Page 20 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Nineteen

Beau

T he victory buzz from the Western game still hummed through my system as Trey and I walked into his apartment. Scoring the shorthanded goal that changed the momentum had left me with an unfamiliar lightness, amplified by Coach reinstating our defensive pairing.

"Kai?" Trey called out, tossing his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door. "You alive?"

"Kitchen," came the reply.

We found Kai leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone. His dark hair was still damp from a shower, and the slight caution in his movements reminded me his concussion protocol wasn't fully cleared.

"Nice goal tonight, Sullivan." He nodded toward me. "Heard Coach put you guys back together."

"Yeah, turns out we don't completely suck as a pair," Trey said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out three beers. He passed one to me, cap already twisted off, and offered another to Kai.

"Water for me. Still on concussion protocol." Kai tapped his temple. "No alcohol until the doc clears me."

I accepted the beer, analyzing the familiar choreography of their roommate dynamic. The easy way Trey knew which shelf held Kai's preferred water. The unspoken understanding of personal space. The small rituals that made a shared apartment function.

"Davis' party starts in about an hour," Trey said, leaning against the counter. "You coming?"

"Wouldn't miss it. Reynolds made it mandatory." Kai glanced between us. "You guys heading over too?"

"Yes," I said, steadying myself with a deep breath. "We're going together."

"Cool," Kai nodded, clearly missing my emphasis.

"No, I mean—" I paused, looking at Trey for reassurance. He nodded slightly, encouragement in his eyes. "We're going together. As in, we're together now."

Kai's eyes widened as understanding dawned. "Oh. OH."

My heart pounded against my ribs as I waited for his reaction. This was me, Beaumont Sullivan IV, acknowledging something that went against everything my father had planned for me. The first time I'd ever said it out loud to anyone.

"That's... wow." Kai's surprise gave way to a genuine smile. "About damn time, honestly."

"Wait, what do you mean 'about time'?" Trey asked.

"Come on." Kai laughed. "You two have been circling each other since training camp. All that 'I hate Sullivan and his perfect stats' talk? Nobody obsesses that much over someone they actually hate."

Heat crept up my neck. "Was it that obvious?"

"To me, yeah. But I've been watching Trey pine over guys since freshman year." Kai smirked at Trey's indignant expression. "The team, though? They're mostly clueless. Hockey players aren't exactly known for emotional intelligence."

My heart was hammering in my chest. I'd never explicitly acknowledged my sexuality to anyone before. Not even to myself, really, until Trey and I first crossed that line. This was the first time I'd confirmed it out loud to someone else.

Trey must have sensed my unease, because he moved closer, his shoulder pressed against mine in silent support. "It's okay," he said quietly. "Kai's good people."

"How long has this been going on?" Kai asked, gesturing between us.

Trey looked at me, letting me decide how much to share. The consideration in his eyes, the way he gave me control of the narrative, steadied me.

"Since the Northern Tech game," I said finally, the admission both terrifying and liberating. "Though there were... incidents before that."

"You've been looking at each other differently since that Northern Tech game," Kai said. "I figured something happened after Trey fought Daniels."

I glanced at Trey, remembering how that night had changed everything. The way he'd stood up for Kai on the ice, the quiet conversation in his apartment afterward.

Trey's hand found mine, squeezing gently. I watched our fingers intertwine, marveling at how natural it felt now.

"So," Trey said, his voice gentle but firm, "this is a big deal. Beau hasn't actually told anyone about us. Or about being bi. You're the first."

The significance of Trey's words hit me. This wasn't just casual disclosure. This was me, Beaumont Sullivan IV, acknowledging something that went against everything my father had planned for me. Something that could change the trajectory of my entire future.

"I'm honored, man. And hey, you know I've got your back, right? Both of you." Kai hesitated, then added with a shrug that tried too hard to be casual, "Being pan myself, I get it."

"Thanks for not being weird about it," I said quietly, the words feeling inadequate for the relief washing through me.

The unexpected solidarity, the shared understanding, felt like oxygen after years of holding my breath. I wasn't alone in this. Not just with Trey, but with someone else who understood the complexities of navigating hockey culture while not fitting its hetero-normative expectations.

"So, what's the plan for tonight?" Kai asked, mercifully changing the subject. "How public are you going with this?"

The question hit a nerve. I'd been analyzing this very problem since Coach paired us back together. Our on-ice chemistry was now official, celebrated even. How long before someone connected those dots to something more personal?

"We're not planning an announcement," Trey said, watching my face. "Just going as teammates."

"But if someone directly asked..." I began, thinking through the scenario. "Lying creates unstable variables. Inconsistent narratives break down under scrutiny."

"English translation?" Kai asked.

"He means lies are hard to keep straight," Trey interpreted. "And Harvard here doesn't like imprecision."

