Page 17 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Sixteen

Trey

T hree days after the disastrous Lakeside trip, I was running out of options. My phone screen glowed in the darkness of my bedroom, the message thread between us telling a story of increasing desperation.

Sunday, 1:14 AM: Just let me know you're okay.

Sunday, 9:37 AM: Seriously, Beau. One word. That's all I need.

Sunday, 3:22 PM: The team bus got back fine. Davis asked where you were.

Sunday, 11:05 PM: This silent treatment is bullshit and you know it.

Monday, 7:48 AM: I'm starting to get actually worried. Just respond so I know you're alive at least?

Monday, 11:32 PM: Coach posted new D-pairs for Western. You and Reynolds? Really?

Tuesday, 8:17 PM: Fine. I get it. You need space. But this isn't over, Harvard.

Wednesday, 10:04 AM: Davis says there's a Halloween thing before Western on Friday. Mandatory team bonding. See you there?

Each message sent, delivered, and ignored. Not a single gray bubble of response.

I tossed my phone onto the desk and leaned back in my chair, the Wednesday afternoon sunlight streaming through my bedroom window doing nothing to improve my mood. Matthews had texted asking to meet at the rink to work on our defensive zone coverage before tomorrow's pre-game practice, but I couldn't muster the energy to respond yet.

My door opened without a knock, Kai's head appearing in the gap. "You alive in here?"

"Physically," I muttered, gesturing to the pile of unwashed hockey gear in the corner. "Emotionally debatable."

He stepped in, wrinkling his nose at the equipment smell. "You know that's growing new life forms, right? Might want to wash it before Western."

"I'll add it to my list of problems."

Kai sat on the edge of my unmade bed, studying me with the careful assessment he brought to everything. "Still nothing from Sullivan?"

"Radio silence."

"You see him at the team meeting yesterday?"

I snorted. "Barely. He came in exactly three minutes before it started, sat at the back, and was the first one out the door when Coach finished. Tactical avoidance at its finest."

"Coach really splitting you two up for Western?"

"Yep. Me with Matthews, him with Reynolds." I shook my head, frustration building again. "Makes zero hockey sense. We had the best defensive metrics on the team."

"Coach say why?"

"Something about 'exploring different combinations' and 'challenging players outside their comfort zones.'" I mimicked Coach Barnes' gruff voice. "Total bullshit. Sullivan's dad made it happen."

Kai nodded slowly. "Heard about that locker room thing at Lakeside. Reynolds was talking about it at treatment yesterday."

My stomach clenched. "What's he saying?"

"That Sullivan's dad is some big NHL connected guy who basically threatened to pull his support if Sullivan didn't distance himself from..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "certain teammates."

The confirmation of what I'd suspected hit harder than I expected, even though I'd put the pieces together myself. "So this is just Sullivan falling in line. Following daddy's orders."

Kai's expression turned serious. "You really think it's that simple?"

I didn't, of course. Nothing about Beau Sullivan was simple. I'd seen the conflict in his eyes during our brief exchange at the team meeting, the barely contained desperation when Reynolds had cornered him about their new defensive assignments. He wasn't avoiding me because he wanted to, but because he felt he had no choice.

"His father basically controls his entire future," I admitted. "Every dollar, every connection, every resource."

"Not easy to walk away from that," Kai observed. "Especially when you've never known anything else."

I rubbed my hands over my face, exhaustion settling into my bones. The past three days had been a blur of sleepless nights, distracted practices, and constantly scanning every room for a glimpse of copper hair.

"I just need five minutes with him," I said. "Without him running away. Without Reynolds or Davis or anyone else interrupting."

"Think this Halloween thing might be your chance? Davis says it's mandatory. Captain's orders."

A spark of an idea formed in my mind. If Beau couldn't avoid the pre-game gathering, and if I could somehow get his attention there...

"You still have that copper hair spray from your zombie costume last year?" I asked, the beginnings of a plan taking shape.

