Page 16 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Fifteen

Beau

T he hotel lobby felt too bright, the overhead lighting drilling into my retinas after the dim corridors of Lakeside's arena. My stomach twisted painfully, acid rising in my throat. Each breath felt shallow, barely filling the bottom of my lungs as my chest constricted with anticipation.

My father sat in a corner, back perfectly straight, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he studied financial reports on his tablet. A half-empty cup of black coffee sat untouched before him, likely gone cold during the game.

My father never left anything unfinished. The abandoned coffee spoke volumes.

He looked up as I approached, his eyes taking in every detail of my appearance. The wrinkles in my game day suit from sitting on the bus. The loose thread on my right cuff I hadn't noticed until now. The slight flush still lingering on my cheeks from the game. From the meltdown. From Trey's unexpected defense in the locker room.

"Sit," he said, not a request but a command.

I complied, placing my bag beside the chair, straightening my tie unconsciously. Twenty-seven minutes had passed since he'd left the locker room. I was early for our meeting, but still felt late.

"I've spoken with Flanagan," he began without preamble. "Boston is... reconsidering their interest in signing you after graduation."

The words landed like physical blows, each one calculated for maximum impact. My chest tightened, breath catching in my throat.

"I see," I managed, voice steadier than I felt.

"Do you?" His eyebrow arched fractionally. "Because from where I sit, it appears you've lost focus on what matters. On the plan we've been working toward your entire life."

"One bad game—"

"This isn't about one bad game, Beaumont." He closed his tablet. "This is about a pattern of concerning decisions. Transferring from Hartford to this... lesser program. Your statistical regression this season. And now, whatever is happening between you and that Harrington boy."

My blood turned to ice, pulse hammering in my ears. "He's my defensive partner. We've developed effective on-ice chemistry."

"Is that what they call it now?" His voice remained perfectly level, but his eyes hardened. "Flanagan noticed it too. Your... attachment to your teammate. The way he rushed to your defense. The familiar way he addressed you."

I swallowed, throat suddenly dry. "Coach pairs us together frequently. We've developed a rapport."

"A rapport," he repeated, the word hanging between us like an indictment. "Interesting choice of words."

My father had always possessed an unnerving ability to extract truth without asking direct questions. A skill honed through years of corporate negotiations and legal consultations. He would circle his target, testing defenses, noting reactions, identifying vulnerabilities.

"The Sullivan name carries weight in hockey circles, Beaumont." He sipped his cold coffee without flinching. "Weight that has opened doors for you. That will continue opening doors, provided you maintain certain standards."

"I'm working to improve my performance metrics," I said automatically. "My defensive positioning—"

"This isn't about your hockey skills." He set the cup down. "It's about presentation. Image. The narrative that surrounds a prospect. NHL teams invest in free agent signings based on complete packages, not just on-ice performance. They expect returns on their investments. They avoid... complications."

The implication hung in the air, unspoken but unmistakable.

"I don't know what you think you saw—" I began.

"I saw my son allowing personal distractions to interfere with his professional trajectory," he interrupted. "I saw behavior inconsistent with the Sullivan legacy. And I saw a young man forgetting that his education, his housing, his training facilities, his equipment—all of it depends on financial support that can be adjusted at any time."

The threat wasn't subtle. Twenty-one years of conditional approval, of performance-based acceptance, had taught me to recognize the signs. My father never raised his voice. Never needed to. His power lay in control of resources, in connections built over decades, in the unspoken understanding that his support required compliance.

"I've maintained a 3.92 GPA while playing Division I hockey," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. "I've never missed a practice, never complained about added training sessions, never embarrassed the family name."

"Until tonight." His voice remained conversational, as if discussing the weather rather than dismantling my future. "That... episode on the ice. The confusion among your teammates. Your defensive partner's unusually personal intervention."

My hands trembled slightly beneath the table. I clasped them together, focusing on the pressure points. Four counts in. Four counts hold. Four counts out.

"It was low blood sugar," I lied, the explanation feeling hollow even to me. "A momentary lapse."

"We both know that isn't true." His gaze locked with mine, unwavering. "I recognized the signs, Beaumont. The same... irregularities your mother insisted on having diagnosed when you were eight. The same weakness I've spent years helping you overcome."

Weakness. The word burned through me. My neurodivergence had always been a secret shame in my father's eyes. Not a different way of processing the world, but a flaw to be corrected. A deficiency to be hidden.

