Page 18 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Seventeen

Beau

W e walked in silence to my apartment, the night cold but my skin warm with anticipation. Trey had mostly removed his Halloween costume—my costume—though traces of copper spray still clung to his dark hair.

"Coach deliberately paired us with people who'll make us look worse," I said as we reached my building, swiping my access card. "Reynolds will never support my offensive instincts."

"And Matthews keeps pinching when I'm already deep in the zone," Trey agreed, following me into the elevator. "Almost like someone's trying to prove we're better apart."

In the elevator, our shoulders brushed. The confined space magnified his presence, his scent, the tension between us.

"The research position is just the beginning," I said, needing to fill the silence. "Fifteen hours weekly with Professor Winters. Not enough for independence, but a start."

"You don't have to face your father alone," Trey replied simply.

I unlocked my apartment door, stepping inside. Everything in its place, as always. Books alphabetized. Desk organized. The exact opposite of the chaos Trey typically created.

"Still the cleanest apartment in Pittsburgh," he observed, toeing off his shoes without being asked. The consideration made something in my chest loosen.

"God, I've missed you," he added. "Even your weird clean-freak tendencies."

After a quick bathroom stop to wash away the remaining hair spray, Trey joined me in the living room. I'd made tea, a stalling tactic we both recognized, but neither mentioned.

"So," he said, accepting a mug. "We should talk about what happens now."

We sat across from each other, the physical distance necessary for the conversation.

"I'm not ready to defy my father openly," I began. "Not yet. His connections with Boston are already at risk, and he's made it clear my funding depends on my compliance. I need time to build resources."

"What exactly did he threaten you with?" Trey asked, eyes darkening.

"Everything," I replied simply. "Education, housing, equipment—it all 'can be adjusted at any time.' And he clearly orchestrated the defensive pairing changes."

"That's emotional blackmail," Trey said flatly.

"That's how it's always been." The reality of my situation settled like a weight. "The Sullivan name comes with expectations."

"And what do you want, Beau? Not Sullivan—what does Beau want?"

The question struck something fundamental. What did I want? Not what was expected or strategically sound, but what did I truly want?

"You," I admitted, the word feeling like stepping off a cliff. "I want you. Us. Even though it's illogical and doesn't fit any plan I've ever made."

The smile that spread across Trey's face was like sunrise. He set down his mug and knelt before my chair.

"That's a good start," he murmured. "Because I want you too. Have since you first walked into practice with your color-coded notes and perfect posture."

"You hated me," I reminded him.

"I wanted to hate you," he corrected. "Easier than admitting I was attracted to you."

"I'm not good at this," I confessed. "Relationships. Emotions. Any of it."

"I'm not asking for perfect," he replied, cupping my cheek. "Just for you to try."

When he leaned in, I met him halfway, the kiss soft at first. His lips tasted faintly of tea. I set my mug down, unwilling to break contact.

"I missed you," he breathed against my lips. "This week was hell."

The kiss deepened, weeks of separation converting to heat and need. His hands moved to my waist, pulling me to the edge of the chair.

"Bedroom," I suggested between kisses.

"Lead the way," he murmured against my jaw.

When we reached my bedroom, I reached for the light switch, but Trey caught my wrist. "Leave it," he said softly. "Just the hall light. I want to see you, but you don't need to feel... analyzed."

The consideration touched something deep inside me. In full lighting, I tended to remain too aware of every reaction, constantly evaluating. The softer illumination would provide just enough visibility without triggering my analytical tendencies.

"Thank you," I said, hoping he would understand the depth of my gratitude for such a small consideration. The way his expression softened told me he did.

We stood at the foot of my perfectly made bed, navy comforter precisely aligned with hospital corners. The organized precision of the room stood in stark contrast to the chaotic emotions swirling through me.

"Before we go any further," Trey said, his expression turning serious, "I need you to know something." He took my hands in his, thumbs brushing across my knuckles. "If this is just physical for you, just about blowing off steam or satisfying curiosity, that's okay. I won't push for more than you can give. But for me..." he paused, swallowing visibly, "for me, this isn't casual anymore."

