Page 2 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Two

Beau

T he walk from Steel City University's sports complex to Riverside Heights usually cleared my head. Tonight, it wasn't working.

My shoulder throbbed where Harrington had checked me into the boards, but that discomfort was secondary to the chaos in my mind. The locker room confrontation kept replaying on a loop. Harrington's proximity, the heat of his skin, the intensity in his eyes, and, most disturbing of all, my own unexpected reaction.

I unlocked my apartment door, relieved to find it empty. Parker's lacrosse gear was missing from its usual spot, meaning he was at practice. Perfect. Not that I disliked my roommate, I just needed the solitude.

I went through my usual post-practice routine, more for the comfort of familiarity than anything else. Ice for my shoulder. Protein shake. Game footage review.

But once I sat at my desk, I found myself unable to focus on the defensive positioning diagrams on my screen. Instead, my mind kept returning to that moment in the locker room—to Harrington's body close to mine, to the way my pulse had raced, to the heat that had pooled low in my abdomen.

What the hell was wrong with me?

I'd never reacted that way to anyone before, let alone another man. Let alone Harrington, of all people.

I slammed my laptop shut and stood up, pacing the small confines of my room. This was absurd. It was just adrenaline from the confrontation. A stress response. Some kind of aberrant physiological reaction that had nothing to do with actual attraction.

I wasn't attracted to men. I'd dated women exclusively since high school. Jessica Wilkins sophomore year. Then Alicia at Hartford for nearly two years. Both relationships had been... adequate. Comfortable. Expected.

I'd never questioned my sexuality. Never needed to. I functioned within normal parameters with women. Dammit, I was twenty-one years old. I would know by now if I were gay. If I were... whatever this was.

My phone buzzed with a text from my father.

I’ll be at the Pembroke charity gala this weekend. Several NHL scouts will be there. I've mentioned your statistics from Hartford.

No actual questions about my wellbeing. Just expectations and reminders of connections being leveraged on my behalf. Standard Sullivan family communication.

I crafted a suitably bland response: Everything is fine. Please give my regards to Coach Wilson if you see him.

Coach Wilson had been one of the few coaches who'd understood my analytical approach to the game as an asset rather than something to be "fixed."

Three dots appeared as my father typed.

Good. Are you keeping up with your nutrition plan?

I glanced at my untouched protein shake.

Yes. Following the nutritionist's guidelines.

Another buzz.

Good. Victoria Chambers asked about you. She's home from Yale for the weekend. Shall I give her your number?

Victoria Chambers. I barely knew her, but our fathers had made their hopes for a potential match abundantly clear.

During our last interaction, Victoria had touched my arm repeatedly during our conversation. I'd recognized it as flirting. I'd even found her objectively attractive. But I'd felt nothing in response. No repulsion. Not attraction. Just... nothing.

Much like with Alicia, my ex from Hartford. She'd ended things after nearly two years, saying I seemed "emotionally unavailable." That I approached intimacy like "solving an equation." At the time, I'd accepted that as just part of who I was.

I'm focusing on hockey and academics this semester. No time for social engagements.

Three dots. Then: Don't forget about maintaining your network. These connections will be valuable when you're looking at professional opportunities.

Translation: Remember your purpose. Continue the Sullivan legacy. Present the right image to the right people.

What would my father say if he knew I'd had... whatever that reaction was... to another male player? To someone like Harrington?

The thought made me physically ill. My father—the lawyer with the perfect Connecticut colonial house and the perfect Connecticut colonial family—did not have a son who was attracted to men. That was not part of the Sullivan plan.

I set my phone aside without responding and returned to my laptop. Opened the team's video database. Selected the file from today's practice. Fast-forwarded to the last scrimmage, where Coach had inexplicably paired me with Harrington.

Watched our shifts together with clinical detachment. The way we'd moved in sync despite having never played together before. The way he'd covered my pinch at the blue line without hesitation. The way I'd blocked the passing lane, allowing him to intercept and start the rush.

The statistics confirmed what I was seeing. My reaction time, decision-making speed, and successful zone clearances had all improved twenty-two percent over my baseline with other defensive partners.

That couldn't be coincidence.

But it also couldn't be connected to the unwelcome physical reaction I'd had to him. That made no logical sense. Correlation did not imply causation. There had to be another explanation.

My phone buzzed again. This time, a team-wide text from Williams:

Party at Theta house. 9 PM. Beer pong tournament. Ladies already asking about our new D-man. Don't disappoint them, Sullivan.