Kai's eyebrows shot up. "Please tell me you're not thinking what I think you're thinking."

"Depends on what you think I'm thinking."

"I think you're thinking about dressing up as Sullivan for Halloween." His voice held equal parts amusement and concern. "Which is either brilliant or completely insane."

"Why not both?" I grinned, feeling hopeful for the first time in days. "Think about it. He can't ignore me if I'm literally dressed as him."

"He might just get pissed."

"At least that would be a reaction," I pointed out. "Better than this silent treatment."

Kai shook his head, but I could see he was considering it. "If we do this, we do it right. Blue button-down. Khakis. That Steel City quarter-zip he always wears."

"You're a genius," I said, already mentally inventorying my closet. "Think the campus bookstore has those quarter-zips in stock?"

"Only one way to find out," Kai said, standing up. "But first, seriously, wash your gear. It's offending my entire respiratory system."

That afternoon passed in a flurry of preparation. The campus bookstore did have the quarter-zips, though the cashier gave me a strange look when I specifically requested the exact shade of blue that Beau always wore. Kai's hair spray was unearthed from last year's costume supplies. My pressed khakis, rarely worn, were retrieved from the back of my closet.

By the time Thursday's practice rolled around, my costume was ready, but my hockey focus was not. I skated through drills with Matthews, our timing still off, our communication nowhere near what I'd had with Beau.

"You're anticipating a different defensive read," Matthews observed during a water break. "Like you're still playing with Sullivan."

He wasn't wrong. I kept expecting Beau's positioning, Beau's decision-making, Beau's precise passes that always hit my tape exactly where I needed them.

"Sorry," I muttered. "Still adjusting."

Across the ice, I caught glimpses of Beau working with Reynolds. They looked just as disjointed as Matthews and I felt—Reynolds was positioned too conservatively for Beau's more analytical style, their communication consisting mostly of Reynolds barking orders that Beau followed with visibly constrained frustration.

Coach Barnes skated over, face like a thundercloud. "Harrington. Focus. Western's top line will eat you alive if you're this distracted tomorrow."

"Yes, Coach."

"Whatever's going on with you and Sullivan, fix it." He lowered his voice. "This pairing experiment isn't working for either of you, but I've got my reasons. Understand?"

The implication was clear. Coach wasn't happy about separating us either, but Sullivan Senior's influence had forced his hand.

"Understood," I managed.

"Good. Now get your head in the game. Special teams work in five."

The one bright spot was penalty kill practice, where Coach still had Beau and me working as the first unit together. For those brief drills, something of our old chemistry returned—Beau anticipating my positioning, me reading his defensive strategies, our bodies moving in that seamless coordination that had made us so effective.

But the moment the whistle blew ending the drill, he was gone, skating to the opposite end of the rink as if maintaining physical distance could somehow erase the connection that still hummed between us.

In the locker room afterward, the pre-game excitement was building. Western was our biggest rival, the game scheduled as the centerpiece of homecoming weekend. The stands would be packed, alumni watching, scouts in attendance.

"Halloween gathering tomorrow before the game," Davis announced to the room. "My place. Five o'clock. Costumes encouraged but not required."

"Team mandatory," Reynolds added, looking pointedly at Beau, who was changing with his usual methodical precision at his stall. "One hour minimum. Captain's orders."

Beau nodded once, not looking up. "I'll be there."

The simple confirmation sent a ridiculous surge of hope through me. I could feel Kai watching me, silently warning against any visible reaction.

"Harrington," Davis called. "You're bringing beer. Good stuff, not that cheap piss you usually drink."

"Whatever you say, Cap'n," I replied with exaggerated obedience, earning a middle finger from Reynolds.

I finished changing quickly, hoping to catch Beau before he made his usual swift exit, but he was faster. By the time I'd pulled on my shoes, he was already gone, the locker room door swinging closed behind him.

"Give him space," Kai advised, as we walked to our car. "Tomorrow's your shot. Don't blow it by pushing too hard today."

