Page 22 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Twenty-One

Beau

T he arena pulsed with energy, the capacity crowd filling every seat for Family Weekend. Ohio State University's scarlet and gray dominated one section, their fans loud and numerous. My shoulder pads needed adjusting while calculating the probabilities of different game outcomes based on our comparative statistics.

OSU: nationally ranked eighth. Steel City: unranked. OSU: fourteen NHL draft picks on roster. Steel City: two. OSU: $15 million hockey budget. Steel City: barely $3 million.

The statistical probability of victory: 27.3%.

"Yo, Harvard. You solving world hunger over there, or you gonna finish getting dressed?" Trey's voice cut through my calculations, warm with familiarity.

"Analyzing their stats," I replied, pulling my practice jersey over my pads. "Their top line is averaging almost three points a game, and their power play's converting at over thirty percent."

Trey bumped my shoulder as he sat to lace his skates. "Yeah, and we're gonna shut them down, anyway."

"Odds aren't in our favor," I said, without the tension that would have accompanied such an assessment weeks ago. "But hockey isn't just about numbers."

"There he is," Trey grinned. "The new improved Sullivan who admits math can't predict everything."

My lips curved up slightly. "Never said that. Just that people make things messy."

"Sullivan." Coach Barnes appeared at our stall, clipboard in hand. "Professor Winters is looking for you. Says it's important."

The clock on the wall showed forty-seven minutes until warm-ups. Plenty of time.

"I'll be quick, Coach," I promised, rising to follow him into the hallway where Professor Winters waited, looking out of place in his rumpled tweed jacket amid the athletic facility.

"Sullivan," he greeted me, glasses slightly askew as always. "Apologies for the timing, but I wanted to catch you before the weekend games."

"Is there a problem with my research position?" My mind immediately raced through possibilities. Had my father somehow interfered? Was there a funding issue?

"Quite the opposite." Professor Winters adjusted his glasses. "The department received additional grant funding for our ACL reconstruction study. We'd like to offer you an expanded role. Twenty-five hours weekly instead of fifteen, with a corresponding increase in stipend."

My pulse quickened. "Twenty-five hours?"

"The biomechanics lab is impressed with your work," he continued. "This would effectively make you lead research assistant, with first authorship possibilities on any resulting publications."

The implications unfurled in the mind with crystal clarity. More hours meant more funding. More independence. A stronger academic record for graduate school applications. A path forward that didn't depend entirely on my father's connections or NHL prospects.

"The position would begin next semester," Professor Winters added. "Giving you time to adjust your schedule accordingly."

"I'm very interested," I said, careful to keep my voice steady despite the surge of hope. "Thank you for the opportunity."

"Excellent. We can discuss details next week." He glanced toward the locker room. "I won't keep you from your game preparations."

As Professor Winters walked away, something shifted inside. Options expanding. Variables multiplying. A future taking shape that wasn't exclusively defined by Sullivan Senior's expectations.

Coach was waiting when returning to the locker room. "Everything okay?"

"Yes, Coach. Research opportunity."

He nodded once. "Good. Keep your focus here today. OSU's not coming to play nice."

Back at my stall, Trey raised an eyebrow in silent question.

"Expanded research position," I explained quietly. "Twenty-five hours weekly starting next semester."

Understanding flashed in his eyes, quickly followed by something warmer. He knew what this meant. More independence. More options. "That's huge, Beau."

"It's a start," I agreed, returning to pre-game preparations with renewed purpose.

Thirty minutes later, we filed onto the ice for warm-ups. The familiar scrape of blades against fresh ice usually centered me, but today my focus kept fracturing as eyes scanned the stands. Family Weekend meant the arena was packed with parents, siblings, alumni.

My father sat first, his steel-gray suit impeccable as always, seated beside his much younger second wife Jennifer in the scouts' section. Three seats away sat Michael Bergeron, Assistant GM for Montreal, another colleague on his left.

My heart rate accelerated fractionally, forcing a breathing exercise. Four counts in. Four counts hold. Four counts out.

Two sections over, my mother sat alone, elegant in a blue blouse that matched her eyes. My eyes. She caught me looking and smiled, giving a small wave before mouthing, "good luck." The unexpected gesture warmed something in my chest.

"Spotted your folks?" Trey asked as we circled back toward our end of the ice.

"Father with Montreal connections. Mother separate section."

