Page 19 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Eighteen

Trey

L ight filtered through Beau's blinds, casting patterns across his perfectly aligned furniture. I'd been awake for twenty minutes, watching him sleep against my chest, copper hair catching the early morning sun. His breathing remained steady, each inhale and exhale precisely four counts. Even unconscious, he maintained that Sullivan rhythm.

The night before felt almost dreamlike. After weeks of silence and separation, careful walls demolished by my ridiculous Sullivan costume, and then... this. Him in my arms again. The solid weight of his body against mine, fitting perfectly despite everything logical saying we shouldn't work.

His alarm would go off in exactly seven minutes. Beau never varied his wake-up time, even on game days. It gave me seven minutes to memorize the relaxed curve of his mouth, how his freckles scattered across his shoulders like stars, the way his usual rigid posture softened in sleep.

"You're staring," he murmured without opening his eyes.

"Can't help it," I admitted, my voice rough with sleep. "You're something else when you're not being Harvard Sullivan."

His eyes opened, intense green-gold in the morning light. "And what am I being right now?"

"Just Beau," I said, fingers tracing the constellation of freckles on his shoulder. "The guy who came apart under me last night. The guy who took a chance on me despite everything your father threatened."

Color bloomed across his cheekbones. Even after everything we'd done, his ability to blush remained intact. It was fucking adorable.

"I didn't expect this," he confessed quietly. "Any of it. You weren't in my calculations."

I laughed, the sound rumbling through my chest where his head rested. "I've never been in anyone's calculations, Harvard. Kind of my specialty."

His hand splayed across my chest, directly over my heart. The simple touch felt more intimate than anything we'd done the night before. "Your heart rate is elevated," he observed.

"Yeah, well, I've got a hot guy in my bed. Does things to a man's cardiovascular system."

But we both knew it was more than that. This thing between us had evolved beyond the physical. Beyond rivals with benefits. Beyond the simple explanation of blowing off steam.

His alarm chirped, exactly on schedule. He reached over to silence it with practiced efficiency, but made no move to leave the bed.

"Don't you have a morning routine to maintain?" I teased, fingers still tracing patterns on his skin. "Protein shake precisely measured to the gram? Twenty minutes of stretching?"

"I've already deviated significantly from my routine," he pointed out, settling back against me. "What's a few more minutes?"

The casual admission stunned me. Beau Sullivan never deviated from routines. They were his anchor, his way of controlling a world that overwhelmed him. That he'd choose to remain in bed with me instead felt monumental.

"Western tonight," I said, changing the subject before I said something embarrassingly sentimental. "Think Coach will come to his senses and put us back together?"

Beau's expression shifted, analytical mind engaging. "Statistically unlikely. My father's influence is substantial, and Coach mentioned 'exploring new combinations' for at least three games."

"Your dad's a real piece of work," I said, anger flaring at the thought of Sullivan Senior manipulating Coach, manipulating Beau, manipulating everyone to maintain his perfect Sullivan future. "Using his connections to keep us apart on the ice because he suspects something off it."

"His concerns aren't entirely unfounded," Beau pointed out, gesturing to our current position, naked and intertwined in his bed.

"Yeah, but it's nobody's business but ours," I countered. "Especially not your dad's. And definitely not the fucking NHLs."

Beau sat up, sheets pooling around his waist. The morning light caught the marks I'd left on his chest and neck, evidence of last night's reunion that would be hidden beneath his uniform tonight.

"We should discuss parameters," he said, voice shifting into that precise cadence that meant his analytical mind was fully engaged. "For moving forward. Together."

"Parameters?" I repeated, sitting up beside him. "That your Harvard way of asking if we're boyfriends now?"

He flinched slightly at the term, then caught himself. "That's... one categorization, yes."

"So, secret boyfriends," I clarified, taking his hand. "Just like before?"

Beau was quiet for a moment, his eyes focused on our joined hands. "No," he said finally. "Not exactly like before."

"No?" I raised my eyebrows, surprised by the deviation from what I'd expected.

"I've been thinking," he said, which for Beau was like saying he'd been breathing. "The statistical probability of maintaining complete secrecy long-term is minimal. And..." he hesitated, "isolation proved counterproductive during our separation."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, perhaps we need trusted confidants. A limited circle of safety." His eyes met mine, determination replacing his usual caution. "Your roommate, Kai, already knows. He's demonstrated discretion."

"And he's quietly not straight himself," I added, beginning to understand where Beau was going with this.