"Sullivan men excel," he continued, the familiar refrain hitting with practiced precision. "They control their emotions. Master their responses. Present strength in all circumstances. Do you think NHL teams want players who... malfunction under pressure?"

"It was one incident," I said, fingers digging into my palms beneath the table. "In three years of college hockey."

"One public incident," he corrected. "How many others have there been? How many times have you failed to maintain control?"

Images flashed through my mind. The shower after practice, crumbling to the floor as sensory input overwhelmed me. Trey finding me, holding me, helping me breathe again. Trey in his apartment after the Northern Tech game, his hands gentle as he tended my bruises. Trey beside me in bed, tracing patterns across my skin that somehow made the world feel less chaotic.

My father must have read something in my expression, because his eyes narrowed fractionally.

"I've spoken with Coach Barnes," he said. "Suggested it might be beneficial to try different defensive pairings for the next few weeks. He agreed."

The casual statement hit harder than any direct accusation. My father was systematically dismantling the one thing that had made hockey feel right recently. The one thing that had improved my performance metrics across all categories.

"Our statistics together are optimal," I protested, falling back on the language he respected. "Twenty-seven percent improvement in defensive zone exits when paired. Thirty-two percent increase in successful neutral zone transitions."

"Numbers aren't everything, Beaumont." The irony of this statement coming from him wasn't lost on me. "Sometimes we must prioritize long-term strategy over short-term performance gains. Keep focused on the ultimate goal."

The NHL. The Sullivan legacy. The plan that had dictated every decision, every sacrifice, every moment of my life for as long as I could remember.

"And if I have other priorities?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, hanging between us like a live grenade.

My father's expression didn't change, but something dangerous flickered in his eyes. "Such as?"

I thought of Trey again. His unexpected kindness during my meltdowns. His fierce defense in the locker room. The way he saw me—not as a Sullivan, not as a collection of statistics and projections, but as Beau. Just Beau.

"My education," I said instead, retreating to safer ground. "My biomechanics research."

"Admirable supplementary pursuits," he acknowledged with a dismissive wave. "But let's not pretend they're your primary focus. You've been working toward an NHL career since you were five years old. Everything else is... secondary."

"And if the NHL doesn't happen?" I pressed, pulse racing with the forbidden question. "If I'm not signed after college? If I don't make a roster?"

"Failure isn't an option for Sullivan men," he replied automatically. "But in the extremely unlikely event that your playing career ends after college, your connections within hockey will open doors to coaching positions, management roles, analytics departments. All of which still require maintaining appropriate professional relationships and appearances."

The careful phrasing made his meaning crystal clear. Whatever was happening between Trey and me threatened everything—not just my playing prospects, but any future in hockey at all. My father was drawing boundaries with surgical precision.

"I understand," I said quietly.

"Good." He stood, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from his perfectly pressed slacks. "I've taken the liberty of scheduling additional training sessions with Coach Taylor over the break. Power skating, specifically. Your first step looks heavy. Flanagan mentioned it."

Coach Taylor was a former Olympic speed skater my father had been hiring since I was twelve—a technical specialist who charged $200 an hour and worked exclusively with NHL prospects and players. His sessions were brutally effective and even more brutally humiliating, designed to break down and rebuild every aspect of a player's skating mechanics.

"I've also transferred additional funds to your account," he continued, gathering his belongings. "For protein supplementation and recovery resources. You look underweight."

The gesture was typical—financial support tied directly to performance expectations. Not affection or concern, but investment in an asset that required maintenance.

"Thank you," I said mechanically.

"Sullivan men take care of themselves, Beaumont." He extended his hand for our customary parting handshake. "I expect to see significant improvement by Thanksgiving. We have family connections visiting from Montreal."

More scouts. More evaluations. More performances to deliver.

"Yes, sir."

He hesitated, something almost like genuine concern flickering across his features. "Your mother asked about you. Said you haven't been returning her calls."

The mention of my mother—divorced from my father for seven years now—caught me off guard. "I've been busy with midterms and hockey."

"She worries." He said it like a diagnosis, a weakness he couldn't quite understand. "Call her. It's unseemly to make her chase you for attention."

"I will."

With one final assessing look, he turned and walked away, each step measured. A perfectly calibrated exit, leaving me sitting alone with cold coffee and colder realizations.

The Sullivan plan was clear. The expectations unmistakable. The consequences of deviation explicitly outlined.