"Divorced parents at sporting events. Always fun." His voice held the wry understanding of someone who'd navigated similar terrain. "My mom and sister just arrived. Section 114, four rows up."

Following his gaze led to a woman with Trey's dark hair sitting beside a younger version of him in feminine form. The sister's hair was shorter, cut in an asymmetrical style, and she wore large headphones that looked like noise-canceling. Sensory accommodation.

"She's got the headphones for crowd noise," Trey explained. "Takes them off during play, puts them back on during stoppages and intermissions."

"Smart system," I noted, appreciating the practical solution. "Selective filtering of sensory input."

The buzzer signaled the end of warm-ups, and we filed back to the locker room for final preparations. Coach's pre-game speech was uncharacteristically emotional.

"Listen up. Everyone out there expects us to get steamrolled today. The rankings, the statistics, the recruiting classes—none of that matters once the puck drops. What matters is what we do together on that ice. How we support each other. How we play our game."

Inside, something was building. Not the usual precise calculations and probability assessments, but something warmer. Pride. Determination. Belonging.

"Sullivan, Harrington," Coach continued. "I need your best tonight against their top line. They've been averaging almost three goals a game. Not tonight."

Trey bumped his shoulder against mine. "Not tonight," he echoed.

As we lined up in the tunnel waiting to take the ice, Trey caught my eye. "Ready, Harvard?"

A nod, feeling unusually settled despite the statistical disadvantages, despite my father watching, despite everything. "Ready."

The game began with the expected onslaught from OSU. Their top line was everything the scouting reports promised: fast, skilled, precise. But we were ready. Trey and I had studied their patterns, identified their tendencies. When their blond star center attempted a cross-ice pass four minutes in, reading the play perfectly allowed for stepping into the lane to intercept.

"Nice read, Sullivan!" Coach called as I cleared the zone.

"Switch!" I shouted to Trey as OSU regrouped, their wingers crossing to create confusion. Trey's dark eyes flashed with understanding as he seamlessly took my man, our bodies moving in practiced synchronization.

"Got your back," he called, sliding into position. "Watch the high forward!"

"See him," I called back, tracking the player drifting into the slot. "Force him to his backhand!"

The first period remained scoreless, though OSU dominated possession. Their shots were 14-5 in their favor, but our defensive structure held. Blocked shots, active sticks in passing lanes, bodies sacrificed to prevent scoring chances. Sweat trickled down my spine beneath my pads, the familiar scent of ice and equipment filling my nostrils with each deep breath.

During one penalty kill, their power play unit moved the puck around the perimeter with practiced efficiency. Reynolds shouted from the bench, "Watch the seam pass!"

"I see it," Trey called back, dropping to one knee as OSU's power play quarterback wound up for a one-timer.

Trey perfectly executed the shot block we'd practiced repeatedly, taking the puck off his shin pads at precisely the right angle to deflect it out of play. The impact made a hollow thud that echoed through the arena.

"Fucking textbook!" I shouted as we lined up for the faceoff, surprising myself with the uncharacteristic outburst. My glove slapped his shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath the padding.

Trey's grin flashed behind his facemask, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. "See? Analytics do work."

The game remained scoreless until midway through the second period. OSU's relentless pressure finally broke through when their top line executed a perfect tic-tac-toe passing play that even perfect positioning couldn't stop. 1-0 OSU.

Coach didn't panic. Neither did we. The game continued with the same tight checking, structural defense, opportunistic offense when chances arose. With two minutes left in the second period, Reynolds carried the puck behind OSU's net, drawing their defenseman toward him before slipping a perfect pass to Williams in the slot. His one-timer beat Carlson clean, finding the top corner. 1-1.

The bench erupted. Coach remained characteristically composed, but satisfaction showed in his eyes. His game plan was working. We were competing with a significantly higher-ranked opponent through discipline and structure.

During the celebration, Reynolds skated past OSU's net. Carlson lifted his mask, their eyes meeting briefly. A subtle nod passed between them, something private in a very public moment. Reynolds tapped his stick against Carlson's pads—not taunting, but almost... respectful. Carlson's expression softened for just a second before his teammates surrounded him, the moment gone as quickly as it happened.

Walking to the locker room after the second period, a strange calm settled in. The usual storm of calculations and probabilities still raced through the mind, but beneath them was something steadier. Confidence. Not in statistical chances, but in our team. In Trey and me as a defensive pair.