"Exactly. A logical ally." Beau's thumb traced patterns on my hand. "And your mother... you've mentioned her acceptance of your sexuality. Your sister as well."

My heart kicked against my ribs. "Are you saying what I think you're saying, Harvard?"

"I'd like to meet them," he said, the words coming out in a rush. "Not as your teammate. As your... boyfriend." He said the word carefully, testing it out. "If that's what we are."

"Hell yes, that's what we are," I said, squeezing his hand. "And hell yes, to meeting my family. They'll love you, you know. Mom's been wanting to meet the famous Sullivan I've been talking about since the season started."

A hint of amusement flickered in his eyes. "Talking about? Positively?"

"Complaining mostly," I admitted with a grin. "About your perfect posture and color-coded notes. But Mia saw right through it. Said I was 'fixated' on you."

"When?" he asked, always practical, even in emotional moments.

"They're coming for Family Weekend when we play Ohio State," I said. "We could do dinner after. Nothing fancy, but... a real date. With people who know about us."

Something shifted in his expression, a mixture of hope and vulnerability that made my chest ache. "I'd like that," he said simply.

"You're sure?" I searched his face. "What about your dad? The NHL plans?"

Beau was quiet for a long moment, his analytical mind clearly working through something complex. "I've been considering alternatives," he said finally, his voice softer than usual. "My research position with Professor Winters... the biomechanics work is fascinating. More engaging than I expected."

I stared at him, hardly believing what I was hearing. "Are you saying you might not want to play professionally?"

"I'm saying I might have options," he clarified, meeting my eyes with surprising directness. "The NHL has always been my father's plan. I never questioned it. But my work in the lab... it feels right in a way hockey sometimes doesn't."

The admission clearly cost him, the words coming out like he was prying them loose from somewhere deep inside. This was Beau Sullivan questioning the entire foundation his life had been built on.

"One step at a time," he continued. "We maintain professional focus in team settings. We limit contact with my father. But we don't have to carry this completely alone anymore." His hand tightened on mine. "That was my miscalculation before. Isolation isn't optimal."

"Baby steps toward being us," I said, unable to keep the smile from spreading across my face. "Not just in private anymore."

"Precisely," he agreed, and though his voice remained measured, the light in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. "A calculated expansion of parameters."

Leave it to Beau Sullivan to make "let's come out to people we trust" sound like a scientific experiment. But that was exactly why I was falling for him.

His stomach growled loudly, breaking the moment. I laughed against his lips. "Your precisely scheduled metabolism demands breakfast, Harvard."

"I should maintain proper nutrition before the game," he agreed, reluctantly pulling away. "Protein, complex carbohydrates, minimal fat."

"Lucky for you, I make a mean egg white omelet," I said, sliding out of bed and pulling on my discarded boxer briefs from the night before. "Come on, let me feed you before you start calculating the nutritional value of your own fingers."

In his kitchen, I quickly discovered that everything was organized with clinical precision. Eggs in the exact center of the refrigerator shelf. Vegetables arranged by color. Spices alphabetized.

"Jesus, Harvard, do you alphabetize your condiments too?" I asked, opening his fridge.

"By frequency of use, actually," he replied seriously. "Alphabetization proves inefficient for items accessed at different rates."

I shook my head, fighting a smile. "Of course. Silly me."

As I cooked, Beau perched on a stool at his counter, watching me with unusual intensity. His gaze followed my movements as I cracked eggs, separated whites, chopped vegetables with more enthusiasm than skill.

"You cook often?" he asked.

"Enough to survive," I replied, focusing on not burning anything. "Mom works nights sometimes, so I started making dinner for Mia and me when I was, like, twelve. Nothing fancy, but we didn't starve."

"Your sister," he said, recalling our previous conversations. "The one who experiences sensory processing issues similar to mine."

The fact that he remembered, that he'd made that connection, made my chest tighten again. "Yeah. She's seventeen now, scary smart like you. Plays piano, not half bad. High school jazz band."

"That's impressive," Beau said. "Music requires significant neural coordination."

I laughed. "Only you would turn playing piano into a scientific analysis."

"I research thoroughly," he replied without a hint of embarrassment. "Including your sister's condition after you helped me. I wanted to understand."

The simple admission stopped me mid-chop. I looked up to find him watching me, expression open in a way I rarely saw outside of moments of intense pleasure or vulnerability.

"You researched sensory processing disorder? For me?"

