Page 23 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Twenty-Two

Trey

T he five of us squeezed into a corner booth at Angelo's, the kind of Italian restaurant that existed in every college town in America. Red-checkered tablecloths, candles in empty Chianti bottles, and faded photos of the Italian countryside lining wood-paneled walls. The place smelled like garlic, tomato sauce, and freshly baked bread, making my stomach growl. Post-game hunger was no joke, especially after sixty minutes of chasing OSU's top line around the ice.

I watched Beau carefully arrange his silverware as he settled in beside me, lining up his fork with the edge of his napkin. The gesture was so quintessentially Sullivan that I had to bite back a smile. His copper hair caught the warm glow of the overhead lighting, still damp at the temples from his post-game shower. There was a tightness around his eyes that most people wouldn't notice, but I'd become fluent in reading his micro-expressions. This was Beau, nervous but trying not to show it.

Sitting here with our families felt surreal. Two weeks ago, we'd been avoiding each other after Lakeside. A month before that, we'd been antagonistic teammates at best. Now his thigh pressed against mine under the table, and our mothers were smiling at each other across the booth. The trajectory of my life had shifted so dramatically I could barely keep up with the changes.

"So," my mother began once we were all seated, "that was quite a game. You boys played wonderfully."

"They were brilliant," Beau's mom agreed, her accent carrying just a hint of New England prep school polish. "Though I must admit, hockey strategy remains somewhat mysterious to me, even after all these years."

"Mom never really got the hockey details," Beau explained, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it at practice or in class. The gentle tone sent a warm current through my chest. This was a side of Beau I rarely got to see, a softness reserved only for his mother.

"She came to every game but watched through her fingers whenever I was on the ice," he continued, the corner of his mouth lifted in subtle affection.

"I still do," Diana Sullivan admitted with a self-deprecating laugh. "Every time someone gets checked into the boards, my heart stops."

"Same," my mom agreed. "I've been watching Trey play since he was eight, and I still flinch when he takes a hit."

I watched Diana carefully, noting the way her eyes lingered on Beau with unmistakable pride. Nothing like the clinical assessment I'd witnessed from Sullivan Senior in the arena hallway. Where he looked for flaws to correct, she seemed to marvel at the person Beau had become, quirks and all.

"I just plug my ears when it gets too loud," Mia chimed in, adjusting her headphones that now hung around her neck. "The buzzer in that arena is way too shrill."

Beau's eyes flickered to Mia with genuine interest. "Do you find the frequency more problematic than the volume?"

"Both, actually," Mia replied, straightening up. "But it's more about the unexpectedness. I can handle it when I know it's coming."

"That's why she keeps score obsessively," I explained. "She always knows exactly when the period's about to end."

"Sensible adaptation," Beau nodded approvingly.

The waitress arrived with water glasses and took our drink orders. My mom and Diana both ordered glasses of Chianti. Mia asked for a strawberry Italian soda. Beau requested water with lemon, and I went with Coke.

"Beau always drinks water with meals," Diana commented after the waitress left. "Even as a child, he insisted on it. No juice, no milk, just water."

"Water's better for you," Beau said automatically, then caught himself when I nudged his knee under the table. "And I just like it better," he added, a hint of pink rising in his cheeks.

My mother smiled warmly. "Trey was the opposite. He'd bargain for soda like a little lawyer. 'If I eat all my vegetables, can I have Sprite?' from the time he could talk."

"Still do," I grinned, leaning back in the booth. "Except now it's beer."

"So, how long have you two been together?" Mia asked suddenly, causing me to choke on my water.

Four sets of eyes turned toward her.

"Mia!" My mother scolded, though without much heat.

"What?" My sister looked genuinely confused. "Trey said they're dating. I'm just asking when it started."

The bluntness I usually found endearing in my sister suddenly felt mortifying. Beau sat frozen beside me, his water glass suspended halfway to his mouth.

"It's relatively recent," he answered finally, his voice remarkably steady. No statistics, no precise timeline, just a simple answer that gave nothing away.