I sat there long after he'd gone, the hotel lobby gradually emptying as the night deepened. My phone buzzed with notifications. Three messages from Trey. One from Davis. A missed call from my mother.

I ignored them all, staring instead at my bank account balance on my phone screen. The fresh deposit from my father glowed accusingly. $5,000 for "educational expenses." Money that came with invisible strings, with unspoken requirements, with the clear understanding that financial support was contingent on compliance.

For the first time, I allowed myself to truly consider what independence would cost. College hockey players rarely held jobs during the season—training schedules and travel made it nearly impossible. My academic scholarship covered tuition, but nothing else. Housing, food, training supplements, equipment, transportation—all financed by Sullivan family funds that could disappear with one phone call.

The realization settled over me like a physical weight. I was twenty-one years old with no independent income, no savings of my own, no way to support myself beyond my father's carefully controlled resources.

No wonder he seemed so confident in his ability to direct my choices. He had architected my dependence with meticulous precision.

I finally stood, gathering my bag. The team bus had departed hours ago, and I'd told Coach I was riding back to Steel City with my father—a five-hour drive that clearly wasn't happening now.

My father had already left for his home in Connecticut, not even offering a solution despite knowing I had no transportation back to campus. I pulled out my phone, researching options. The Enterprise location near campus was open until 9PM for late returns. According to their app, they had three economy cars available. The cost—$79 per day plus insurance and fees—was steep, but manageable. I made the reservation, selecting the collision damage waiver despite the additional cost. The last thing I needed was an accident adding further financial strain to my situation.

I requested a ride-share to the rental agency, which arrived seven minutes later. By 8:42 PM, I was signing rental agreements and declining unnecessary add-ons with mechanical efficiency. The agent barely looked at my driver's license and credit card, both bearing the Sullivan name that still opened doors despite everything else crumbling around me.

My phone buzzed as I adjusted the driver's seat and mirrors. Trey.

Please just let me know you're okay.

I stared at the message, thumb hovering over the screen. What could I possibly say? That my father had systematically dismantled any future for us? That I was choosing financial security over whatever had been growing between us these past weeks? That I was a coward, unwilling to risk the only future I'd ever prepared for?

I pocketed the phone without responding, setting the GPS for Steel City University. Five hours and twelve minutes, the navigation system calculated. Arrival time: 2:07 AM. At least I'd have all of Sunday to recover before Monday's classes and practice.

Every few minutes during the drive, my throat would tighten unexpectedly, a strange pressure building behind my eyes that I refused to acknowledge. The statistical probability of encountering anyone who knew me on the interstate was virtually zero, yet I found myself avoiding eye contact at the one rest stop I permitted myself, uncharacteristically concerned about anyone seeing the evidence of emotion on my face.

The rental car's climate control maintained a perfect 68 degrees, but I still felt cold, a chill that seemed to emanate from somewhere inside my chest rather than the outside temperature. I kept the radio off, preferring the white noise of tires on asphalt, the predictable sound helping to structure my scattered thoughts.

By the time I reached campus, my back ached from the tension I'd been carrying. I parked in the visitor lot near my apartment building, noting that I'd need to move the car to a proper lot by morning to avoid a ticket.

The familiar space provided no comfort as I moved through my nighttime routine. Shower water temperature: exactly 103 degrees Fahrenheit. Duration: seven minutes. Protein shake: 30 grams protein, 12 ounces water, three ice cubes. Empty.

Sleep evaded me, my typically ordered mind refusing to shut down. Instead, it replayed moments from the past weeks in excruciating detail. Trey's hands on my skin. His voice in my ear, calling me "good boy" in that way that made everything inside me melt. His unexpected gentleness during my meltdowns, holding me when anyone else would have recoiled.

The memory of his fierce defense in the locker room twisted something painful in my chest. No one had ever stood up to my father like that. Not for me. Not ever.

And now I was throwing it away. Sacrificing whatever had been growing between us for the safety of the Sullivan plan. For financial security. For a hockey future that might never materialize regardless.

My alarm sounded at precisely 6:00 AM, though I'd been staring at the ceiling for hours already. Sunday. No team activities. No obligations. A full day alone with thoughts I couldn't escape.

I moved through my normal routine anyway, finding comfort in the structure. Morning stretches: 20 minutes. Protein shake. Review of game footage from last night, clinical analysis of every mistake, every hesitation, every moment of weakness.