"For myself primarily," he clarified. "But yes, your experience with your sister provided valuable context. I've never had anyone recognize my episodes for what they are. My father always called them... weaknesses."

Anger flared again, hot and immediate. "Your father's an asshole."

Beau didn't contradict me this time. Progress.

We ate breakfast in comfortable silence, his leg pressed against mine under the small kitchen table. The domesticity of the moment felt surreal after weeks of avoiding each other, after the emotional turmoil of our separation and reunion.

"We should arrive at the arena separately," Beau said as we cleaned up. "For appearance's sake."

"Back to reality already?" I asked, trying to keep my tone light despite the disappointment settling in my chest.

"Just being practical," he replied, loading the dishwasher with methodical precision. "The Western game has significant implications for conference standings. We need to maintain focus."

"Always the professional," I teased, bumping his hip with mine as I handed him the last plate. "Alright, Harvard. I'll head out first, then you follow in twenty minutes or whatever interval your statistical analysis suggests is least suspicious."

He nodded, but caught my wrist before I could move away. "Trey."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you," he said simply. "For not giving up on me. For the Halloween costume. For... seeing me."

The simple gratitude in his voice made my throat tight. I leaned in, pressing my forehead against his. "Always, Harvard. Always."

I left his apartment thirty minutes later, game bag over my shoulder, the ghost of his kiss still lingering on my lips. The campus was already buzzing with homecoming energy, blue and silver decorations on every lamppost, students in team colors heading to various pre-game events.

When I reached the arena for morning skate, half the team was already there. Davis nodded at me from where he was stretching, Williams made some comment about my "walk of shame" appearance, and Reynolds watched with narrowed eyes as I headed to my stall.

Matthews was already gearing up beside me, focused on his pre-game routine. "Ready to shut down Western's top line?" he asked.

"Born ready," I replied automatically, though my eyes tracked Beau as he entered, exactly twenty-seven minutes after I'd left his apartment. His hair was perfectly combed, his posture impeccable, nothing in his appearance suggesting anything had changed.

Except for the way his eyes caught mine briefly across the locker room, a flash of warmth quickly concealed. If I hadn't been looking for it, I would have missed it entirely.

Coach Barnes entered, clipboard in hand as always. "Pre-game skate in fifteen. Systems review after. Western's riding a four-game winning streak, so nothing sloppy today, gentlemen."

On the ice, Beau and I maintained the appropriate distance, professional focus intact. But during special teams practice, when Coach paired us on the penalty kill, everything clicked immediately. Beau anticipating my movements before I made them, me reading his defensive positioning with perfect clarity. The seamless communication that had always characterized our play together returned as if it had never left.

Coach noticed. I caught him watching us with narrowed eyes, making notes on his clipboard. When Reynolds and Matthews rotated in for the second penalty kill unit, the difference was immediately apparent. Good players, but without the chemistry, the anticipation, the silent understanding that Beau and I had developed.

"Looking sharp, Harrington, Sullivan," Coach commented as we returned to the bench. "Keep that connection for tonight."

Beau's eyes met mine briefly, triumph flashing in their green-gold depths. Step one of our plan working perfectly. Show Coach what he was missing by keeping us apart.

Morning skate concluded with additional systems review in the video room. Beau sat with Reynolds now, the appropriate distance from me maintained. But I caught him watching me when he thought no one would notice, that same analytical focus he brought to game footage now directed at me.

"The fuck is up with Sullivan?" Matthews muttered beside me. "Keeps looking over here like he's solving a math problem."

"Maybe he is," I replied lightly. "You know Harvard, always analyzing something."

The rest of the day passed in the familiar rhythm of game preparation. Team lunch. Mandatory nap for anyone living in dorms. Pre-game meal precisely four hours before puck drop. I went through the motions automatically, mind half-focused on tonight's game, half on Beau and our newly defined relationship.

Secret boyfriends. The term I'd used that morning kept repeating in my head. Not just hookups anymore. Not just scratch an itch that wouldn't go away. Something real, something defined, despite all the complications.

I thought of my mom, how she'd react if she knew. She'd accepted my sexuality without question when I came out at sixteen, more concerned about whether I was being safe than who I was attracted to. But Beau Sullivan? The preppy defenseman with the NHL father and the perfect posture? That might surprise even her.

And Mia would absolutely lose her mind. She'd been teasing me about Sullivan since last season, claiming I talked about him too much for someone I supposedly hated. "Obsession works both ways, big brother," she'd said, wickedly perceptive as always.