The admission hung between us, weighted with implications I hadn't allowed myself to consider. My analytical mind immediately began calculating variables and consequences—what this meant for our future, how it complicated our already precarious situation, what risks it introduced.

And for once, I deliberately silenced it.

"It's not casual for me either," I said, the words feeling like jumping off a cliff. "I've never experienced anything remotely like this before. Not just physically, but... everything. The way you see me. The way you don't try to fix what doesn't need fixing."

His smile was like sunlight breaking through clouds. "So we're on the same page?"

"In broad terms," I clarified. "Though I imagine your chapter includes fewer contingency plans for various scenarios, including potential discovery by teammates or my father's continued interference."

He laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Probably. But I'm starting to appreciate the beauty of a good contingency plan." His expression sobered slightly. "Whatever happens with your dad, with the team, with hockey—we'll figure it out together. One step at a time."

His hands moved to the buttons of my shirt. "But first, I think we have some lost time to make up for."

His fingers worked methodically down my shirt, each button coming undone with careful attention. The deliberate pace sent shivers across my skin—Trey adapting to my preferences for order and precision, even in this.

"Let me," he murmured when I reached to help. "I've been thinking about this all week."

The admission sent heat pooling low in my stomach. As he pushed the shirt from my shoulders, his knuckles brushed against my collarbones, raising goosebumps in their wake.

"Your turn," I said, reaching for his shirt buttons, my fingers suddenly eager despite their trembling.

"Slow down," Trey murmured, catching my hands in his. "We've got all night."

He guided my fingers back to his shirt, but set a more deliberate pace, our hands working together on each button. The anticipation built with every inch of skin revealed, my breath catching as the defined planes of his chest emerged.

When I reached the last button, he shrugged the shirt from his shoulders, the fabric sliding down his arms in a way that made my mouth go dry. I couldn't stop myself from touching him then, my palms pressing against the warm skin of his chest, feeling his heartbeat thundering beneath my fingertips.

"You have no idea how much I've wanted to touch you," I confessed, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. "All week. Watching you at practice, remembering how you felt against me."

"Show me," he challenged, his eyes darkening. "Show me how much you want me."

Something primal took over as I leaned forward, pressing my mouth to the column of his throat, tasting salt and skin. He groaned, head tipping back to grant me better access, his hands finding my hips and pulling me closer until our bodies aligned perfectly.

"Fuck, Beau," he gasped when I dragged my teeth along his collarbone. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"I observe. I analyze. I remember what makes you react," I murmured against his skin, thrilling at the way he shivered under my touch. My hands slid down to the waistband of his jeans, his muscles jumping beneath my fingertips. "And right now, I need these off."

His laugh was shaky, breathless. "Not how I expected this to go, but I'm not complaining."

Together, we fumbled with his belt, fingers tangling in our rush. When the buckle finally released, he helped me push the jeans down his powerful thighs, kicking them aside with none of his usual casual grace. His eagerness matched my own, the careful control we'd both maintained finally slipping.

His hands found my belt next, but instead of the methodical pace of before, he tugged with urgent need, cursing softly when the leather caught.

"Sorry," he breathed, forcing himself to slow down. "I just—fuck, I want you so much."

The raw desire in his voice sent heat spiraling through me. I helped him with the belt, our fingers brushing in a contact that felt electric despite its innocence. When he finally unzipped my pants, his knuckles dragged deliberately against the hardness beneath, drawing a gasp from my throat.

"You're already so hard for me," he murmured, eyes locked on mine as he slid his hand inside. Even through my underwear, his touch was almost too much, my hips jerking forward instinctively. "Been thinking about this, haven't you?"

"Yes," I admitted, beyond denying it. "Every night. Every morning. In class. At practice." I swallowed hard, forcing myself to maintain eye contact despite the vulnerability of the confession. "I can't stop thinking about you."

Something fierce and possessive flashed in his eyes. He pushed my pants down my legs, his palms sliding along my thighs in a caress that left fire in their wake. When they pooled at my ankles, I stepped out of them, suddenly acutely aware that only thin layers of cotton separated us now.

Trey straightened, his chest nearly touching mine, the heat of him radiating through the minimal barrier of our underwear. His fingers traced the waistband of my boxer briefs, dipping just beneath the elastic in a teasing touch that made my breath catch.

