Page 21 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Twenty

Trey

S unlight broke through the blinds in thin, golden stripes across Beau's bed. I'd been awake for almost an hour, watching him sleep. The morning after coming out to our teammates felt oddly normal. No cataclysms. No disasters. Just Beau's copper hair catching the light, his mouth slightly open, body completely relaxed in a way rarely seen when he was conscious.

Last night replayed in my mind on loop. Williams's careless question. Beau's unexpected answer. The stunned silence followed by something that felt a lot like acceptance.

"You're staring again." Beau's voice was rough with sleep, eyes still closed.

"Can't help it," I admitted. "Still processing what happened last night."

His eyes opened, piercing green-gold in the morning light. "You regret it?"

"Hell no." I reached out, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Just didn't expect it to go that way. You surprised me, Harvard."

"I surprised myself." He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "The probability of positive reception was higher than I calculated, apparently."

I laughed, propping myself up on one elbow to look down at him. "Normal people just say 'it went better than expected.'"

"I'm not normal people." His mouth quirked up at one corner. "As you frequently point out."

"And thank fuck for that." I leaned down to kiss him lightly. "Normal is boring."

He kissed me back, morning breath and all, before pulling away with a frown. "We should discuss contingency plans. The team knowing changes our operational parameters."

"Operational parameters," I repeated, grinning. "God, you're cute when you talk nerdy."

He rolled his eyes, but I could see the flush creeping up his neck. "I'm being serious, Trey. We need to establish boundaries. Professional conduct at practice. Appropriate behavior in team settings."

"As opposed to inappropriate behavior?" I waggled my eyebrows suggestively.

"Precisely." His expression remained serious despite my teasing. "Coach Barnes will notice the team dynamic has shifted. We need to be prepared."

"For what? Coach to bench us again?"

"For questions. Expectations. Potential changes in team dynamics." He sat up, sheets pooling around his waist. "My father still can't know."

That sobered me quickly. Sullivan Senior. The NHL connections. The financial leverage he held over Beau.

"He won't hear it from me," I promised. "Or the team. Those guys can keep secrets when it matters."

"Statistically improbable." Beau's fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against his thigh. "The more people who know, the higher the probability of information leakage."

I caught his hand, stilling the anxious movement. "Beau. Look at me."

He did, his eyes still clouded with worry.

"One day at a time, remember? We'll figure it out together." I squeezed his hand. "Starting with coffee and breakfast. I'm starving."

His expression softened slightly. "There's coffee in the kitchen. And possibly eggs if Parker hasn't consumed them all."

The mention of his roommate made me pause. "Speaking of Parker..."

"He typically returns from his girlfriend's apartment around 10 AM on Sundays." Beau glanced at the clock. "Which gives us approximately forty-three minutes."

"Forty-three minutes, huh?" I grinned, sliding my hand beneath the sheets. "Whatever shall we do with all that time?"

His breath hitched as my fingers found their target. "I'm sure we'll think of something."

Forty minutes later, showered and considerably more relaxed, we stood in his kitchen. Beau measured coffee with scientific precision while I rummaged through his refrigerator for breakfast supplies.

"How does a guy who lives alone have literally nothing to eat?" I complained, finding only condiments and a suspicious container of what might have been leftovers.

"I usually eat breakfast at the dining hall," Beau explained, watching the coffee drip with focused attention. "It's more efficient."

"It's Sunday. Dining hall doesn't open until nine." I closed the refrigerator door, leaning against the counter. "We could go to Morning Brew. Their breakfast sandwiches are insane."

Before Beau could answer, the apartment door opened. Parker walked in, gym bag slung over one shoulder, stopping short when he saw us both in the kitchen.

"Sullivan." He nodded casually, then looked at me with mild surprise. "Harrington. You're here early."

I felt Beau tense beside me, his posture straightening almost imperceptibly.

"Team strategy session," he said, the lie coming out stiff and unconvincing.