"Well, I think it's wonderful," Diana said, smoothly redirecting the conversation. "Trey seems like a positive influence. Beau's text messages have been noticeably more... emotional lately."

"Mom," Beau protested quietly.

"It's a compliment, darling," she assured him. "For years, your messages read like weather reports. 'Game completed. Outcome favorable. Temperature 42 degrees.' Now there are actual feelings involved."

"I text the important stuff," Beau defended himself, but I could see the corner of his mouth twitching. "Why use twenty words when five will do?"

"Did you always talk like a robot?" Mia asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. "Or is it just around new people?"

"Mia," I warned, feeling protective.

"It's okay," Beau assured me before turning to Mia. "I process information differently than most people. Language patterns follow suit."

"That makes sense," Mia nodded, completely unembarrassed. "I do the same thing with music. Everyone says I analyze it too much instead of just feeling it."

The waitress returned with our drinks and took food orders. Beau chose grilled chicken with roasted vegetables, meticulously confirming there was no butter or cream in the preparation. I went for the largest portion of lasagna they offered. Our moms both ordered pasta dishes, and Mia selected Margherita pizza after inspecting the menu with intense focus.

"Sullivan men have always been methodical," Diana commented once the waitress had gone. "Beaumont, Beau's father, planned our honeymoon with fifteen-minute increments scheduled for an entire week."

"That sounds... intense," my mother replied diplomatically.

"It was," Diana agreed, taking a sip of her wine. "Though Beau inherited the analytical mind without the rigid expectations, thankfully."

I watched Beau's face carefully during this exchange. His expression remained neutral, but I could see the slight tension in his jaw at the mention of his father. His fingers twitched against his water glass, a subtle tell I'd learned to recognize when something unsettled him. The tiniest glimpse of vulnerability that made me want to reach out and cover his hand with mine.

It struck me how much I'd learned about him in such a short time, how attuned I'd become to these minute signals that most people would never notice. How much I wanted to protect him from the shadow his father cast, even here, miles away.

"Beau mentioned you're a kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Harrington?" he asked, clearly trying to shift the conversation away from himself. The deliberate redirection wasn't lost on me, nor was the way his shoulders relaxed fractionally when my mother smiled in response.

"Sarah, please," my mom insisted. "And yes, twenty-three years now. I love the chaos of five-year-olds."

"Explains how she handled me growing up," I joked.

"Trey was a handful," my mother confirmed with a fond smile. "Always in motion, always five steps ahead of everyone else. His teachers used to call me weekly."

"Whereas Beau's teachers called to ask if he was actually five or secretly thirty," Diana chuckled. "He corrected his first-grade teacher's math and organized the classroom library by subject rather than author."

"Authors don't help you find what you're looking for," Beau muttered, and I couldn't help laughing.

"Some things never change, Harvard."

Beau's eyes met mine, warm with shared understanding. Under the table, his knee pressed gently against mine.

"Harvard?" Diana asked.

"Trey's nickname for Beau," I explained. "Because he's always analyzing everything."

"Better than what he called me the first month of practice," Beau countered, surprising me with the playful tone.

"Which was?" Diana asked.

"Robot," I admitted. "Or occasionally 'hockey cyborg.'"

"And now they can't keep their hands off each other," Mia observed casually. "Trey kept staring at Beau's butt during warm-ups."

"Mia!" I hissed, feeling heat rush to my face. "I was not."

"You literally were," she insisted. "Mom saw it too."

"I plead the fifth," my mother said, hiding her smile behind her wine glass.

I felt a strange sense of déjà vu, sitting here with both our families while Mia exposed my crush for all to see. But where Dad had walked out when I was fourteen because I was "too much" for him to handle, this teasing was oddly gentle, wrapped in acceptance instead of judgment. My mother had never tried to tone me down the way Dad had, never treated my intensity as a problem to be solved.

"At least I have better taste than Mia," I shot back, finding my footing again. "Remember your crush on that lacrosse player? The one with the terrible haircut?"

"We agreed never to speak of him!" Mia gasped dramatically, making everyone laugh.

The food arrived, momentarily saving me from further embarrassment. The lasagna smelled incredible, cheese still bubbling at the edges. Beau inspected his grilled chicken with careful attention before taking a bite.