"Can I?" he asked, his voice rough with desire but eyes seeking permission.

"Please," I whispered, beyond pride or hesitation.

He hooked his thumbs in the waistband and slowly, torturously peeled the fabric down, his eyes drinking in every inch of skin revealed. When my cock sprang free, he made a sound low in his throat—part groan, part primal satisfaction.

His own underwear followed mine to the floor, and then he was gloriously, completely naked against me as we fell onto the bed together. The shock of full-body contact was electric—skin against skin everywhere, no barriers between us.

As he settled his weight above me, something shifted in my mind—a decision crystallizing with unexpected clarity. Before I could overthink it, I placed my hands on his shoulders and pushed gently.

"Let me up," I whispered.

Trey immediately shifted back, concern flashing across his features. "Everything okay?"

I nodded, sitting up and guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. His confusion was evident, but he followed my lead without question. I slid from the bed and knelt between his knees, my hands coming to rest on his thighs.

"Beau?" His voice was rough with desire, but tinged with uncertainty. "What are you—"

"I want to," I said simply, my eyes meeting his. "I've been thinking about it. Analyzing it. And now I want to experience it."

His eyes widened as my meaning became clear. "You don't have to—"

"I know." My fingers trailed up his thighs, watching the muscles jump beneath my touch. "This isn't about obligation. It's about choice. My choice."

I'd never done this before, never even considered it until Trey had crashed into my carefully ordered life. But now, the desire to taste him, to bring him pleasure, to show him how fully I was embracing this part of myself, was overwhelming.

"I might not be very good at this," I admitted, analytical even now. "But I'm a quick study."

His laugh was strained, breathless. "Beau, trust me, just the sight of you on your knees is already enough to—" He broke off with a groan as I wrapped my hand around him experimentally.

I studied him from this new angle—the hard length of him, different from my own in subtle ways that fascinated my analytical mind. Thicker, with a slight curve to the left. The skin darker than the rest of him, flushed deep with arousal. I stroked him slowly, watching his reactions with scientific attention.

"Tell me what feels good," I requested, needing data to optimize the experience.

"Everything," he gasped, one hand moving to cup my face with surprising tenderness. "Anything you do. Just... go slow. Use your tongue first."

I leaned forward, maintaining eye contact as I licked experimentally across the tip. The taste was surprisingly pleasant—clean, with a hint of salt and something uniquely Trey. His sharp intake of breath encouraged me to continue running my tongue along the underside in a long, slow stroke.

"Fuck," he breathed, his fingers threading through my hair. Not guiding, just connecting. "Just like that."

The feedback spurred me on. I took him into my mouth, just the tip at first, then gradually more as I grew accustomed to the sensation. The weight of him on my tongue was foreign, but not unpleasant. My hands anchored his hips as I explored what drew the strongest reactions—varying pressure, speed, depth.

"Oh my god," he groaned, his grip in my hair tightening slightly. "You look... christ, Beau, seeing you like this..."

His reaction was intoxicating. I, Beaumont Sullivan IV, kneeling between Trey Harrington's thighs, doing something my father would consider unthinkable, and loving every second of it. Not just the physical act, but what it represented—my agency, my choice, my acceptance of this part of myself.

When I hollowed my cheeks and took him deeper, his resulting moan was perhaps the most satisfying sound I'd ever heard. I was doing this to him. Me. Not because he asked, but because I wanted to.

"Wait," he gasped after several minutes, tugging gently at my hair. "You need to stop or this is going to be over way too soon."

I pulled back reluctantly, absurdly proud of the effect I'd had on him. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked almost black. The power I felt in that moment—seeing Trey Harrington, always so confident and composed on the ice, completely undone by my actions—was like nothing I'd experienced before.

"That was..." he seemed at a loss for words, a first for Trey Harrington. "Where did that come from?"

"I wanted to show you," I said, remaining on my knees between his legs, looking up at him with newfound confidence. "This isn't just about me taking what you offer. I'm choosing this. Choosing you. All of it."