Parker's eyebrows rose as he took in our damp hair and my borrowed t-shirt that was obviously not mine. "Right. Strategy." He dropped his bag by the door. "For hockey."

The silence stretched uncomfortably. Beau looked like he might actually malfunction, frozen in place beside the coffee maker.

"We're dating," I said finally, unable to stand the awkward tension. "Have been for a while."

Parker blinked, glanced between us, then shrugged. "Cool. You making coffee for everyone or just yourselves?"

The casual acceptance knocked Beau out of his frozen state. "There's... sufficient quantity for three."

"Sweet." Parker moved past us to grab a mug. "Western game was sick last night. That shorty you scored, Sullivan? Nasty."

Just like that, the moment passed. No drama, no interrogation. Parker poured himself coffee and disappeared into his room with a casual "Later" thrown over his shoulder.

"That was..." Beau seemed at a loss for words.

"Anticlimactic?" I offered.

"Unexpected." He stared at Parker's closed door. "I had prepared seventeen different explanations."

I laughed, pulling him against me. "Welcome to the strange new world of people not giving a shit who you're sleeping with."

"It can't all be this easy." His voice held a note of caution that made my chest ache. "Statistical anomalies always revert to the mean, eventually."

"Maybe," I conceded, pressing a kiss to his temple. "But today it was easy. Let's enjoy that." I stepped back, grabbing my own coffee. "Now, about those breakfast sandwiches..."

M onday's practice brought the first real test of our new reality. Beau insisted we arrive separately, maintaining professional distance as we entered the locker room. If he was nervous about facing the team, his perfect Sullivan mask revealed nothing.

The guys reacted exactly as I'd expected. Williams made one joke about "defensive partnership taking on new meaning," Davis rolled his eyes and told Williams to shut up, and Reynolds pointedly ignored the whole thing. The rest of the team followed his lead, treating us no differently than before.

Until Coach Barnes called us both into his office after practice.

"Sit." He gestured to the chairs across from his desk, expression unreadable beneath his salt-and-pepper beard.

Beau perched on the edge of the chair, back perfectly straight. I slouched into mine, feigning a casualness I didn't feel.

"Something up, Coach?" I asked when the silence stretched too long.

Coach leaned forward, hands clasped on his desk. "Word travels on a hockey team. Especially about two of my defensemen."

Beau's knuckles whitened where his hands gripped the arms of his chair. "If you're referring to our relationship status," he began formally, "I assure you it won't affect our professional conduct."

"I know it won't," Coach replied, his tone making it clear this wasn't a suggestion. "Because you two are adults who understand what's at stake this season."

"Yes, sir," Beau said immediately.

Coach's expression softened slightly. "Look, what you do off the ice is your business. Who you care about is your business. But on the ice, in this rink, you're hockey players first. This team has a shot at conference this year. I need you both focused."

"We are," I assured him. "Nothing's changed about how we play together."

"Good." Coach nodded. "Keep it that way." He looked directly at Beau. "Sullivan, your father called this morning. Confirming his attendance for Family Weekend."

Beau went completely still beside me. "I see."

"He mentioned your mother will also be attending. And his wife."

Jesus. Both Sullivan's divorced parents plus the stepmother, all in town at once. I glanced at Beau, whose face had gone carefully blank, but I could read the tension in the line of his shoulders.

"Thank you for informing me, Coach," he said, voice neutral.

Coach studied him for a moment. "Your personal life is your business, Sullivan. But as your coach, I'd advise you to prepare for any... conversations that might arise."

"Understood."

"That's all." Coach waved us toward the door. "Good practice today. Keep that chemistry going against OSU."

In the hallway outside Coach's office, Beau released a breath that sounded like he'd been holding it since we sat down. "That was..."

"Not terrible?" I suggested.

"Remarkably straightforward," he agreed. "Though the news about my mother..."

"You didn't know she was coming?"