Several responses appeared within minutes. Variations of "hell yeah" and crude emojis.

Davis texted me privately: Hey Sullivan, you coming tonight?

I stared at the message. Social events usually left me drained. Too much noise. Too many people. Too many unspoken social rules to navigate.

But tonight, I needed the distraction. Needed to prove to myself that I was normal. That whatever had happened with Harrington was an anomaly.

Yeah, I'll swing by.

Davis responded immediately: Sweet! Tell me if you need a ride.

I planned to arrive around 9:30, give myself enough time to interact with a few women, confirm my usual neutral-to-positive response to female attention, and leave with my worldview safely intact.

With that decided, I forced myself to review more game footage. But instead of studying defensive metrics, I found my attention drawn repeatedly to Harrington. The fluid power in his movements. The decisive way he controlled space. The explosive acceleration in his stride.

His goal in our exhibition game had been particularly impressive. A toe drag through a defender's legs, then a quick backhand shelf over the goalie's shoulder. Technically difficult. Unlikely to succeed. Yet he'd executed it perfectly, as if failure had never entered his equation.

I'd scored exactly five goals in my NCAA career. All straightforward point shots through traffic. Nothing flashy. My game was built on consistency, positioning, and risk management.

Harrington's game was built on risk, instinct, and pure talent. We couldn't be more different.

So why couldn't I stop watching him?

I closed the laptop and reached for my biomechanics textbook, seeking the comfort of logical information. But after reading the same paragraph several times without processing it, I admitted defeat.

I opened my laptop again and found myself typing "Trey Harrington" into the search bar. His statistics page appeared. I clicked through to his profile. Hometown: Brooklyn, New York. Previous team: New York City Prep School League. Major: Sports Management.

Nothing I didn't already know.

After a moment's hesitation, I typed "Trey Harrington Brooklyn" into the search engine.

Several results appeared. A newspaper article about a championship game from his high school team. His name on an honor roll list. And then—a profile from the NYC LGBT Youth Sports Alliance website.

My cursor hovered over the link. My heart rate accelerated, a completely disproportionate response to a simple information-gathering exercise.

I clicked.

A photo loaded—Harrington, maybe two years younger, speaking at what appeared to be a panel discussion. The caption read: "Brooklyn native Trey Harrington speaks about his experience as an openly gay athlete in competitive hockey at the annual Pride in Play conference."

Even in this older photo, there was no mistaking him. The same defiant tilt to his chin. The same intensity in those dark eyes. His black hair was shorter then, cropped close on the sides, but still falling across his forehead in a way that emphasized the sharp angles of his face—high cheekbones, strong jaw, straight nose. The olive undertones in his skin suggested Mediterranean heritage, contrasting with my own perpetually pale complexion that burned after ten minutes in direct sunlight.

I stared at the words beneath the photo. Openly gay. Not rumors. No speculation. Confirmed fact.

Something twisted in my stomach. Had he been flirting with me in the locker room? Is that what that was?

No. That was absurd. He clearly despised me. Had been trying to intimidate me, not seduce me.

And even if he had been—which he wasn't—it wouldn't matter. Because I wasn't gay. I wasn't... whatever this was. I couldn't be. It would destroy everything I'd worked for. Everything my family expected. My future in the NHL.

I slammed the laptop shut again, anger suddenly flooding my system. Anger at Harrington for getting under my skin, yes, but mostly, anger at myself for this inexplicable, unwanted response to another man.

A man I should hate. A man who'd checked me into the boards during practice. Who'd cornered me in the locker room. Who represented everything unpredictable and chaotic that I'd spent my life avoiding.

The sound of the apartment door opening broke through my thoughts.

"Yo, Sullivan! You here?" Parker's voice carried from the living room.

"In my room," I called back, grateful for the interruption.

Parker appeared in my doorway, his lacrosse stick propped over one shoulder. "You going to this Theta thing tonight?"

"Yeah, for a bit."

He nodded. Parker and I had a functional relationship based on mutual respect for boundaries and shared sports discipline. He didn't ask personal questions. I didn't comment on the parade of sorority girls he brought through our apartment.

"Cool. Gonna hop in the shower, then we can walk over together if you want." He paused. "You okay, man? You look... intense."

"Just reviewing game footage."

He accepted this without question. Athletes understood the obsession with performance metrics. "Gotcha. Thirty minutes?"

"Works for me."

After he left, I sat on the edge of my bed, trying to organize my thoughts. I needed a plan for tonight. A way to prove to myself that my reaction to Harrington was an aberration. A fluke.