"This is excellent," he declared after a methodical chew. "Perfect internal temperature."

"Only you would evaluate chicken like a food critic," I teased, already halfway through my first massive bite of lasagna.

"Proper protein consistency is crucial," he replied seriously, but the slight upturn of his lips told me he was in on the joke.

"Beau has always been particular about food," Diana explained to my mom. "At eight years old, he made a spreadsheet rating every meal I cooked on various metrics."

"You're kidding," my mother laughed.

"Not at all. Taste, texture, nutritional value, and visual presentation, all on a five-point scale."

"How did you score?" Mia asked.

"My roast chicken was the only dish that received perfect marks across all categories," Diana said proudly. "Though he deducted half a point when I experimented with herbs."

"Rosemary threw off the whole flavor balance," Beau explained, completely straight-faced.

I snorted, nearly choking on my lasagna. "Please tell me you still have that spreadsheet."

"Unfortunately, it was lost during the divorce," Diana replied, a fleeting shadow crossing her face. "Along with many other things."

The momentary tension dissipated as Mia launched into a story about grading her piano teacher's technical abilities behind her back. The conversation flowed easily after that, our mothers discovering they both loved the same obscure British mystery series, and Mia grilling Beau about his research position and how it related to hockey injuries.

I found myself watching Beau more than participating. He was different here than he was at practice or even alone with me. Not stiff, exactly, but careful. He weighed his words, sometimes pausing before answering questions. But there was something relaxed in his posture, too, especially when speaking directly to my mother or Mia.

Halfway through the meal, Diana excused herself to the restroom. My mother followed a moment later, and Mia became distracted by a text message, giving me a rare moment alone with Beau in the midst of our family dinner.

"You okay?" I asked quietly.

"Better than expected," he replied, his knee brushing mine again. "Your family is... easy to be around."

"Yeah, they're pretty great," I agreed. "And for the record, your mom is nothing like I imagined."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Female version of your dad, I guess. All rigid expectations and perfectly pressed pantsuits."

Beau's lips quirked. "My mother burned my father's schedule planner three days before she filed for divorce. Said she wasn't living her life in fifteen-minute increments anymore."

I whistled low. "Badass."

"She's stronger than she appears," he said softly, watching the direction of the restrooms. "Standing up to my father cost her almost everything. The house, most of her friends, her social standing."

"But she got you," I pointed out.

Something vulnerable flashed across his face. "Yes. Though I'm not sure I was worth the trade."

"Hey," I said firmly, resisting the urge to take his hand in public. "Don't say that. You're worth everything."

The intensity in my voice surprised even me. Beau's eyes met mine, something soft and wondering in their green-gold depths.

"Trey..."

"There they are," Mia announced as our mothers returned to the table. "Mom, tell Beau you weren't spying on them in the bathroom."

"Mia!" My mother scolded. "We were doing no such thing."

"Though we did have a lovely chat," Diana added with a mysterious smile.

Beau shot me a questioning look that I couldn't interpret. What had our mothers discussed in the bathroom? The paranoid part of my brain imagined all sorts of embarrassing mom-talk, but both women looked perfectly innocent as they resumed their meals.

Dessert menus appeared after our plates were cleared. Beau declined immediately, but I ordered tiramisu without hesitation. Post-game calories didn't count.

"None for me," Diana said when the waitress looked her way. "Though I would love another glass of wine."

"Same," my mother agreed. "And bring a cannoli for Mia. She loves them, but will never admit it."

"Mom!" Mia protested, but didn't actually decline the dessert.

"Mothers know these things," Diana commented with a knowing smile. "For instance, I know that despite his protests, Beau has always secretly loved chocolate gelato. Especially after games."

"I don't have a strong opinion about gelato," Beau insisted, but the slight pink tinge to his ears told me otherwise.

"Just try it," I told the waitress with a wink. "For research purposes."

When desserts arrived, Beau eyed his small dish of chocolate gelato with a mixture of suspicion and desire that was frankly adorable.

"It's not going to bite you," I teased.