They'd like him, I realized. Once they got past the Harvard exterior, they'd see what I saw. The vulnerability beneath the perfect Sullivan mask. The genuine care he took with everything, everyone he considered important. The way his analytical mind approached the world both as challenge and puzzle to be solved.

Pre-game warm-ups began at 6:30 sharp. Western's team took their half of the ice, running through their own routines while our guys circled in the opposite direction. The stands were already filling, homecoming weekend bringing alumni and additional spectators. A sea of blue and silver, signs and banners, the pep band warming up in their corner section.

Beau stayed focused during warm-ups, his movements precise and controlled as always. But during one drill, as we crossed paths near center ice, he muttered, "Watch Western's left wing on the power play. Cheats high on the weak side."

I nodded, the inside information flowing between us despite our supposed separation. "Their defensemen pivot slowly to their right. Exploit on zone entries."

These small moments of connection, professional on the surface but intimate in their understanding, continued throughout the preparations. By the time we lined up for the national anthem, standing side by side though we'd play apart, I felt the familiar pre-game energy building. Not just excitement for hockey, but for our shared plan to prove our partnership belonged on the ice as well as off it.

The first period began with an intensity appropriate for a homecoming game against our biggest rival. Western came out flying, testing our reformed defensive pairings immediately. Matthews and I held our own, though the communication wasn't nearly as smooth as with Beau. We had to verbalize coverages, call out switches, talk through situations that would have been instinctive with my regular partner.

Beau and Reynolds faced similar challenges. I watched from the bench as they defended a two-on-one rush, Beau's positioning perfect but Reynolds slow to recognize the developing play. It resulted in a grade-A scoring chance that only our goalie's brilliance kept out of the net.

"Sullivan and Reynolds look out of sync," Davis commented beside me.

"Different styles," I replied, keeping my voice neutral. "Reynolds plays more conservative than I do."

"Yeah, and you and Sullivan had that whole mind-reading thing going," Davis said. "Made the rest of us look bad."

I shrugged, eyes tracking Beau as he returned to the bench after his shift. "Just good chemistry."

"Chemistry," Davis repeated, something knowing in his tone. "Right."

The first Western goal came midway through the period. Reynolds pinched at the wrong moment, leaving Beau alone to defend a three-on-one rush. He had no chance, the passing play too quick, too practiced for even Sullivan's calculating brain to disrupt.

Coach slammed the bench door as Western celebrated. "Reynolds! What was that pinch? Sullivan was hung out to dry!"

Reynolds muttered something that might have been an apology as he took his seat on the bench. Beside him, Beau remained expressionless, already analyzing what had gone wrong, how to adjust.

When our penalty kill unit was called after Williams took a slashing penalty, Coach pointed to Beau and me. "Harrington, Sullivan, shut this down."

We jumped over the boards together, immediate synergy returning as we settled into our familiar penalty killing positions. Western's power play was structured exactly as Beau had predicted during our morning conversation. Their left wing cheated high, creating a passing lane that most teams wouldn't anticipate.

But we weren't most teams. Beau positioned himself perfectly to intercept that cross-ice pass, batting it down and starting a rush in the other direction. I followed, reading his intentions before he'd fully committed, creating a two-on-one shorthanded opportunity.

The Western defenseman played the pass, giving Beau a clear lane to the net. He fired, the puck finding space under the goalie's blocker arm and into the net. Shorthanded goal. Game tied 1-1.

I reached him first in the celebration, pulling him into an embrace that was perhaps a fraction too long, too tight for just teammates. "Fucking beautiful, Harvard!" I shouted into his ear, feeling him laugh against me.

"Executed exactly as predicted," he replied, eyes bright with triumph as we skated back to the bench.

Coach met us with a rare smile. "That's what I'm talking about! Perfect read, Sullivan. Great support, Harrington."

We killed the remainder of the penalty flawlessly, our movements synchronized in a way that made Western's power play look disjointed and predictable. When we returned to the bench, Reynolds was watching us with narrowed eyes.

"Lucky read," he muttered as Beau took his seat.

"Statistical probability based on pre-scouting their tendencies," Beau corrected. "Not luck."

I bit back a smile. Harvard Sullivan, even in the heat of competition, couldn't resist correcting with precision.

The period ended 1-1, both teams heading to the locker room for intermission. Coach's assessment was typically blunt.