"I'm saying we could just be honest if anyone asks directly," I clarified, the idea forming as I spoke. "With people we trust, at least."

"Like me," Kai said.

"Like you," I confirmed. "And maybe a few others."

Trey moved to stand beside me, his arm brushing mine in a gesture that could be casual but felt deliberate. "You sure about this, Harvard? Your dad—"

"My father doesn't need to know yet." I focused on the probabilities, pushing away the anxiety his mention triggered. "Davis, perhaps. Williams possibly. Not Reynolds."

"Reynolds would be a problem?" Kai asked.

"Reynolds says enough homophobic crap that I'd put the odds at like seventy percent he'd be a dick about it," I explained, trying to sound casual even as my mind raced through probabilities.

Trey snorted. "He means Reynolds is kind of a homophobic ass."

"Not the worst I've seen," I qualified. "But yeah, basically."

"So we pre-game here, head over together, play it by ear?" Kai suggested. "No big announcement, just... being yourselves?"

The suggestion lacked the precision I preferred, but held a certain logical simplicity. "That's... acceptable."

"High praise from Harvard," Trey said, nudging my shoulder lightly. "That's practically a standing ovation."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't stop the slight upturn of my lips. The ease between us still felt new, unexpected. My father would call it a distraction, a deviation from the Sullivan plan. But the evidence was irrefutable—my performance metrics improved with Trey in my life, not despite him.

"We should leave in approximately twenty-four minutes to arrive at the optimal time," I said, checking my watch.

"And he's back," Trey laughed, raising his beer in mock salute. "The Sullivan timing algorithm returns."

"Optimal arrival time?" Kai asked.

"Not too early to appear overeager, not too late to create a conspicuous entrance," I explained. "Approximately fourteen minutes after the official start time."

"You've calculated the perfect party arrival time." Kai shook his head, amused. "Of course you have."

We finished our drinks, Trey and I each having a second beer while Kai switched to Gatorade. The conversation shifted to safer topics—Western's weak defensive coverage, the upcoming game against OSU, a professor's ridiculous midterm requirements.

Each minute that passed felt like stepping further from the rigid structure of the Sullivan plan and toward something I was creating for myself. My own path, with variables I chose to include.

When we finally left for Davis's apartment, walking together through the crisp October night, I found myself thinking about statistical anomalies. How sometimes the most improbable scenarios produced the most optimal outcomes.

Like a perfectionist defenseman falling for his chaotic, impulsive teammate.

D avis's apartment pulsed with victory energy. Music that would normally aggravate my sensory processing felt tolerable tonight, perhaps due to the lingering effects of scoring against Western or perhaps due to Trey's steady presence nearby.

"Sullivan!" Williams called from across the room as we entered. "The man of the hour! That shorthanded goal was filthy!"

I nodded acknowledgment, accepting the red cup he thrust into my hands without examining its contents. The liquid inside smelled strongly of alcohol, likely the cheap vodka Williams preferred mixed with some form of sugary mixer.

"Team looked different with you and Harrington back together," Davis added, appearing beside Williams. "Coach finally came to his senses."

"Yeah, well, the numbers don't lie," I said, taking a small sip from the cup and immediately regretting it. The mixture was cloyingly sweet with a harsh chemical undertone.

"God, you make even scoring sound like a math problem," Williams laughed. "But whatever works, man. You two were fucking telepathic out there."

Trey had moved to the other side of the room, maintaining our agreed-upon separation, but I could feel his awareness of me, just as I remained acutely conscious of his location. Our off-ice connection mirroring our on-ice chemistry.

The party flowed around me, conversations overlapping, music throbbing beneath it all. I positioned myself near a wall, limiting exposure on one side while maintaining clear sightlines to exits. Old habits from managing sensory input in crowded spaces.

Davis appeared beside me, red cup in hand. "You good, Sullivan? You've got that thousand-yard stare."

"I'm fine. Just processing."

"Big win tonight. You should be celebrating." He clinked his cup against mine. "Instead, you're over here looking like you're solving differential equations."

"Diff-eq is actually pretty simple," I replied. "People are way more complicated."

Davis laughed. "Only you would say that." He glanced across the room to where Trey was animatedly recounting his empty-net goal to Matthews and a few others. "You and Harrington seem to have figured out your issues."

I followed his gaze, analyzing the implications of his statement. "Our on-ice chemistry has certainly improved."

"Yeah, but I meant..." Davis paused, choosing his words. "Look, that shit with your dad at Lakeside. Harrington standing up for you. Then you guys not speaking for weeks. Now suddenly you're in sync again. It's good, but what changed?"

The direct question triggered my prepared contingencies. Level 1 disclosure seemed appropriate for Davis, who had shown consistent support throughout the season.

"We reached an understanding," I said carefully. "About priorities."

"Priorities," Davis repeated, studying my face. "Right. Well, whatever it is, keep it up. The team needs you two working together."