My phone continued to accumulate notifications throughout the day. Trey had stopped texting after his fifth unanswered message, his silence somehow worse than continued attempts. Davis checking if I needed a ride back to campus. Coach Barnes confirming Tuesday's team meeting.

I responded only to Coach, a brief professional acknowledgment. The others I left unanswered, unsure what I could possibly say that wouldn't make everything worse.

Monday brought the distraction of classes, though I moved through them with mechanical detachment. Biomechanics lab provided temporary respite, my mind able to lose itself in the comfort of data sets and physical analyzes. Numbers didn't have expectations. Statistics didn't make demands. Calculations didn't require emotional responses.

The strategy failed spectacularly after my 2PM lecture when Trey appeared outside the Science Center, leaning against the brick wall with deliberate casualness that couldn't mask the tension in his shoulders. My pulse immediately spiked to approximately 112 beats per minute, sweat breaking out across my palms despite the cool October air.

"Beau," he called, pushing off the wall as I attempted to calculate an alternate exit route. "Wait. Please."

Students streamed past us, creating a momentary buffer as I froze, fight-or-flight response activating with uncomfortable intensity. His eyes held dark circles beneath them, hair disheveled in a way that suggested he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly—a stress response I'd observed during our time together.

"You're ignoring my texts," he said, voice lower as he approached, careful to maintain a public-appropriate distance between us. "You're not at team meals. You're ghosting everyone."

"I've been busy," I managed, my own voice sounding strange to my ears, hoarse from disuse.

"Bullshit." The word contained no anger, only hurt. "What did your father say to you?"

My throat constricted painfully, the weight of unsaid words pressing against my chest. "I can't do this here," I whispered, glancing around at passing students. "I can't do this at all."

"Beau—"

"Sullivan," I corrected automatically, hating myself for the flash of pain that crossed his face. "On the ice, in team settings, around campus. Sullivan. Remember?"

He studied me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression from hurt to determination. "This isn't over," he said finally. "Whatever your dad threatened you with, whatever he said—we can figure it out. Together."

The confidence in his voice sent an ache through my chest. How simple it seemed in his world, where problems were solved through determination and effort rather than calculation and compromise.

"There's no 'together,' Harrington," I said, the words physically painful to produce. "There never was. It was just... statistical anomaly. Temporary deviation."

He flinched as if I'd struck him, then straightened, jaw tightening. "Keep telling yourself that, Harvard. But we both know it's bullshit."

I watched him walk away, his shoulders rigid with suppressed emotion, and felt something crack inside my chest—something vital and necessary that couldn't be quantified in statistics or metrics.

I retreated to the library afterward, finding an isolated corner where I could work undisturbed, pretending the encounter hadn't shattered what little composure I'd managed to rebuild.

It was there, surrounded by textbooks and research journals, that an idea began to form. Not fully developed yet, just the first tentative hypothesis of a possible solution.

I opened the Steel City University financial aid website, navigating to scholarship information with careful purpose. NCAA rules restricted athletic scholarships in complex ways, but academic funding followed different guidelines. If I could find alternative financial resources, reduce my dependence on Sullivan family funds...

"Sullivan?"

I startled, nearly knocking over my coffee as Professor Winters appeared beside my table. My Faculty Advisor for the biomechanics program looked concerned, his usually jovial expression serious as he studied me.

"You missed lab hours yesterday," he said, pulling out a chair without asking permission. "That's not like you."

"I was reviewing game footage," I explained, quickly closing the scholarship tab on my laptop. "We lost Saturday. I needed to analyze my performance deficiencies."

Professor Winters leaned back, regarding me thoughtfully. At fifty-seven, with a shock of white hair and perpetually crooked glasses, he looked exactly like what he was—a brilliant mind more concerned with scientific questions than personal appearance.

"Interesting," he said, tapping his fingers against the table in an irregular pattern that would normally irritate me. Today, I barely noticed. "Because I received an email from Dean Foster in Athletics asking about your research assistant application from last semester."

I frowned, temporarily disoriented by the change in subject. "My application wasn't selected."

"No, it wasn't," he agreed. "But a position has unexpectedly opened in the biomechanics lab. Paid position. Fifteen hours per week, primarily data analysis for our ACL reconstruction study."

My pulse quickened. "I'm very interested."

"I thought you might be." He smiled, sliding a folder across the table. "The stipend isn't huge—$15 per hour—but it comes with additional academic credit and priority registration for next semester's advanced coursework."