"Five-on-five play needs work," he began. "Reynolds, Matthews, tighten up your gap control. Sullivan, Harrington, your penalty kill execution is what kept us in this period. I want that same connectivity from all our defensive pairs."

I caught Beau's eye across the room, the slight uptick at the corner of his mouth the only indication he'd registered the compliment. Phase one of our plan working better than expected.

The second period continued the pattern. At even strength, both new defensive pairings struggled with timing and communication. But when special teams opportunities arose, Beau and I demonstrated the chemistry we'd developed through weeks of playing together, anticipating each other's movements with uncanny precision.

During one penalty kill late in the period, I blocked a shot that left me momentarily stunned. Before I could recover, Beau was there, clearing the rebound and helping me to my feet with a grip that lingered just long enough to convey concern.

"You good?" he asked, voice low.

"Never better," I replied, bumping his shoulder with mine as we reset for the faceoff.

By the third period, the pattern was clear to everyone. Reynolds and Matthews were solid defensemen, but the magic happened when Sullivan and Harrington took the ice together. With five minutes left in a 2-2 game, Coach made the call.

"Sullivan, Harrington, you're up. Shut down their top line."

Finally reunited at even strength, we stepped onto the ice with renewed purpose. Western's top line had been giving Reynolds and Matthews fits all night, but against us, they suddenly found themselves contained, frustrated, unable to generate the time and space they'd enjoyed earlier.

"Keep them to the outside," Beau called as we defended a rush, positioning himself to force the play wide while I covered the slot.

The chemistry was electric, like we'd never been apart. Two minutes later, we started a breakout that led to Williams scoring the go-ahead goal, putting us up 3-2 with just over two minutes remaining.

"Sullivan and Harrington to close it out," Coach called as Western pulled their goalie for an extra attacker.

Six-on-five, the pressure intense as Western threw everything at us. A clearing attempt rimmed around the boards to where I'd pinched down from the point. I fired the puck down the ice, finding the empty net to seal the game 4-2.

The bench erupted, guys pouring over the boards as the final buzzer sounded. In the chaos of celebration, Beau found me, his gloved hand gripping the back of my jersey in a way that looked like standard teammate excitement to anyone watching.

"Statistically dominant when paired," he said into my ear, voice pitched low beneath the crowd noise. "Coach will have to acknowledge the data."

"Fuck the stats," I laughed, caught in the moment's joy. "We're just better together, Harvard."

His eyes met mine, something open and vulnerable there despite the public setting. "Yes," he agreed simply. "We are."

In the locker room, Coach's post-game assessment confirmed what we already knew. "Sullivan, Harrington, whatever issue was causing separation, consider it resolved. You're back together next game. That's the pair I need."

Reynolds looked like he wanted to protest, but remained silent. Matthews seemed relieved to be returning to his usual partner. The rest of the team focused on celebrating the homecoming victory, plans for post-game activities already forming.

"Party at my place is still on!" Davis announced. "Victory celebration! Captain says mandatory attendance for at least an hour."

Various cheers and confirmations followed. I caught Beau's eye across the room, a silent question in my gaze. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. We'd make an appearance, maintain appearances, then find our way back to each other.

As the team dispersed toward the showers, Reynolds cornered me by my stall. "Whatever's going on with you and Sullivan," he said, voice low, "keep it professional. Team doesn't need complications."

"Nothing going on except good hockey," I replied, meeting his gaze steadily.

"Bullshit," he said, but without real heat. "Just be careful. Sullivan's got more to lose than you do."

The warning surprised me. Not because of its content, but because beneath Reynolds' usual asshole exterior, there seemed to be genuine concern.

"Noted," I said, neither confirming nor denying his suspicions.

As the locker room emptied, Beau lingered at his stall, meticulously organizing his gear as always. I finished dressing, deliberately taking my time until we were among the last remaining.

"Davis's party?" I asked casually as we walked toward the parking lot together, maintaining the appropriate space between us.

"One hour of mandatory team interaction," he replied, the hint of a smile playing at his lips. "Then perhaps analysis of today's performance metrics. In private."

"I like how you think, Harvard," I said, bumping his shoulder lightly as we reached his car. "Meet you there?"

He nodded, something warm and certain in his gaze. "Together."

The word contained multitudes. On the ice, off the ice. Professional, personal. Public, private. A promise neither of us had expected to make, yet both now committed to seeing through.

As I walked to my own car, I found myself smiling despite the bruises from blocked shots, despite the complications still ahead with his father, despite the careful navigation our relationship would require.