"We've got them frustrated," Coach said during intermission. "Their top guys are trying to do too much individually. Keep forcing them outside, take away the middle of the ice, and counter when we get chances."

The third period began with renewed intensity from OSU. They knew they were in a battle now, no longer taking us lightly. Trey and I continued to match up against their top line, our chemistry resulting in seamless coverage switches, support patterns that seemed to anticipate their every move.

With nine minutes remaining, disaster struck. OSU's star forward drove wide around Reynolds, cutting to the net with speed. Our goalie made the initial save, but in the ensuing scramble, the puck squirted loose. Their center found it first, burying it before anyone could react. 2-1 OSU.

The remaining minutes ticked down with increasing desperation on our part. Coach pulled our goalie with 1:28 left, giving us a six-on-five advantage that nearly paid off when Davis hit the post with 42 seconds remaining.

Final score: 2-1 OSU.

The locker room was quiet, but not defeated. We'd gone toe-to-toe with a hockey powerhouse and nearly pulled off an upset. The statistics had played out almost exactly as expected—shot attempts, possession metrics, scoring chances all favored OSU substantially—but the score remained close because of our execution, our structure, our belief.

"Hold your heads up," Coach said. "That's a top-ten team in the country, and we were one bounce away from overtime. Tomorrow we make those bounces go our way."

"Their goalie's glove side is weaker than his stats show," Reynolds said unexpectedly, eyes on the whiteboard rather than the team. "Carlson drops his right shoulder when he's going to challenge rather than stay deep."

Davis raised an eyebrow. "How do you know their goalie's tendencies that well?"

A slight pause, the kind that held weight. "Played with Carlson at Exeter before he transferred to OSU. Know his tells." Reynolds's voice remained casual, but something in his expression suggested more complexity. "He always telegraphed his moves then, too."

As we filed out of the locker room after showering and changing, the hallway was filled with families waiting to greet players. My father stood with Jennifer and the Montreal contingent, his expression carefully neutral. Twelve feet away, my mother waited alone, her smile warm when catching my eye.

And beyond them both, Trey stood with his mother and sister, their dark heads bent together in conversation. The sight of all these separate worlds existing in the same hallway sent a wave of vertigo. Past, present, and possible futures converging in one crowded space.

My father spotted me first. "Beaumont," he called, voice carrying in that way that always commanded attention. "Solid defensive effort tonight."

"Thank you, Father." The familiar mask of Sullivan perfection sliding into place. "Jennifer," a nod to my stepmother. "Good to see you."

"The 'good boy' my husband talks about so much," Jennifer smiled, her hand resting possessively on my father's arm. At thirty-four, she was closer to my age than to his. "You played wonderfully tonight."

"This is Michael Bergeron," my father continued, gesturing to the man beside him. "Assistant GM with Montreal. And Claude Tremblay, their Director of Player Development."

A firm, confident handshake for both men, just as my father had taught was essential for making proper impressions. "A pleasure to meet you both."

"Your positioning is excellent," Bergeron commented. "Very precise reads on developing plays."

"Thank you, sir."

"Breakfast tomorrow," my father reminded me. "Nine AM at the Marriott. We'll discuss areas for improvement before tomorrow's game."

"Yes, Father."

My mother approached then, her timing impeccable as always. She'd clearly been waiting for the professional conversation to conclude before interrupting.

"Beau, darling," she greeted me, pressing a kiss to my cheek. "You were magnificent."

Her simple, unqualified praise hit like a physical force after my father's measured assessment, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume during our hug. "Thanks, Mom."

"Diana," my father acknowledged stiffly. "I didn't realize you were attending this weekend."

"Family Weekend, Charles," she replied, her smile sharp but perfectly polite. "I am still family."

The tension between them crackled like static electricity. Their locations had been arranged in separate sections of the arena specifically to avoid this confrontation.

"Of course," my father replied, his corporate smile firmly in place. "Jennifer, shall we? Dinner reservations at eight."

As they turned to leave, Trey hovered nearby, clearly waiting to approach. Our eyes met, and he raised an eyebrow in silent question. A small nod, and he made his way over, his mother and sister following.

"Harrington," my father said, stopping before he could fully exit. His eyes swept over Trey's six-foot-two frame, assessing him like he would a potential investment. "Solid defensive play tonight."