Understanding dawned in his eyes, along with something softer that made my chest ache. He leaned down, pulling me up into a kiss that felt different from the others—deeper, more meaningful somehow.

"I'm all in too, you know," he whispered against my lips. "Whatever this is. However complicated it gets."

The simple declaration settled something inside me I hadn't realized was still unsettled. Not just acceptance of my sexuality, but acceptance of us. Of what we might be together, beyond stolen moments and secret touches.

He pulled me up onto the bed, laying me down with unexpected gentleness. Before he could reach for the supplies, I caught his hand.

"I need you," I said, no analysis, no calculation, just raw honesty. "Now."

The hunger in his eyes matched my own as he reached for the nightstand. "Second drawer, right?"

I nodded, heart racing with anticipation and the lingering satisfaction of having taken this step—of having chosen to embrace not just what I wanted, but who I was.

What followed was both familiar and entirely new. I watched, breath catching in my throat, as Trey warmed the lube between his fingers, his eyes never leaving mine. The first press of his finger against my entrance made me gasp, my body tensing instinctively before I forced myself to relax.

"That's it," he murmured, working me open with exquisite patience. "Just breathe."

One finger became two, stretching me with careful precision. When he curled them just right, finding that spot inside me, sparks shot up my spine, drawing a strangled moan from my throat.

"There it is," he said, voice rough with satisfaction as he repeated the motion, watching my face intently as pleasure coursed through me. "God, I love watching you like this."

By the time he added a third finger, I was writhing on the bed, all thoughts of data and analysis dissolved into pure sensation. My cock lay heavy against my stomach, leaking pre-come onto my skin, untouched but achingly hard from just his fingers inside me.

"Trey," I gasped, beyond coherent speech. "Now. Need you now."

He withdrew his fingers slowly, leaving me feeling empty and desperate. I watched through half-lidded eyes as he rolled on the condom, slicking himself generously with lube. The sight of him stroking his cock, preparing to enter me, sent another spike of desire through my system.

When he positioned himself between my legs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance, we both held our breath. Our eyes locked as he pushed forward, the initial resistance giving way as my body accepted him. The stretch burned in the most exquisite way, pain and pleasure blending into something that defied categorization.

"Fuck," he breathed as he sank deeper, inch by agonizing inch. "You're so tight. So perfect around me."

I felt impossibly full by the time he was fully seated, my body stretching to accommodate his size. He stilled, allowing me to adjust, his arms trembling with the effort of restraint as he hovered above me.

"I've thought about this every night," Trey confessed, his voice rough as he began to move with agonizing precision, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in with deliberate slowness. "Lying in bed alone, wondering if you'd ever let me touch you again." His eyes, dark with desire and something dangerously close to devotion, never left mine. "Wondering if I'd lost you forever."

The raw honesty in his voice unleashed something primal inside me. I arched beneath him, fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders, pulling him deeper.

"You haven't lost me," I gasped, abandoning analysis for pure sensation as his cock dragged against that perfect spot inside me. "I'm right here. I'm yours."

The words seemed to break something loose in him. His control, always so carefully maintained for my benefit, shattered. His hips snapped forward with new urgency, the gentle pace giving way to something more desperate, more primal. Each thrust struck that perfect spot inside me, sending waves of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain.

"Mine," he growled, one hand sliding beneath me to grip my ass, changing the angle to drive even deeper. "Say it again."

"Yours," I repeated, the word both terrifying and liberating. My head fell back, exposing my throat, which he immediately claimed with his mouth, sucking hard enough to leave a mark where only we would know it existed. The slight pain blended with pleasure in a way that made my cock throb between us, untouched but achingly hard.

The slick sounds of our bodies joining filled the room, along with our increasingly desperate breathing. Sweat glistened on Trey's forehead as he drove into me again and again, the muscles of his back flexing beneath my hands. I wrapped my legs around his waist, driving him deeper, taking all of him.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with awe. "So fucking beautiful like this. Coming apart for me. Only for me."

The possessiveness in his voice should have triggered my independence alarms, but instead, it sent fire racing through my veins. I wanted to be his in this moment, wanted to surrender the control that governed every other aspect of my life. With him—only with him—I could let go completely.