I would go to the party. I would interact with women. I would re-establish my baseline heterosexual responses. And then I would come home and devise a strategy for dealing with Harrington that didn't involve... whatever this was.

Simple. Logical. Achievable.

T he Theta house was exactly as expected. Excessive noise. Dim lighting. Bodies in constant motion. The air thick with alcohol, perfume, and sweat.

I moved toward a less crowded corner, accepting a red plastic cup from a passing fraternity member without examining its contents. Holding a beverage was standard operating procedure at such gatherings.

Davis spotted me from across the room and navigated through the crowd. "Sullivan! You made it!" He clapped my shoulder. "What do you think of your first Theta rager?"

"It's loud."

Davis laughed. "That's the point, man! Come on, beer pong table just opened up. Matthews says you have good aim."

Before I could respond, he was guiding me through the crowd toward a table where Matthews was arranging red cups in a triangular formation.

"Sullivan's on my team," Matthews announced. "Connecticut boy probably has perfect form."

The rules of beer pong were simple enough. Basic physics. I'd never played, but the principle was straightforward.

My first shot landed perfectly in the center cup.

Matthews whooped. "Told you! Sullivan's a fucking machine!"

Seven minutes later, Matthews and I had eliminated all our opponents' cups while they'd only hit two of ours. An efficient victory.

"Sullivan's the beer pong savant!" Davis announced. Several female students moved closer, their interest piqued by the commotion.

A blonde in a cropped Steel City University sweatshirt positioned herself beside me. "I'm Megan. You're the new defenseman, right? I've seen you at practice."

I nodded. "Beau Sullivan."

"I know." She smiled. "You're really good. Different style than the other guys."

"I just try not to hit people unless I have to."

She laughed. "That's a very diplomatic way of saying you're smarter than most of these guys."

I didn't correct her assessment. It wasn't entirely wrong.

"So," she continued, moving closer, "what's your major?"

"Kinesiology with a focus on biomechanics."

"Impressive." She touched my forearm in a gesture I recognized as indicating interest. "Mine's education. Early childhood."

I nodded, searching for an appropriate response. "That's cool. Important work."

She laughed again, her hand remaining on my arm. I assessed my physiological response. Heart rate: unchanged. Skin temperature: normal.

Nothing. The same neutral response I'd experienced with Victoria Chambers. With Jessica. With Alicia. A conventionally attractive woman showing clear interest, and my body responded with complete indifference.

Panic began to creep in at the edges of my consciousness. This wasn't right. This wasn't the experiment I'd planned. I was supposed to feel something—anything—to prove to myself that my reaction to Harrington had been an anomaly.

"Want to go somewhere quieter?" Megan asked, her intention clear. "It's hard to hear in here."

Before I could formulate a response, a commotion erupted near the entrance. The crowd parted. Reynolds' voice carried above the music. "Well, look who decided to show up after all! It's Harrington and his sidekick!"

I turned. Harrington stood in the doorway, his roommate Kai beside him. Harrington's posture was defensive, shoulders tight, expression guarded.

"Changed our minds," Harrington said, voice level but with underlying tension. "But we can leave if we're not welcome."

Something in his tone caused a ripple of discomfort among the bystanders. Davis moved toward them quickly. "Don't be an ass, Reynolds. Everyone's welcome."

Reynolds raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm just surprised to see him. Thought for sure he was staying home tonight to, you know, alphabetize his nail polish collection or whatever."

Several people laughed, though the sound held a nervous edge. Reynolds asserting dominance. Using Harrington's sexuality as a weapon.

Harrington's jaw tightened, the muscles working beneath the shadow of stubble that was already darkening his olive skin. "Sorry to disappoint. But I left my nail polish at your mom's house last night."

The crowd reacted with a mixture of "oohs" and nervous laughter. Reynolds' face flushed.

"Fuck you, Harrington," he growled, stepping closer.

Davis and Williams moved between them. "Chill, man," Williams said to Reynolds. "Let's keep it civil."

Harrington's eyes scanned the room, briefly meeting mine before moving on. But in that fraction of a second, something electric passed between us. Recognition. Awareness.

And my body betrayed me instantly. Heart rate accelerating. Skin flushing warm. That same pooling heat from the locker room returning with a vengeance.

No! No, no, no! Not here! Not now!

Megan's voice brought me back to our interrupted conversation. "So... quieter place?"