He shook his head. "She mentioned the possibility, but I assumed my father's presence would deter her. They haven't been in the same room since the divorce seven years ago."

"And now they'll both be here. With your stepmom." I whistled low. "Family Weekend's gonna be interesting."

"That's one word for it." His expression remained controlled, but I could see the calculations running behind his eyes. "My mother is... different from my father. More accepting of my differences. But she's never known about... this aspect of me."

I wanted to take his hand, offer some physical reassurance, but we were still in the hallway where anyone could see. "We'll figure it out," I said instead. "Together, remember?"

He nodded, but his mind was clearly already mapping contingencies, planning for every possible scenario. Harvard Sullivan, always three steps ahead.

"Your mother and sister will also be present," he said suddenly, as if just remembering. "I'd still like to meet them. If that offer stands."

The fact that he was thinking about meeting my family while processing this bombshell about his own made something warm unfurl in my chest.

"Of course it stands," I said. "Mom's already excited to meet you. Says I talk about you too much."

"You talk about me to your mother?" He looked genuinely surprised.

"Well, yeah. First, I complained about you all the time. Now I just talk about you all the time." I shrugged, trying to downplay how much this actually meant. "She noticed the difference."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I look forward to meeting her then."

T he week following our coming out passed in a blur of practices, classes, and adjusting to our new normal. By Thursday, the team had settled into treating us exactly as they always had, with the minor addition of a few good-natured jokes from Williams that even Beau took in stride.

We fell into a rhythm of our own. Studying together in the library, alternating between our apartments, maintaining professional distance during practices while sharing secret glances that only we understood. On the ice, our chemistry continued to improve, Coach's reinstated pairing proving successful as we prepared for the challenging OSU series.

"They're a Big Ten powerhouse," Beau explained, analyzing footage in my apartment Thursday night. "Their budget is probably triple ours, state-of-the-art facilities, and most of their roster was drafted by NHL teams. Everyone's expecting us to get crushed."

"Yeah, but their defensive zone coverage is shit," I pointed out, gesturing to the screen where an OSU defenseman had abandoned his position. "Look at that gap. You could drive a truck through it."

"Two games against them is huge," Beau added, eyes narrowed as he studied the play. "Even splitting the series would be considered a massive upset. Coach says scouts from six NHL teams will be there just to watch their first line."

"Their weaknesses are definitely exploitable," Beau continued. "We'd have a better shot if we use stretch passes through the neutral zone and force their defensemen to turn."

"In English?" I teased, nudging his shoulder.

He rolled his eyes. "Hit me with long passes when I activate through the neutral zone. Their defensemen turn slowly."

"That I understand." I closed the laptop, setting it aside. "Enough game prep. Family Weekend starts tomorrow, and you're tense as fuck."

"I'm not tense," he protested, body rigid enough to snap. "I'm preparing mentally."

"Beau." I took his hand, feeling the tension in his fingers. "Your parents haven't been in the same room for seven years, and now they'll both be watching you play while your dad's NHL connections evaluate your every move. Plus, you're planning to meet my mom and sister. Anyone would be tense."

He sighed, shoulders dropping slightly. "My mother texted today. She's arriving tomorrow afternoon and wants to have dinner. Just the two of us."

"That's good, right? Chance to talk before the game?"

"Perhaps." His fingers tapped against his thigh, that nervous rhythm I'd come to recognize. "She mentioned wanting to discuss 'my future plans' and whether they 'align with my father's expectations.'"

I frowned. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know." Beau looked genuinely uncertain, a rare expression for him. "My mother's always been more... supportive of my interests outside hockey. She actually encouraged my research work and academics. Things my father calls distractions."

"Like your research position?" I asked, remembering his excitement about the biomechanics lab.

"Exactly." He met my eyes. "And possibly other aspects of my life that don't conform to the Sullivan plan."

The implication hung between us, unspoken but clear.