"Touch me," I begged, not recognizing my own voice, rough with need. "Please, Trey."

"Not yet," he denied, his smile wolfish as he caught my wrists and pinned them above my head with one strong hand. "I want to see how long you can last. How much you can take."

The restraint, gentle but firm, sent another shock of arousal through me. My body responded instantaneously, clenching around him, drawing a harsh groan from his throat.

"Fuck, Beau, you like that?" His eyes widened in surprise before darkening with renewed hunger. "You like me holding you down? Making you take it?"

I couldn't form words, could only nod, too far gone to articulate the complicated emotions swirling through me. The trust required to let someone else take control. The relief of surrendering choice, if only temporarily. The safety I felt in his hands, even as he pushed me to my limits.

He released one of my wrists to cradle my face, a startling tenderness amidst the intensity. "Tell me if it's too much," he whispered, his thumb brushing my cheekbone with surprising gentleness even as his hips maintained their relentless pace. "I'd never hurt you. You know that, right?"

"I know," I managed, turning to press a kiss to his palm, the gesture unexpectedly intimate. "I trust you."

Something broke open in his expression at those three simple words. He kissed me then, deep and consuming, pouring everything he couldn't say into the contact. His tongue mirrored the rhythm of his body, claiming, possessing, marking me as his from the inside out.

When he finally wrapped his hand around my aching cock, the dual stimulation was almost too much. His fingers circled me with perfect pressure, stroking me in counterpoint to his thrusts. I cried out into his mouth, my entire body tensing on the precipice of release.

"That's it, baby," he encouraged, his hand working me with the perfect twist at the head that sent electric pulses through my entire body. "Let go for me. I want to feel you come with me inside you."

The praise sent me hurtling over the edge, my release hitting with such force that my vision blurred at the edges. I came hard between us, painting my stomach and chest with hot streaks as wave after wave of pleasure tore through me. My body clenched rhythmically around Trey's cock, drawing him deeper with each pulse.

"Beau, fuck, Beau," he chanted, his rhythm faltering as my climax triggered his own. He buried himself to the hilt, his body shuddering as he came, his expression transformed into something so vulnerable it made my chest ache.

We stayed joined for long moments afterward, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, heartbeats gradually slowing from their frantic pace. His weight should have been too much, but I welcomed it, the solid reality of him anchoring me against the emotional storm we'd just weathered.

"I think you've ruined me," he whispered, the confession barely audible. "For anyone else. Ever."

The raw honesty in his voice made something twist painfully in my chest. "Then don't go to anyone else," I replied with uncharacteristic boldness. "Stay with me."

His smile bloomed slowly, transforming his face. "I'm not going anywhere, Harvard. Not unless you send me away."

"I won't," I promised, the certainty of it surprising me. Whatever happened with my father, with the team, with hockey—the man in my arms had become essential. Non-negotiable. The most important variable in an equation I was only beginning to understand.

When he finally pulled away, I felt a momentary sense of loss. He disappeared briefly to the bathroom, returning with a warm washcloth to clean us both with surprising tenderness.

"You're thinking too much again," he observed as he rejoined me on the bed, pulling me against his chest. "I can practically hear the gears turning."

"Force of habit," I admitted, relaxing into his embrace. "My brain doesn't have an off switch."

"What are you analyzing now?" His fingers traced lazy patterns on my shoulder, sending pleasant shivers down my spine.

"I'm wondering why my typically touch-averse body responds so differently to you."

His hand paused where it had been tracing patterns on my shoulder. "You're touch-averse?"

"Generally," I confirmed. "Sensory processing differences from being neurodivergent. Physical contact usually triggers discomfort. But with you..." I gestured to our position, my body curved against his with no sign of overstimulation.

"Is that why you're so careful about your space? The organization, the routines?"

I nodded. "Control of my environment helps manage sensory input. Predictability reduces overstimulation."

His fingers resumed their movement. "And I just crashed into all that carefully constructed order like a wrecking ball."

"More like an unexpected variable that somehow improved the equation," I corrected.

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Only you could make that sound romantic, Harvard."

We lay together in comfortable silence for a while, his fingers continuing their gentle exploration of my shoulder, my own hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath my palm.