I looked at her. Objectively attractive. Demonstrating clear interest. The socially expected response would be to accept her invitation. To follow her somewhere private. To see if closer proximity, if the possibility of physical contact, would trigger the responses that had been so conspicuously absent.

"Yeah," I said, the decision made in desperation rather than desire. "Lead the way."

She smiled, taking my hand and guiding me toward the stairs. I followed, deliberately not looking in Harrington's direction again.

We ended up in a bedroom on the second floor. Music still pulsed through the floorboards, but muted enough that conversation was possible without shouting.

Megan sat on the edge of the bed, patting the space beside her. "So. Connecticut, huh? How are you liking Steel City?"

I sat down, maintaining what I judged to be an appropriate distance. "It's different. Good hockey program, though."

"I bet you miss home, though." She shifted closer, her knee brushing against mine. "Connecticut must be beautiful."

"Some parts." I was painfully aware of her proximity, of her obvious interest, of the expectation hanging in the air between us.

"You're different from the other hockey guys," she said, reaching out to touch my arm again. "More... thoughtful."

"I overthink everything, if that's what you mean."

She laughed softly. "I can tell." Her hand moved from my arm to my knee. "What are you thinking about right now?"

The correct answer would have been "you" or some flirtatious variation. Instead, I found myself thinking about Harrington downstairs. About the way his jaw had tightened when Reynolds had mocked him. About the fire in his eyes when he'd confronted me in the locker room. About that shadow of stubble along his jawline that I hadn't noticed before.

"Beau?" Megan prompted, when I didn't respond.

"Sorry. I was... distracted."

She smiled. "Let me help with that." And then she was leaning in, her lips meeting mine in a kiss that was objectively well-executed. Soft pressure. Light taste of cherry lip gloss. Hand sliding up from my knee to my thigh.

I waited for a response. For interest. For desire. For anything beyond the clinical observation that this was, technically speaking, a pleasant enough sensation.

Nothing.

She drew back slightly, studying my face. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Sorry. It's been a long day."

"We can take it slow," she offered, her hand still on my thigh. "No pressure."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. This wasn't working. The experiment was failing spectacularly.

She leaned in again, this time trailing kisses along my jaw, her hand moving higher on my thigh. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the physical sensations. Trying to conjure some spark of interest.

And my traitorous mind immediately conjured Harrington instead. The heat of his skin in the locker room. The intensity in those dark eyes. The low rumble of his voice when he'd said, Not nearly enough. The way his black hair fell across his forehead when he was concentrating during practice.

My body responded instantly, embarrassingly.

Megan felt it, smiling against my skin. "There we go," she murmured, clearly misinterpreting the source of my sudden arousal.

Shame burned through me, hot and sickening. This was wrong. Not what she was doing, but what I was doing. Using her while fantasizing about someone else. Someone I supposedly hated. Someone who was completely off-limits for more reasons than I could count.

"I need to go," I said abruptly, standing up. "I'm sorry. This isn't—I can't—"

Confusion flickered across her face, followed by embarrassment. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, it's not you." The cliché fell from my lips before I could stop it. "I just remembered I have an early meeting with Coach tomorrow. I shouldn't have—" I gestured vaguely. "This was a mistake."

Her expression hardened slightly. "Wow. Okay. Thanks for making that perfectly clear."

"I'm sorry," I said again, already backing toward the door. "You're very attractive. Under different circumstances..."

"Save it," she said, shaking her head. "Just go."

I fled, feeling like the worst kind of coward. Left her sitting on that bed, confused and rejected, because I couldn't handle the truth about my own reactions.

The hallway was mercifully empty. I leaned against the wall, trying to steady my breathing. Trying to make sense of what had just happened. Of what was happening to me.

I'd never reacted neutrally to women because I was gay. I'd reacted neutrally to women because I'd been dating the wrong women.

No. That wasn't it, either.

I'd never reacted strongly to anyone until Harrington. Until his antagonism, his challenge, his refusal to be intimidated by me.

The realization hit me with the force of an open-ice check. It wasn't men in general. It was him. Specifically him.

And I hated him for it.

Hated him for making me question everything I thought I knew about myself. For disrupting my carefully ordered existence. For triggering responses I didn't want and couldn't control.

I needed to get out of here. Away from the noise, the people, the possibility of running into him again.

I made my way downstairs, keeping to the edges of the room, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might try to engage me in conversation. I was almost at the front door when Reynolds intercepted me.

"Sullivan! Leaving so soon? After your beer pong domination?"

I maintained neutral eye contact. "Early meeting with Coach tomorrow."