He shot me a look, then deliberately took a small spoonful. The moment the gelato hit his tongue, his eyes widened slightly, and I knew Diana had been right.

"Okay, this is actually good," he admitted, proceeding to finish every last bite.

As we prepared to leave, Diana pulled me aside while Beau was distracted by Mia's rapid-fire questions about his biomechanics research.

"Trey," she said quietly, her hand resting lightly on my arm. "I want to thank you."

"For what, Mrs. Sullivan?"

"Diana, please," she insisted. "And for being good for my son. For seeing him as he is and appreciating it rather than trying to change him."

Her words caught me off guard. "I'm not sure I deserve credit for that. Beau's pretty amazing, just as he is."

Her smile was warm and a little sad. "You'd be surprised how many people don't see that. Including his father." She glanced over at Beau, who was using salt and pepper shakers to demonstrate some biomechanical principle to a fascinated Mia. "Beaumont always viewed Beau's differences as weaknesses to be corrected. You seem to view them as strengths to be celebrated."

I swallowed past a sudden tightness in my throat. "They are."

"Well, for what it's worth," she continued, her voice dropping even lower, "you have my complete support. Whatever happens with Beaumont and his hockey connections, Beau deserves a chance at happiness. I think you might be part of that."

Before I could respond, my mother joined us, the check in her hand. "This was my treat," she announced before either Diana or I could object. "To celebrate a wonderful game and new friendships."

"That's very kind," Diana replied. "But you must let me reciprocate soon."

"Absolutely," my mother agreed. "Perhaps dinner after tomorrow's game?"

Diana's face brightened. "That would be lovely. Beau has his meeting with his father and the Montreal connections for breakfast, and then the rematch in the afternoon."

"Dinner it is, then," my mother responded with a warm smile. "We can celebrate properly after you boys win."

Outside the restaurant, Mia surprised everyone by giving Beau an enthusiastic hug. "You're way cooler than Trey described," she informed him. "He said you were analytical, but he didn't mention you were actually interesting."

"Thanks?" Beau replied, looking bewildered but not displeased by the physical contact.

"Ignore her," I advised. "She has no filter."

"Honestly? Not enough people say what they mean," Beau said, the corner of his mouth lifting in that almost-smile I'd come to recognize, the one that made a dimple appear briefly in his right cheek. "It's refreshing."

My heart did that strange stuttering thing it had started doing whenever he smiled genuinely. It was rare enough that each one felt like a gift, especially knowing I was one of the few people who got to see it.

"Exactly!" Mia agreed triumphantly. "See, Trey? Beau gets it."

My mother hugged me tightly, then, to my surprise, hugged Beau as well. "It was wonderful meeting you," she told him. "You're welcome at our home anytime."

"Thank you," Beau replied, his voice carrying unusual warmth. "The invitation is appreciated."

Diana gave me a gentle hug next. "Take care of him," she whispered. "And let him take care of you, too."

"I will," I promised.

As our families said their final goodbyes, Beau and I stood slightly apart, watching them interact with matching expressions of wonder.

"That went well," I observed quietly.

"Statistical probability of successful family integration was approximately thirty-seven percent," Beau replied, then caught himself. "I mean... yes. It did."

I laughed, bumping his shoulder with mine. "There's the Harvard I know and lo-" I cut myself off abruptly, the word 'love' hanging unspoken between us.

Beau's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't comment on my near-slip. Instead, he said, "Your mother and sister are exceptional."

"So is your mom," I replied, relieved at the redirect. "Nothing like your dad."

"Different priorities," Beau agreed. "Different measures of success."

Our families disappeared into their respective cars, leaving us alone in the parking lot. The night air had cooled considerably, and Beau stood close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him.

"Walk you back to your place?" I offered.

He nodded, and we set off across campus in comfortable silence. Under the glow of streetlights, his copper hair looked almost golden, his profile sharp and perfect in the darkness.

"You're staring again," he said without looking at me.

"Can't help it," I admitted. "Still processing the fact that our families just had dinner together."

"Yeah, it was definitely unexpected," he agreed. "Your mom is pretty amazing."