"Are you thinking of telling her?" I asked carefully. "About us?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "The statistical probability of a positive reaction is higher with her than with my father, but the variables are complex."

I squeezed his hand. "Whatever you decide, I support it. No pressure either way."

His expression softened. "Thank you." Then he straightened, switching topics with characteristic Sullivan efficiency. "Now, regarding your mother and sister. What should I know before meeting them?"

The abrupt change made me laugh. "Well, Mom's a kindergarten teacher. Big on finger painting and circle time. She'll probably try to feed you the moment you meet her. And Mia's seventeen, plays piano, scary smart like you, and has absolutely no filter."

"Due to her sensory processing differences?" Beau asked, absorbing the information with his usual thoroughness.

"Partly. Mostly, she just says whatever she thinks." I grinned. "She's been dying to meet you since I first mentioned you months ago. Says someone who can get under my skin that effectively must be worth knowing."

"I like her already." Beau's smile was small but genuine. "And your mother... she knows about us?"

"That we're together? Yeah." I scratched the back of my neck, suddenly feeling awkward. "That okay?"

"Of course." He nodded. "Being clear from the start helps avoid confusion."

"God, you make meeting my family sound like a business negotiation."

"Isn't it, in many ways?" he asked, completely serious. "Both parties entering with expectations, seeking mutually beneficial outcomes?"

"No, Harvard, it's not." I laughed, pulling him closer. "It's my mom and sister wanting to meet someone important to me. It's sharing a meal and talking and getting to know each other. No negotiation required."

"Important to you," he repeated softly. "Is that what I am?"

The vulnerability in his question hit me square in the chest. "You know you are," I said, suddenly serious. "Have been for a while now."

"Even when we hated each other?"

"Especially then," I admitted. "Nobody got under my skin like you did. Still do, but in better ways now."

His answering smile was worth every moment of the rollercoaster that had brought us here. I leaned in, kissing him slowly, all thoughts of OSU and family weekend momentarily forgotten.

Friday morning arrived with a flurry of preparation. OSU's team bus would arrive that afternoon, with our first game of the weekend series scheduled for 7 PM. Beau texted that he was having lunch with his mother before team meetings, his messages more precise and formal than usual, a sure sign of his anxiety.

Meanwhile, my mom and Mia would be driving in from Brooklyn, planning to arrive just before game time. The logistics of juggling hockey, family, and our newly defined relationship had Beau creating spreadsheets and time tables that he texted me throughout the morning.

"Dude, your phone's about to explode," Kai commented as we walked to class, my phone buzzing with yet another message.

"Beau's stress-planning," I explained, checking the latest update to his Family Weekend schedule. "His divorced parents are both coming. Plus stepmom. Plus, I invited him to meet my mom and sister after tomorrow's game."

"Shit." Kai whistled low. "No wonder he's freaking out."

"He's not freaking out, he's..." I glanced at the latest message, which included a color-coded timeline for Saturday with fifteen-minute increments. "Okay, yeah, he's freaking out."

"Sullivan doesn't do things halfway," Kai observed. "Not hockey, not school, and apparently not relationship stress, either."

My phone buzzed again.

Breakfast with father + stepmother: 9:00-10:15 AM Saturday. Meeting with Montreal connections: 10:30-11:45 AM. Pre-game team meeting: 12:00 PM. Your mother arriving: 2:30 PM. Game 1 vs OSU: 4:00 PM. Estimated game conclusion: 6:45 PM. Dinner reservation with your family: 7:30 PM. Game 2 vs OSU: Sunday 2:00 PM.

I shook my head, both amused and concerned by the level of detail. This was Beau's way of controlling what he could in a situation that threatened to spiral beyond his careful management.

Breathe, Harvard. We'll figure it out together. P.S. Mom says she can push dinner to 8 if the game runs long.

His reply came immediately.

Thank you. Meeting mother now. Will update after.