Reynolds draped an arm over my shoulders. "Come on, Harvard. Night's just getting started." His breath smelled like tequila, and I could tell he'd had a few since the confrontation with Harrington. "Besides," he leaned closer, lowering his voice, "don't let Harrington drive you away. We don't all think like him."

I carefully removed his arm from my shoulders. "What do you mean?"

"You know," Reynolds made a vague gesture. "All that gay shit. The way he looks at guys in the locker room. Checking you out." He shook his head, a surprisingly genuine concern crossing his face. "Look, I know I sound like an asshole, but seriously—watch yourself around him. It's not just about him being gay. That guy has serious issues. My buddy who played against him in New York said he's got a nasty temper. Guy can't keep his emotions in check."

My stomach tightened. A visceral stress response. Surprising in its intensity.

"I haven't noticed anything inappropriate," I said, keeping my voice neutral despite the rage building inside me. Rage at Reynolds. At myself. At this entire impossible situation.

Reynolds snorted. "That's because you're too busy being Mr. Perfect on the ice." His expression shifted, became unexpectedly earnest. "Look, you seem like a decent guy, Sullivan. Smart. Professional. I just don't want you getting pulled into his drama. Cost us the championship last year."

I realized with a start that Reynolds genuinely thought he was looking out for the team. For me. That in his mind, his hostility toward Harrington wasn't just bigotry. It was protectiveness. Misguided, ignorant protectiveness, but not pure malice.

It made him both more and less awful, somehow.

"Look, thanks, but I'm just tired," I said, forcing a half-smile. "Nothing to do with Harrington."

Reynolds seemed about to respond when a crash from across the room diverted his attention. Someone had knocked over the beer pong table. The distraction provided the opportunity I needed to continue toward the exit.

Outside, the air was cool and refreshingly quiet. I zipped my jacket, orienting myself for the walk home.

"Leaving so soon, Sullivan?"

I turned. Harrington leaned against the railing of the porch steps, arms crossed over his chest. His posture was deceptively casual, but the set of his jaw betrayed tension.

In the soft glow of the porch light, his features were thrown into sharp relief—the strong line of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the shadow of his lashes against his cheeks when he looked down. He was undeniably attractive, I realized, with a sinking feeling. Not in the bland, symmetrical way that I could appreciate intellectually in women. In a way that made my heart rate accelerate and my mouth go dry.

The realization sent a conflicting wave of desire and anger through me. I wanted to both back away and step closer.

"Yes." I kept my response brief, settling for neither option.

"Reynolds giving you shit in there?" There was an edge to his voice, something between aggression and curiosity.

"Nothing I can't handle."

He snorted. "Right. You're good at handling things, aren't you? Handling checks. Handling Coach. Handling Reynolds."

The implication was clear—he hadn't forgotten our locker room confrontation or the fact that I'd told Coach his hit was clean. His tone made it clear he still considered it an unwelcome interference.

"Just trying to keep things running smoothly," I said.

"Is that what you think you're doing?" He pushed off from the railing, taking a step toward me. "Keeping things smooth? Managing situations? Managing me?"

There it was—the aggression I'd been expecting since I'd left the locker room. The antagonism that should have followed his hit during practice. Delayed, but finally surfacing.

"I'm not managing you, Harrington." I fought to keep my voice steady. "I don't have any interest in doing so."

"Then why did you tell Coach it was a clean hit?" His eyes locked on mine, demanding honesty.

I could have given him the diplomatic answer, but something about the way he was looking at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't solve made me opt for unvarnished truth.

"I don't know."

He blinked, clearly not expecting that response. "You don't know?"

"No. It was... instinctive."

"Instinctive." He repeated the word like it was foreign to him. "Mr. Perfect Sullivan doing something without analyzing it to death first? I find that hard to believe."

"Believe what you want," I said, anger flaring. "Not everything I do comes with a five-point plan."

"No, it doesn't." He stepped closer. "But I think you owe yourself an explanation. You took a dirty hit without complaint. Protected the guy who put you into the boards. That's not normal teammate behavior, Sullivan. That's not even normal human behavior."

He was too close now, close enough that I could smell that same cedar-bergamot scent from the locker room. Close enough that I had to tilt my head slightly to maintain eye contact with him. He had maybe an inch on me, but it was enough to make a difference this close. My body's response was immediate and unwelcome—accelerated heart rate, heightened skin sensitivity, that same strange heat pooling low in my abdomen.

This close, I could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. The faint scar above his right eyebrow. The slight asymmetry of his mouth that somehow made it more, not less, appealing.