He was right, logically. But every minute Beau spent believing he had to choose between his father's approval and his own happiness felt like a minute wasted.

"I hate this," I admitted as we pulled out of the parking lot. "This isn't who I am. I don't chase after people who don't want me."

"Is that what you think?" Kai asked. "That he doesn't want you?"

The question hit harder than expected. "I think he's terrified of wanting anything his father hasn't approved."

"Then maybe this isn't about chasing someone who doesn't want you. Maybe it's about showing someone it's okay to want what they want."

I turned that idea over in my mind as we drove home. Was that what I was doing? Not pursuing someone reluctant, but offering freedom to someone constrained?

"When did you get so wise?" I asked, only half-joking.

Kai shrugged. "Concussion gave me profound insight into human relationships. Also, I've been watching a lot of Dr. Phil while stuck at home."

With Thursday's practice complete, I'd spent most of Friday watching film of Western's defensive systems, trying to figure out how Matthews and I could exploit their tendencies in tomorrow's game. The Halloween party this evening was just a distraction from the real challenge: facing our biggest rival with newly formed defensive pairs that hadn't had enough time to gel.

And then there was Beau - somewhere on campus, deliberately avoiding me, probably analyzing every possible scenario for our eventual confrontation. The thought of finally getting him into a room where he couldn't easily escape left me both anxious and hopeful.

"You sure about this?" Kai asked as we parked outside Davis' apartment complex. He eyed the shopping bag in my lap skeptically.

"Not even a little," I admitted. "But doing nothing isn't working either."

"Just remember, Sullivan's got a lot more to lose than you do," Kai said quietly. "His whole future is tied up in his dad's approval."

"That's exactly the problem," I replied, frustration bleeding into my voice. "His father has him convinced that being himself, being happy, will cost him everything."

"Maybe it will," Kai pointed out pragmatically. "Not everyone can afford to be out and proud like you."

The gentle reminder stung, but I knew he was right. My situation had been different. My mom had been supportive from day one. My sister thought having a gay brother made her cooler with her friends. I'd never faced the kind of pressure Beau lived with every day.

But that didn't mean Sullivan Senior was right.

"I just need five minutes with him," I said, grabbing the bag as we exited the car. "Five minutes without him running away."

"And you think this is the way to get it?" Kai asked, gesturing at my costume preparations.

I grinned, feeling reckless and determined in equal measure. "Only one way to find out."

Davis's apartment was already humming with activity when we arrived, music pulsing through speakers in the corners of the living room, Halloween decorations strung haphazardly across furniture and doorways. Half the team was already there, some in minimal costume efforts—jerseys with superhero masks, athletic gear with fake blood—others in more elaborate getups.

Williams approached immediately, red Solo cup in hand, wearing what appeared to be a dollar store witch hat and nothing else costume-related. "Harrington! Nakamura! About time!"

"Where's Sullivan?" I asked without preamble.

Williams's grin turned knowing. "Not here yet. Told me he'd be fashionably late. Exactly one hour, as promised."

I checked my watch. 5:17 PM. If Beau was sticking to his word about one hour, he'd arrive precisely at 5:30, giving himself exactly one hour before we needed to head to team dinner. With the Western game tomorrow, Coach was strict about curfew—all players in their rooms by 11:00 PM, no exceptions.

"Perfect," I said, already moving toward the bathroom with my bag. "Save me a beer."

Kai followed, shaking his head. "This is either going to work brilliantly or blow up spectacularly."

"Story of my life," I replied, closing the bathroom door behind us.

Twenty minutes later, I emerged transformed. Not drastically—I wasn't going for unrecognizable—but enough to make a statement. Kai had helped with the final touches, his steady hands more precise than mine.

"Holy shit," Davis exclaimed when he spotted me. "You actually put in effort!"

"That's one way to put it," I replied, accepting the beer he offered.

"Is this about Sullivan?" he asked quietly.