Three hours later, I was leaving biomechanics lecture when my phone rang. Beau. Who never called when he could text.

"Hey," I answered, ducking into a quieter corner of the hallway. "How'd it go with your mom?"

"She knows." His voice was tight, controlled in a way that worried me. "About us."

My stomach dropped. "What? How?"

"She guessed. Said I 'spoke differently' about you." I could hear him breathing too fast and shallow. "She asked directly if we were involved romantically."

"And you told her?" I couldn't keep the surprise from my voice. Beau, who calculated every risk, every variable, had voluntarily disclosed our relationship?

"I didn't lie," he said simply. "I couldn't."

"How did she take it?" I asked, heart pounding.

"She..." His voice caught. "She hugged me. Said she'd suspected for years that I might be bisexual. That she was happy I'd found someone who understands me."

Relief washed through me. "That's good, right?"

"Yes." He sounded almost confused. "Statistically improbable, but yes. Very good."

"And your dad?" I asked carefully. "Does she think he suspects?"

"No. But she warned me to be careful this weekend. She knows what's at stake with his NHL connections."

I glanced at my watch. Team meeting in forty minutes. "Where are you now?"

"Library. Third floor, west side study carrels."

"Stay there. I'm coming to you."

I found him exactly where he said he'd be, surrounded by textbooks but clearly not studying. His fingers tapped that nervous rhythm against the table, eyes unfocused.

"Hey," I said softly, sliding into the chair across from him.

He looked up, relief plain on his face. "Hey."

"You okay?"

"Thinking," he admitted. "I really didn't expect the team and my mom to be so okay with us. Makes me wonder what else I've been wrong about."

"Meaning?" I prompted gently.

"I underestimated people," he said simply. "And worried too much about the wrong things."

"People can surprise you," I agreed. "Sometimes in good ways."

"My mother wants to meet you," he added. "She suggested breakfast Sunday morning."

"I'd like that." I smiled. "One parent down, one to go, huh?"

His expression darkened. "My father remains a significant variable. The Montreal connections..."

"One day at a time," I reminded him. "First, we focus on beating OSU. Then we deal with the family stuff."

He nodded, straightening in his chair. "Logical prioritization. Hockey first."

"Exactly." I stood, offering my hand. "Come on, team meeting in fifteen minutes. Time to focus on what we do best."

"Playing hockey?" he asked, gathering his books.

"Being the best fucking defensive pair in the conference," I corrected with a grin. "And showing this Big Ten powerhouse that rankings and fancy facilities don't win hockey games."

The team meeting room buzzed with nervous energy as we filed in. Coach Barnes stood at the front, game footage of OSU already queued up on the screen behind him.

"OSU isn't just any opponent," Coach said, his expression serious. "These Big Ten programs have resources we can only dream about. Their facilities cost more than our entire athletic budget. Their roster's stacked with NHL prospects. We're expected to get crushed this weekend."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"But you know what? I like our chances. We're faster. We're hungrier. And frankly, they're looking past us to their matchup with Minnesota next weekend." A rare smile broke through his stern demeanor. "Nothing I love more than proving everyone wrong."

As we filed out of the meeting room, the energy had shifted. No longer just another weekend series, but a chance to make a statement against a hockey powerhouse that had everything we didn't—except chemistry. The underdogs with nothing to lose.

Family Weekend loomed with its complex web of expectations, revelations, and potential conflicts. OSU waited with their Big Ten budget and higher-ranked recruits. Yet somehow, walking beside Beau toward whatever came next felt right. Felt possible.

Even Harvard Sullivan's careful calculations couldn't have predicted where we'd end up. Me, the undisciplined forward with the temper problem. Him, the analytical defenseman with the perfect posture. Teammates. Partners. Something more.

"Ready for OSU?" I asked as we reached the arena doors.

"Ready," he confirmed, that familiar determination settling over his features. Then, with a small smile that was just for me, he added, "For all of it."