"She likes you," I told him. "And Mia practically wants to adopt you."

"I liked her directness." A pause. "What were you and my mother discussing at the end?"

I considered how to answer, finally settling on the truth. "She thanked me for seeing you as you are. And said she supports us."

Beau's steps faltered slightly. In the dim glow of the campus lights, I could see his eyes widen, a flash of vulnerability that hit me right in the chest.

"She said that?" His voice carried a note of wonder I'd never heard before.

"Yeah. Seems like she just wants you to be happy."

He was quiet for so long I wondered if I'd said something wrong. The moonlight caught in his copper hair, turning it almost silver at the edges. His profile looked sharper in the darkness, the strong line of his jaw, the perfect slope of his nose. But it was the lost expression in his eyes that made me want to pull him close, to shield him from whatever storm was raging inside.

Finally, he spoke, his voice unusually soft. "I've tried to be what my father wanted for so long. I'm not sure I know how to be anything else."

The vulnerability in his admission made my chest ache. I wanted to tell him all the things I saw in him that had nothing to do with his father's expectations. The thoughtful way he listened when Mia talked about her sensory issues. The genuine interest he showed in my mom's teaching stories. The brilliance of his hockey mind. The warmth in his eyes when he forgot to calculate his responses.

Instead, I reached out, my fingers brushing against his jacket sleeve. "You're figuring it out," I assured him. "One day at a time. And what I see? It's pretty amazing, Harvard."

We reached his apartment building, stopping at the entrance. The campus around us was quiet, most students either still at homecoming events or already settled in for the night.

"Tomorrow's going to be tough," I said. "Breakfast with your dad, then the rematch against OSU."

"Yes." His expression shuttered slightly at the reminder. "My father will have noted every error from tonight's game. The Montreal connections likewise."

"Hey." I touched his arm lightly. "Whatever happens with your dad tomorrow, we've got a game to win. Together."

"Together," he repeated, the word carrying weight between us.

I glanced around quickly, confirming we were alone, before leaning in to kiss him. His lips were soft and tasted faintly of chocolate gelato. He responded immediately, one hand coming up to grip my jacket, pulling me closer.

When we broke apart, both slightly breathless, I rested my forehead against his. "For luck," I murmured. "Tomorrow we show OSU what the Sullivan-Harrington defensive pair can really do."

"Statistically, luck is a fictional construct," he replied, but his lips curved in a genuine smile. "But I'll accept the gesture, nonetheless."

I laughed, pressing one more quick kiss to his lips before stepping back. "Get some sleep, Harvard. Big day tomorrow."

"I look forward to it," he said, voice slightly rougher than usual. "And Trey? Thanks for tonight. For sharing your family with me."

"Anytime," I replied, meaning it more than I'd expected to. "They're already crazy about you. Almost as crazy as I am."

The admission slipped out before I could stop it, hanging in the air between us. Beau's entire body went still, his breath catching audibly. For a moment that stretched into eternity, neither of us moved. I watched emotions flicker across his face, too fast to catalog completely: surprise, wonder, fear, and something that looked dangerously like hope.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I hadn't meant to say it, not like this, not when tomorrow loomed with Sullivan Senior and all his expectations. But now that it was out there, I couldn't take it back. Didn't want to take it back.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, rougher than I'd ever heard it.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Same here." Simple words, but the intensity in his eyes told me everything his analytical mind couldn't yet put into language.

Before I could overthink it, I pulled him into another kiss, deeper than before. His hands gripped my jacket, holding on like I might disappear if he let go. When we broke apart, I rested my forehead against his, breathing in the scent that was uniquely Beau, woodsy shampoo and that hint of vanilla that clung to his skin.

"You staying tonight?" he asked, surprising me with his directness.

"What about your breakfast with your dad tomorrow?"

He shrugged, the gesture unusually casual for him. "I'll set an alarm. Besides..." A hint of pink colored his cheeks. "We play better when we're together the night before. The evidence is clear."

I couldn't help grinning. Leave it to Beau to turn pre-game sex into a statistical advantage. "Can't argue with science, Harvard."