I stared at the folder, calculations already running in my head. Fifteen hours weekly at $15 per hour. Approximately $900 monthly before taxes. Not enough to cover all expenses, but perhaps enough to begin establishing independence from my father's control.

"How soon would the position start?" I asked, careful to keep my voice neutral despite the surge of hope in my chest.

"Immediately. Dr. Chen needs the spring data processed before Thanksgiving." He studied me over the rim of his glasses. "It would mean some late nights in the lab. Might conflict with your hockey schedule occasionally."

"I'll make it work," I said immediately.

Professor Winters nodded, standing to leave. "Good. Come by my office tomorrow to complete the paperwork." He paused, adjusting his perpetually askew glasses. "And Sullivan? Whatever's going on, remember that there are multiple paths to success. Not just the obvious ones."

I watched him leave, wondering if his cryptic statement held a deeper meaning or if I was projecting my own situation onto innocent academic advice.

The research assistant folder remained on the table before me, its contents representing something I'd never seriously considered before: a path not sanctioned by Sullivan Senior. A decision made independently. A small step toward financial autonomy.

I opened it, reviewing the position details with growing determination. The role aligned perfectly with my research interests. The hours were manageable around hockey commitments. The experience would strengthen graduate school applications if playing professionally after college didn't materialize.

For the first time in days, I felt something other than a hollow emptiness in my chest. Not happiness, exactly, but purpose. Direction. The beginning of a plan that wasn't drafted by my father.

My resolve lasted until Tuesday morning, when reality reasserted itself in the form of the weekly team meeting. I arrived early, selecting a seat at the back of the video room, far from where Trey usually sat with the other defensemen. Statistical probability suggested minimal interaction given our physical positions in the room.

The calculation proved insufficient when he walked in five minutes before the meeting's scheduled start. His eyes found mine immediately, as if drawn by some magnetic force I couldn't explain with physics or mathematics. The dark circles beneath them matched my own, evidence of similarly sleepless nights.

He hesitated, clearly considering approaching me, but Davis entered behind him, slapping his shoulder and directing him toward their usual seats with the other defensemen. The momentary crisis averted, I returned my attention to my notebook, filled with statistical analyzes of our Lakeside performance.

Coach Barnes entered exactly on time, as always, a stack of video cards and his ever-present clipboard in hand. His eyes swept the room, noting attendance with practiced efficiency.

"Alright, gentlemen," he began without preamble. "Lakeside was unacceptable. On all fronts. We've reviewed the tape, made assessments, and determined necessary adjustments before Friday's homecoming game against Western."

The familiar rhythm of team meetings provided temporary comfort. Systems analysis. Special teams adjustments. Individual performance reviews, delivered with Coach's characteristic bluntness.

"Defensive pairings will be adjusted for Friday," he announced, and though I'd been expecting it after my father's interference, the words still landed like a physical blow. "Sullivan, you'll work with Reynolds. Harrington, you're with Matthews. Lines and pairings are posted in the locker room."

Reynolds. Our captain. Notoriously conservative in his defensive positioning. Statistically, our styles were compatible but uninspiring. None of the dynamic chemistry that had characterized my pairing with Trey.

I nodded acknowledgment, keeping my expression carefully neutral despite the hollowness expanding in my chest. Across the room, Trey's posture had stiffened, his jaw tight with what appeared to be suppressed anger.

"Practice at three. Full contact." Coach concluded the meeting with his usual efficiency. "Conditioning test results were subpar last week. Full team shuttle runs after practice."

As the team filed out, I gathered my notes, hoping to avoid any direct encounters. The strategy failed when Reynolds approached, dropping into the seat beside me with casual confidence.

"Looks like we're partners, Harvard," he said, using the nickname that had once been derisive but had gradually evolved into something almost like respect. "Coach wants me to help stabilize your game after whatever happened at Lakeside."

The implication stung, but I maintained my neutral expression. "I look forward to working together," I replied formally. "Your defensive zone coverage is statistically excellent."

Reynolds studied me for a moment, something uncharacteristically thoughtful in his expression. "You know, Sullivan, I didn't always agree with Harrington standing up to your old man like that. Thought it was out of line. But after seeing how your dad treated you..." He shrugged, uncomfortable with emotional territory. "Just saying, not all of us think you deserved that public takedown."

The unexpected support caught me completely off guard. Reynolds and I had maintained professional courtesy since my transfer, but nothing approaching friendship. His approximation of empathy was as surprising as it was unwelcome.