I hated every single one of these observations. Hated that I was making them at all.

"Maybe I'm not normal," I said, the words coming out more quietly than I'd intended.

Something shifted in his expression. The aggression faded slightly, replaced by something more complex. "Yeah. Maybe you're not."

For a moment, we just stood there, the space between us charged with something I couldn't name. Didn't want to name.

Then Kai emerged from the house, breaking the strange tension. "Trey! There you are. Davis is looking for you. Something about Reynolds being an ass again."

Harrington didn't look away from me. "Tell him I'll be there in a minute."

"Nah, man, you should come now. It's getting ugly in there." Kai looked between us, seeming to sense the tension. "Everything okay out here?"

"Fine," Harrington said, still watching me. "Sullivan and I were just clearing some things up."

"Nothing to clear up," I said, taking a step back. "I was leaving."

"Running away, you mean," Harrington said, low enough that only I could hear.

The accusation stung, all the more because it contained a kernel of truth. I was retreating. From the party. From this conversation. From the confusing signals my body was sending in his presence.

"Think what you want, Harrington." I turned to go.

"How’s your shoulder?" he called after me.

I paused, looking back at him. "Why do you care about my shoulder?"

He shrugged, that familiar intensity back in his eyes. "I don't. But Coach will notice if our new star defenseman is playing hurt tomorrow. And unlike some people, I actually earned my spot on this team. I don't need daddy's connections to get ice time."

The barb landed exactly as intended. A direct hit based on whatever locker room gossip he'd heard about my family. About who my father was.

"You don't know a damn thing about me," I said, the words coming out sharper than I'd intended.

"I know enough," he shot back. "I know you think you're better than everyone else on this team. That you're slumming it with us public school kids until daddy's connections get you an NHL development deal."

"Is that what helps you sleep at night?" I asked, surprising myself with the bite in my tone. "Thinking I'm just some trust fund case who bought his way onto the team? Does that make it easier when Coach pairs us together and my stats make yours look better?"

His laugh was harsh. "Oh, that's rich. The prep school poster boy thinks he's carrying me now. Newsflash, Sullivan—those points from the blue line last season? The offensive numbers you keep bringing up like you memorized my stats? I earned every one of them while you were coasting through the Ivy League feeder league."

"Hartford isn't—" I started, then cut myself off. "This conversation is pointless."

"Yeah, run away, Sullivan!" he called after me. "That's what you do best. Avoid the hit. Avoid the fight. Avoid anything messy or real."

I kept walking, refusing to engage further. But his words followed me down the street, burrowing under my skin, finding purchase in places I didn't want to examine too closely.

Because there was truth in what he'd said. I did avoid messiness. Did prefer clean, predictable patterns. Did retreat from situations I couldn't control or understand.

Like the inexplicable, unwanted attraction I felt for Trey Harrington.

Later that night, I was reviewing footage from practice again, obsessively watching our defensive pairing shifts. The evidence was undeniable. My reaction time, decision-making speed, and successful zone clearances had all improved significantly.

Watching him on the replay, I felt that same disturbing current of anticipation, even as I dreaded facing Harrington after tonight's confrontation.

What was happening to me?

I'd never been attracted to men before. Never even considered the possibility. And now here I was, having some kind of sexual identity crisis over Trey Harrington, of all people. A guy who'd made it clear he thought I was nothing but a privileged, emotionless robot coasting on family connections.

It made no sense. It was completely illogical. It was the last thing I needed in my life right now.

And yet, the evidence was undeniable. My body responded to him in ways it had never responded to anyone else. And when we played together, something clicked. Something beyond the physical. Something that made both of us better on the ice.

I hated it. Hated him for triggering it. Hated myself for not being able to control it.

But denying it clearly wasn't working. The disastrous encounter with Megan had proven that.

So what was I supposed to do now? I couldn't avoid Harrington—we were on the same team, in the same classes, moving in the same social circles. I couldn't talk to anyone about it without risking my reputation, my future in hockey, my family's approval.

And I sure as hell couldn't act on it. Not with Harrington. Not with anyone.

The only rational approach was to compartmentalize. To acknowledge this... aberration... privately, while maintaining my public persona. To study it clinically, like any other unexpected phenomenon.

And in the meantime, to use our statistical compatibility to mutual advantage on the ice, while keeping my personal reactions firmly in check off it.

Tomorrow's practice would be the first test of this strategy and based on tonight's evidence, that was going to be considerably more difficult than I'd anticipated.