The conversation shifted to safer topics—Davis's biomechanics project, the upcoming midterms, whether Coach would maintain our defensive pairings against OSU. The familiar territory allowed me to relax incrementally, my calculated responses becoming more natural.

As the party continued, I noticed Trey gradually migrating closer to my position, moving from group to group in what appeared casual but followed a clear pattern. By the time he reached me, almost an hour had passed.

"Harvard," he greeted, positioning himself beside me with practiced casualness. "Enjoying the festivities?"

"Tolerating them," I replied, but without the edge that would have accompanied such a statement weeks ago.

"You guys were insane tonight," Davis said, including Trey in our conversation. "That stretch pass you hit Sullivan with in the third? Threaded the fucking needle."

"All about the receiver," Trey grinned. "Harvard here could catch a pass with his eyes closed."

"The pass was perfectly placed," I countered. "Optimal velocity and trajectory."

"Look at you two," Williams approached, clearly several drinks in. "From mortal enemies to attached at the hip. Next thing we know, you'll be finishing each other's sentences."

"Statistically improbable," I said, just as Trey said, "Not fucking likely."

The simultaneous response drew laughs from Davis and Williams.

"See?" Williams pointed between us. "It's already happening. You're becoming the same person."

"God help us all if I start talking like Harvard," Trey groaned.

"You could benefit from more precise language," I suggested.

"And you could benefit from occasionally speaking like a normal human," he countered, but the familiar banter held no heat.

"Seriously though," Williams continued, swaying slightly. "What's with you two? First you hate each other, then you're best buddies, then not speaking, now back to being this weird defensive super-pair. You dating or something?"

The question landed in the suddenly quiet space between us. Davis froze mid-drink. Kai, who had drifted over during the conversation, watched with careful neutrality. Trey's eyes met mine, a silent question.

All my calculated probabilities, all my careful analysis of disclosure timing, team dynamics, optimal conditions—none of it had prepared me for the direct question in this specific context.

A dozen potential responses arranged themselves in my mind. Denial. Deflection. Humor. Each carried its own statistical risk profile, its own branch of subsequent scenarios.

And then something shifted. A new variable entered the equation—not what was statistically optimal, but what felt right. What felt true.

"So what if we are?" The words left my mouth before I'd fully processed them, surprising myself more than anyone.

My heart hammered against my ribcage as the reality of what I'd just done crashed over me. I'd come out. To my teammates. In the middle of a party. No preparation, no safety net, no carefully calculated risk assessment.

The silence that followed stretched endlessly.

Williams blinked rapidly. "Wait, for real? You guys are actually together? Like, together-together?"

I felt Trey move immediately closer, his arm wrapping around my shoulders in a gesture that was unambiguously protective. The solid warmth of him steadied me as the room seemed to tilt.

"Yeah," he said, voice firm and clear. "We are. And I'm crazy about him, so if anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with me."

The fierce pride in his voice hit me like a physical force. I'd never had anyone stand up for me like this, claim me so openly.

I counted the heartbeats in the silence that followed. One. Two. Three. Four.

Then Davis laughed, the sound breaking the tension. "Fucking knew it! That chemistry on the ice wasn't just hockey."

"Holy shit," Williams's eyes were wide. "Sullivan and Harrington. Didn't see that coming." Then he grinned. "But it kind of makes sense in a weird way."

Reynolds had materialized at the edge of our group, his expression unreadable. I'd always calculated him as the highest risk variable, the most likely to react negatively.

The apartment had quieted, other conversations pausing as teammates sensed something significant happening. I counted seven witnesses to our disclosure, possibly nine, depending on acoustics in the kitchen area. My mouth went dry as I realized the magnitude of what I'd just done.

"You got a problem with this, Reynolds?" Trey asked directly, his body angled protectively in front of me, shoulders squared for potential conflict.

Reynolds studied us for a long moment, his jaw working. "Your business," he said finally. "Just keep playing like you did tonight."

It wasn't acceptance, exactly, but it wasn't the rejection I'd expected either.

"I need another drink," Williams announced, wandering toward the kitchen. But before he left, he paused. "Hey, Sullivan? That took balls, man." He bumped his fist against my shoulder awkwardly. "Thought you were just a robot with hockey stats, but I was wrong."

My throat tightened unexpectedly at the clumsy support.

Davis moved closer, his voice low. "My brother came out last year. Rough time. So... yeah. I get it." He clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Takes guts, man. Respect."

I felt something crack inside my chest, a wall I'd built years ago when my father first explained how Sullivan men should present themselves. How they should never show weakness, never deviate from expectations, never be anything but perfect.

Trey's fingers threaded through mine, squeezing gently. "You okay?" he whispered.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Gradually, conversations resumed around us. The revelation rippled through the party, but the anticipated catastrophe didn't materialize. Teammates glanced our way with varying degrees of surprise, curiosity, and, in some cases, newfound understanding.