"Everything's not about Sullivan," I lied, taking a swig of beer I had no intention of finishing. Game night, after all.

Davis didn't look convinced. "Just... don't make things worse, okay? We need both of you focused for Western tomorrow."

"Trust me," I said with more confidence than I felt. "This is gonna fix everything."

Reynolds appeared beside us, wearing his jersey and a plastic zombie mask pushed up on top of his head. "Harrington. Interesting choice." He gestured at my costume. "This have anything to do with why Sullivan's been walking around like a robot all week?"

"Just embracing the Halloween spirit, Captain."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Good. Team needs to reset before Western. Clear the air." He checked his watch. "Sullivan should be here any minute. Man's punctual to a fault."

As if on cue, the apartment door opened, conversation momentarily pausing as everyone turned to look. Beau stood in the doorway, wearing his standard game day outfit—blue button-down shirt, khaki slacks, Steel City Hockey quarter-zip—with the minimal addition of vampire fangs that looked uncomfortable and hastily acquired.

His eyes scanned the room in that analytical way of his, cataloging details and exits. When his gaze reached me, he froze completely, color draining from his face.

For a heartbeat, the entire party seemed suspended in silence. My pulse hammered so hard I could feel it in my fingertips, heat rushing up my neck and across my face. The room suddenly felt ten degrees warmer, sweat breaking out along my hairline despite the cool air flowing through Davis's perpetually open windows.

Then someone turned the music up, conversations resumed, and people returned to their socializing. But Beau remained rooted in place, eyes locked on me with an expression I couldn't quite read. My stomach dropped, then twisted in a way that was half-pleasure, half-pain, the way it did at the peak of a roller coaster just before the plunge.

"Subtle," Kai muttered beside me.

"Subtlety hasn't been working," I replied, not taking my eyes off Beau. "Sometimes you need to be a little dramatic to get someone's attention."

Beau finally moved, making his way toward the kitchen, carefully avoiding my section of the room entirely. Several teammates greeted him with varying degrees of enthusiasm, but his responses were minimal, automatic.

I gave him five minutes to settle in, to confirm I wasn't leaving, to realize that his one hour of mandatory attendance meant one hour in the same space as me and my very obvious costume choice.

Then I moved, weaving through the crowded apartment toward the kitchen where he'd positioned himself beside the refrigerator, cup of what appeared to be water clutched in his hand like a lifeline.

His eyes tracked my approach, shoulders tensing with each step, but he didn't retreat. Progress, of a sort.

"Sullivan," I said, stopping a respectful distance away.

"Harrington." His voice was carefully controlled, but I could see the rapid pulse jumping in his throat. "Interesting costume choice."

"Thought I'd try something different this year," I replied, holding his gaze. "See how it feels to be someone else for a night."

His fingers tightened around his cup. "Is this amusing to you? Mocking me at a team event?"

"I'm not mocking you," I said, the familiar frustration rising again. "I'm trying to get your attention in the only way I can think of, since you're ignoring all my texts and avoiding me on campus."

"Did it occur to you that there might be reasons for that?" he asked, voice dropping lower. "That I might be respecting your privacy by not dragging you into my personal issues?"

"My privacy?" I repeated, confused. "Beau, I've been trying to talk to you for days. I don't care about privacy. I care about you."

Something flickered in his eyes, raw and unguarded, before the walls came back up. "You shouldn't."

"Too late," I replied simply.

He glanced around, checking if teammates were watching our interaction. Most were engaged in their own conversations, though I caught Davis looking our way with poorly disguised interest.

"This isn't the place for this conversation," Beau said, echoing his words from practice.

"Then where is? You won't answer my texts. Won't meet my eyes at practice. When exactly is the right place, Beau?"

He set his cup down carefully. "My father made things very clear. This... whatever was happening between us... it can't continue."

"That's his decision, not yours," I argued.

"It's not that simple."

