked as he shouldered his bag. "Let me know you're okay?"

He hesitated at the door, not looking back. "I'll see you Tuesday at the team meeting, Harrington."

Harrington. Not Trey. The deliberate distance in that one word said everything.

I stood there long after he'd gone, the empty locker room feeling suddenly cold and unfamiliar. In trying to protect him, I'd made things infinitely worse. Pushed too hard, too publicly. Revealed too much of what was happening between us.

The ride back to campus was excruciating. The team, sensing something significant had happened, gave me a wide berth, no one sitting in the empty seat beside me where Beau should have been. I stared out the window at the darkness rushing past, my phone clutched in my hand, waiting for a text that never came.

By the time we pulled into the Steel City parking lot, I'd cycled through worry, anger, and resignation a dozen times. The bus emptied quickly, guys eager to escape the lingering tension and put the loss behind them.

"Hey," Davis said, pausing beside my seat. "For what it's worth, I thought what you did back there was solid. Standing up for Sullivan like that."

I managed a tight smile. "Thanks."

"His dad's a real piece of work, huh?"

"You have no idea."

Davis hesitated, looking like he wanted to say more, then just clapped my shoulder awkwardly. "See you Tuesday, man."

The campus was quiet as I walked back to my apartment, the cold night air doing nothing to clear my head. Three times I started typing a message to Beau, and three times I deleted it. What could I possibly say? Sorry I might have outed us to your father and potentially ruined your NHL prospects? Sorry I couldn't stand watching him tear you down anymore?

Sorry I've started caring about you in ways that terrify me?

My key turned in the lock, the familiar sounds of home providing no comfort tonight.

Kai looked up from the couch, a textbook open on his lap, his eyebrows rising at whatever he saw on my face.

"That bad, huh?" he asked.

"Worse," I confirmed, dropping my bag by the door. "Much worse."

I sank onto the couch beside him, scrubbing a hand over my face. "I fucked up, Kai. Really fucked up."

"Sullivan?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"He'll come around," Kai said, with more confidence than the situation warranted.

"You don't know what happened."

"I know you," he replied simply. "And I've seen how he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching."

My phone remained silent in my pocket, no text from Beau, no explanation, no reassurance that he was okay. The distance between us had never felt greater, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to close it. How much I needed to know he was alright. How scared I was that I'd pushed him too far away to ever reach again.

For the first time since I'd started hooking up with guys in high school, the thought of losing someone hurt worse than the thought of letting them get too close.