Kai caught my eye from across the room, giving me a subtle thumbs up.

"That wasn't exactly how we planned this," Trey murmured, his thumb tracing calming circles on the back of my hand.

"No," I agreed, voice steadier than I expected. "It deviated significantly from projected scenarios."

"Regrets?"

I looked at him, really looked at him—the warmth in his dark eyes, the protective set of his shoulders, the way he'd immediately stepped up to shield me from potential fallout.

"None," I said, surprising myself again. "Not a single one."

For the remainder of our time at the party, we didn't hide. We didn't flaunt anything either, but we stopped calculating the exact distance between us, stopped monitoring every interaction for signs of suspicion. The pressure that had been building since Lakeside, since my father's threats and our forced separation, eased with each minute that passed without rejection.

Matthews bumped fists with Trey, then nodded at me. "You guys were already the best D-pair. This just explains the telepathy thing."

When we finally left Davis's apartment, Kai walking a few paces ahead to give us privacy, Trey took my hand openly on the deserted sidewalk.

"So," he said softly, fingers intertwining with mine. "You just came out. For the first time."

The simple reality of it hit me all at once. I'd spent years carefully controlling every aspect of my life, meticulously crafting the perfect Sullivan image. And in one impulsive moment, I'd changed everything.

"I did," I replied, my voice uncharacteristically rough. "It wasn't planned."

"Hey." Trey stopped walking, turning to face me under the glow of a streetlight. "What you did in there was brave as hell. You know that, right?"

I shook my head. "It wasn't bravery. It was... frustration. Exhaustion with maintaining separate variables."

"Bullshit." His free hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "You stood up to everything your father's programmed into you. Everything hockey culture says you should be. That's courage, Beau. That's strength."

Something hot and unexpected pressed behind my eyes. "I've never been myself before," I admitted. "Not fully. Not with anyone."

"How's it feel?" His eyes held mine, serious and searching.

"Terrifying," I said honestly. "And... right. Like I've been solving an equation with incorrect constraints and finally identified the error."

Trey laughed, the sound warming something in my chest. "That's the most Sullivan way possible of saying you're happy, but I'll take it."

He kissed me then, right there on the sidewalk where anyone could see, and I kissed him back with none of my usual restraint. His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer until our bodies pressed together from chest to thigh. The taste of beer lingered on his tongue, mixed with something that was uniquely Trey. My hands found his hair, fingers threading through those dark strands I'd admired since the first day of practice.

I'd never understood people who described kisses as making them dizzy until now. The world seemed to spin slightly, every sensation intensified—the scratch of his stubble against my skin, the solidity of his chest beneath my palms when I moved my hands to steady myself, the soft groan he made when I gently bit his lower lip.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing harder, his forehead rested against mine. "Been wanting to do that in public since that first night," he murmured, his voice rough. "Show the whole damn world you're mine."

The possessiveness in his tone sent a shiver through me. "Yours," I agreed, the word feeling right in my mouth.

We made it back to my apartment in record time, relieved to find no sign of Parker—likely out with his latest sorority conquest. The moment the door closed behind us, Trey had me pressed against it, his mouth hot on my neck, hands pushing under my shirt to find bare skin.

"You have no idea what you did to me in there," he said between kisses. "Standing up for us. Being so fucking brave."

We didn't make it to the bedroom at first. The couch became our first stop, clothes half-removed in our urgency to touch, to feel, to celebrate this new freedom. His weight on top of me was grounding, the rhythm of our bodies moving together instinctive rather than calculated for once.

Later, tangled together in my perfectly made bed that was now anything but, I traced patterns on his chest and thought about statistical improbabilities. How the least likely outcomes sometimes became reality. How sometimes the variables you never accounted for were the ones that mattered most.

"What are you thinking about?" Trey asked, his finger following the line of my jaw.

"Recalculating," I said honestly.

"Recalculating what?"

"Everything." I met his eyes in the dim light of my bedroom. "The future. My father. Hockey. Us."

"And what do your calculations say?" His tone was light, but I heard the undercurrent of uncertainty.

"That some equations are worth solving, even when the solutions aren't what you expected." I pressed my lips to his chest, right over his heart. "That some variables change everything for the better."

He pulled me closer, arms secure around me. "We're going to figure it out, Beau. Whatever comes next. Your dad, the team, all of it."

For once, I didn't need to analyze probabilities or calculate risk factors. For once, I simply believed him.

As we drifted toward sleep, I found myself recalculating possibilities, adjusting variables, updating my mental models. The Sullivan plan, with its rigid structure and predetermined outcomes, no longer seemed like the only viable path.

There were other equations to solve. Other problems worth my analytical attention.

Like how to build something meaningful with Trey Harrington, against all statistical probability.