"It actually is that simple," I countered, stepping closer. "Your father doesn't get to dictate who you are, who you care about, who you—"

"He controls my future," Beau interrupted, his voice cracking slightly. "Every connection to hockey, every possibility of playing after college, every dollar of my education and housing and training."

The raw admission hit me like a physical blow. I'd suspected, of course, but hearing him say it out loud made the reality of his situation painfully clear.

"Beau..."

"I have a plan," he continued, eyes meeting mine with surprising intensity. "A research position. Fifteen hours weekly. It's not enough for full independence, not yet, but it's a start."

The revelation caught me completely off guard. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I need time," he replied, something like desperation creeping into his voice. "Time to build resources. To create options. To figure out if there's a future for me beyond what my father has planned."

Hope surged through me, unexpected and powerful. "So you're not just giving up? Giving in to what he wants?"

"I don't know," he admitted, the most honest thing he'd said all week. "But I know I can't keep avoiding you, pretending nothing happened between us."

"Then don't," I said simply. "Talk to me. Let me help."

He shook his head, frustration evident in the tight line of his mouth. "You can't help with this. No one can. It's my father, my future, my decision to make."

"Bullshit. You don't have to do everything alone, Harvard. That's what teammates are for." I gestured between us. "That's what whatever this is, is for."

Before he could respond, Williams appeared beside us, oblivious to the tension. "Harrington! Sullivan! Beer pong tournament's starting. You're up first against Davis and Matthews."

"Not now, Williams," I said, not taking my eyes off Beau.

"Coach's orders," Williams insisted, clearly lying. "Team bonding. Essential pre-game ritual."

Beau hesitated, then nodded once, decision made. "My roommate's gone for the weekend."

The simple statement hit me like a body check, knocking the air from my lungs. For Sullivan to suggest his place, with all the implications that carried...

"Are you sure?" I asked, giving him one last chance to back out.

His eyes met mine, something determined settling in his gaze. "The most statistically sound decision is rarely the one that feels right."

Coming from Sullivan, that was practically a declaration.

Relief washed through me, so powerful my knees almost buckled. "Lead the way, Harvard."

We slipped out with minimal fanfare, Davis catching my eye from across the room with a knowing look but making no move to stop us. The cool October night air hit my face as we stepped outside, carrying away the stale beer smell and the too-loud music of the party.

"That was easier than expected," I said as we walked, maintaining a careful foot of space between us on the sidewalk.

"Reynolds won't be happy," Beau observed, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Captain's orders and all that."

"Reynolds can deal. Some things are more important than mandatory Halloween bonding."

Beau glanced at me, the streetlights catching the copper in his hair that my cheap spray-in color couldn't quite replicate. "Like what?"

"Like us," I said simply, the words falling into the space between us with unexpected weight. "Like whatever this is that has me thinking about you every waking minute. Like the fact that you're working on a plan for independence from your father and I want to know more."

His pace faltered slightly, then resumed. "It's complicated."

"Most worthwhile things are."

We walked in silence for another block, the tension between us shifting into something less frantic, more expectant. When his hand brushed mine, just for a heartbeat, electricity shot up my arm, my skin suddenly hypersensitive despite the cool night air.

"You know," Beau said, voice dropping lower, "Coach's rule is no partying after eleven the night before a game. Doesn't say anything about... other activities."

Jesus Christ. Harvard Sullivan was going to be the death of me.

"Always finding the loopholes," I managed, my voice rough with want. "I like this side of you."

As we approached his apartment building, the Western game tomorrow suddenly felt both too far away and not important at all. Because right now, in this moment, Beaumont Sullivan was choosing me over his father's rules, his team obligations, his careful routines.

It might only be for tonight, might only be a temporary rebellion before reality came crashing back in. But as his shoulder brushed mine, his steps falling perfectly in rhythm with my own, I couldn't bring myself to care about tomorrow.

For once, I was living entirely in the present. And the present was walking beside me, copper hair catching the moonlight, finally ready to let his walls down again.