"Western tomorrow," I murmured eventually. "Biggest game of the season so far."

"We'll be ready," Trey assured me. "We just need to focus on playing our best, no matter who we're paired with."

"I calculated the probability of Coach recombining us if we demonstrate statistically significant improvement during our penalty kill shifts," I said. "Approximately 64.7% chance he'll reassess within the next three games."

"Those are decent odds," Trey remarked, amusement coloring his voice. "And your father?"

The reminder sent a chill through me. "My father will be at Thanksgiving," I said, the words catching slightly in my throat. "With hockey connections from Montreal. The assistant GM for the Canadiens will be there, along with their head of player development."

Trey's arm tightened around me. "That sounds strategic."

"My father never does anything without purpose," I confirmed, tension radiating through my shoulders. "If Boston is 'reconsidering their interest,' he's already lining up alternatives. Montreal has two defensive prospects aging out next season. They'll be looking for replacements."

"And if they see you with me? Or hear about us?"

I swallowed hard, the reality stark and unavoidable. "Then those opportunities disappear. Possibly all NHL opportunities. My father has connections throughout the league—people who listen to him, trust his assessments. If he decides I'm... compromised in some way, those doors close."

Trey's arm tightened around me. "One day at a time, Beau. We don't have to solve everything tonight."

"I don't know if I can do this," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "Stand up to him. Risk everything I've worked for. Twenty-one years of training, preparation, sacrifice—all of it potentially meaningless if he decides I'm not Sullivan material anymore."

"You're not doing it alone." Trey tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. "And maybe it's not about standing up to him right now. Maybe it's just about finding your own path, building your own resources like you've already started doing."

"The research position is just a beginning," I said. "Not enough for complete independence."

"But it's a start," Trey insisted. "And there are other options, too. Summer jobs. Teaching assistant positions. Graduate school funding, like you mentioned."

"I've begun researching graduate program funding options too," I expanded. "Many offer full assistantships with tuition coverage and stipends sufficient for basic living expenses. The biomechanics program at MIT has particularly robust funding for research assistants focusing on sports injury prevention."

"See? You've already started building a plan. That's the Beau Sullivan I know." His smile held pride alongside affection. "And hey, my mom might not have fancy NHL connections, but she teaches with a woman whose husband works in sports medicine research at NYU. Not exactly high-powered networking, but it's something real people do - help each other without expecting anything in return."

The offer of assistance, so freely given without expectation, made my throat tighten unexpectedly. "Thank you," I managed.

"That's what partners do," he replied simply. "Help each other. On and off the ice."

Partners. The term encompassed so much—teammates, defensive pair, and now something more personal, more intimate. More terrifying in its implications.

"We should sleep," I said, glancing at the clock. "Game tomorrow. Pre-game skate at 10 AM."

"I just hope we get some time on the ice together," Trey sighed. "Even if it's only during special teams."

"Perhaps Coach will reconsider after evaluating performance," I suggested. "The data supports our compatibility."

"I should set an alarm," I said, reaching for my phone.

Trey caught my wrist. "I already set one. 7:30, right? Gives us time for breakfast before pre-game skate."

The simple consideration—that he remembered this detail—sent another wave of warmth through me. "Yes. Thank you."

As I settled back against him, I found myself collecting another piece of evidence about Trey Harrington: the way he accommodated my needs without trying to change them. The way he'd remembered the details of my routine not to mock them, but to support them.

"We're going to figure this out," he murmured, voice heavy with approaching sleep. "Together."

I didn't respond verbally, just pressed closer against him, letting my body communicate what I struggled to articulate. That this thing between us had become important enough to fight for. That his presence in my life had shifted from anomaly to essential variable.

That for the first time in twenty-one years, I was beginning to consider a future defined by my own parameters rather than my father's expectations. A future with room for connection, for vulnerability, for the messy imprecision of human attachment.

A future with room for Trey.

As I drifted toward sleep, one final thought formed in my drowsy mind: how improbable it was to find someone who saw me completely—Sullivan perfection and neurodivergent quirks alike—and wanted all of it anyway.

But then, Trey Harrington had always been exceptional at defying the odds.