"Thank you, sir," Trey replied, his usual casual demeanor replaced by something more formal. The muscle in his jaw tightened, a tell that appeared when he was restraining himself. "Good to finally meet you."

"Yes, well," my father looked between us, something calculating in his steel-gray eyes that matched his perfectly tailored suit. "Beaumont speaks highly of your on-ice partnership."

His emphasis on the word "on-ice" sent a chill down my spine. Did he know? Suspect? His expression revealed nothing, but the deliberate word choice hung in the air.

"We work well together," Trey said, meeting my father's gaze directly, his shoulders squared. "Your son makes everyone around him better."

Something flickered across my father's face—surprise, perhaps, at Trey's directness. He studied Trey for a moment longer, noting the confident stance, the unwavering eye contact.

"Interesting perspective," my father finally said, his tone carefully neutral. "I look forward to watching tomorrow's game with that in mind."

Waiting for more, holding my breath, but my father simply nodded once and continued toward the exit, Jennifer and the Montreal executives following in his wake.

"Was that your dad?" Trey's sister asked the moment they were out of earshot. "He's like, terrifyingly formal."

"Mia," her mother admonished gently.

"What? He is! He looks like he irons his underwear."

Despite everything, my lips twitched. "Mia, I presume?"

"The one and only," she confirmed. "And you're the famous Beau Sullivan. Trey won't shut up about you."

"Jesus, Mia," Trey groaned.

"It's true! It's always 'Sullivan did this' and 'Harvard said that' and—"

"Okay, that's enough," Trey interrupted, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Mom, this is Beau Sullivan. Beau, this is my mother, Sarah Harrington."

"It's lovely to meet you, Beau," she said, her smile showing where Trey got his. "I've heard wonderful things."

"Likewise," the genuine reply. "Trey speaks very highly of you both."

"Mom, Sullivan here was just telling me he's starving," Trey cut in, clearly trying to redirect the conversation before his sister could embarrass him further. "Dinner still on?"

"Absolutely," Sarah nodded. "Beau, we'd love for you to join us. Unless you have plans with your family?"

"I'm free tonight," I said, feeling my mother watching this exchange with interest. "Mom, would you like to join us?"

"Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude on your plans," she demurred.

"You wouldn't be intruding at all," Sarah insisted. "The more the merrier. We have reservations at Angelo's in twenty minutes."

My mother hesitated only briefly before smiling. "I'd love to join you."

As we walked toward the parking lot, Trey fell into step beside me, his hand brushing mine in a gesture too subtle for anyone else to notice. In the dim evening light, his olive skin looked warmer, the strong line of his jaw softened as he glanced over. His dark hair, still damp from the post-game shower, curled slightly at his nape, where it was getting too long.

"Your dad didn't seem too suspicious," he said, voice pitched low for my ears only.

"He's always calculating," came the quiet reply, watching the way his shoulders moved beneath his navy team jacket. "Observing. Noting variables."

"Yeah, well, so are you," Trey said, the corner of his mouth lifting in that half-smile that always made my pulse quicken. "And you're better at it."

Ahead of us, Mia chatted animatedly with my mother, their conversation flowing with surprising ease. Two families, converging in a way never anticipated when first calculating the probabilities of a relationship with Trey.

The loss against OSU stung, but watching our families walking together brought thoughts not about hockey statistics or game metrics, but about new possibilities. New variables in the equation of my future. Research positions. Graduate school applications. A life that included both hockey and academics. A life that included Trey.

"Tomorrow we win," the certainty in my voice surprising even me. "For Coach. For the team."

"Damn right we do," Trey agreed, his shoulder bumping mine. "The Sullivan-Harrington shutdown pair isn't letting OSU score again."

My phone buzzed with a text from Reynolds to the team group chat:

"Film session 11:00 tomorrow. We're taking these fuckers down in game 2."

"Seems the captain's confident," showing Trey the message.

"Told you," Trey grinned. "Some things transcend statistics."

For once, there was no argument against his illogical assertion. Tomorrow, we'd face OSU again. Tomorrow, breakfast with my father and his NHL connections. Tomorrow held countless variables and complications.

But tonight, walking toward dinner with my mother and Trey's family, simpler calculations took focus. The warmth of Trey beside me. The unexpected joy of seeing our families together. The growing certainty that some risks were worth taking, regardless of the statistical probabilities.

Trey watched, a question in his eyes. "You good?"

"Better than good," came the honest reply.