"Thank you for your concern," I managed, retreating to formal language. "But it was a private family matter. Nothing that will affect our on-ice performance."

"Right." He stood, clearly relieved to end the awkward conversation. "See you at practice, Harvard."

The locker room had mostly cleared out by the time I ventured in to check my mail slot. Only Williams remained, reorganizing his equipment with unusual meticulousness. He glanced up as I entered, a flicker of something like concern crossing his features.

"Sullivan! Just the brain we need," he called, effectively trapping me in conversation. "Davis is organizing a Halloween thing at his place Friday before the Western game. Team tradition. You coming, right?"

"I don't typically attend team social functions," I replied automatically.

"Yeah, but this one's mandatory," Williams insisted. "Captain's orders. Team bonding or whatever. Reynolds says everyone needs to show up for at least an hour." He grinned, something mischievous in his expression. "Costume optional but encouraged. Last year Coach even stopped by for like ten minutes."

I hesitated, calculating the social obligation against my desire for isolation. My hands trembled slightly against my thighs, the thought of seeing Trey in a social setting sending conflicting signals of dread and longing through my system. I curled my fingers into my palms, focusing on the pressure points to regain equilibrium.

"I'll consider it."

"Nope, not good enough." Williams crossed his arms. "You need to commit. One hour minimum. The Sullivan brain analyzing everyone's costume choices will be entertainment enough."

The invitation felt suspect. Williams had never particularly sought my company at team functions before. "Is there a specific reason you want me there?"

His expression shifted, something more genuine replacing his usual joking demeanor. "Look, Sullivan, whatever happened with your dad and Harrington at Lakeside... it's created a weird vibe on the team. Guys taking sides, whispering shit. We need to reset before Western. Team night, everyone relaxed, having fun. You skip out, it just makes things worse."

The frank assessment was unexpected from Williams, who typically maintained a carefully cultivated image of carefree irresponsibility. His concern for team dynamics revealed layers I hadn't previously calculated into my understanding of him.

"Fine," I conceded. "One hour."

"Excellent!" His grin returned. "And Sullivan? Harrington's going to be there, too. In case that influences your decision either way."

The comment hung in the air as he sauntered out, its implications clear. The team had noticed the tension between us. Had perhaps noticed more than just tension before everything imploded at Lakeside.

I stood alone in the empty locker room, surrounded by equipment and memories and the faint lingering scent of athletic tape and sweat. Trey would be at the Halloween gathering. The first social setting we'd share since my father's ultimatum. Since I'd started ignoring his messages. Since I'd begun dismantling whatever had been growing between us.

The thought should have strengthened my resolve to maintain distance. Instead, it sent an unexpected current of anticipation through me, followed immediately by guilt and confusion.

I needed to stay focused on the plan—my new plan. Research position. Additional resources. Gradually building independence from my father's financial control. None of which would be served by rekindling whatever had been happening with Trey.

And yet, the thought of seeing him outside hockey contexts, perhaps finding a moment to explain why I'd pulled away so completely, refused to be dismissed by logical analysis. My body responded traitorously to even the thought of him—heart accelerating, skin warming, that strange flutter in my stomach that defied physiological explanation. I pressed my palm against my sternum, feeling the rapid thud beneath my ribcage, a physical manifestation of emotional chaos I couldn't suppress through sheer force of will.

Friday. The Western game. Then the Halloween gathering at Davis' apartment beforehand.

Three days to prepare. To strengthen my resolve. To decide exactly what—if anything—I could say to Trey that wouldn't make everything infinitely worse.

Three days to determine if I was brave enough to risk everything for something I'd never planned for, never calculated into my future, never even known I wanted until it was suddenly, terrifyingly within reach.

The Sullivan plan didn't account for variables like Trey Harrington. My father's expectations left no room for deviation from the prescribed path.

But for the first time in twenty-one years, I found myself considering the possibility that the Sullivan plan might be fundamentally flawed. That excellence might be measured by metrics other than NHL contracts and family approval. That perhaps the most precise calculations couldn't account for the chaotic variables of human connection.

I closed my eyes, a vivid memory surfacing without permission—Trey's hand cupping my face, thumb brushing over my cheekbone as he whispered "I see you" against my lips. Not Sullivan. Not Harvard. Just me. Beau. Everything I'd never known I desperately needed until suddenly, terrifyingly, it was offered without condition.

Three days to decide which version of my future I was willing to fight for.