Page 24 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Twenty-Three

Beau

T he door closed behind us with a soft click that somehow felt significant. Trey stood in my entryway, his dark eyes holding mine with an intensity that made my pulse accelerate.

"So," he began, shrugging off his jacket.

Without analyzing, without calculating, I closed the distance between us. My hands found his face, fingertips tracing the strong line of his jaw before pulling him into a kiss that short-circuited all rational thought. He made a surprised sound against my mouth, his body momentarily frozen, before responding with equal fervor.

"Wow," he murmured when we broke apart, both breathing harder. "What was that for?"

"I don't know," I admitted, the honesty surprising even me. "I just... wanted to."

His smile spread slowly, transforming his face. "Harvard acting on impulse? The world must be ending."

"Shut up," I muttered, heat spreading across my cheeks.

"Make me," he challenged, echoing words from our first night together, his eyes darkening with unmistakable want.

The sense of déjà vu washed over me, but everything felt different now. No hesitation. No careful calculation of risk factors. Just certainty spreading through my system like warmth.

I kissed him again, backing him toward my bedroom as my fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt. We moved in tandem, a choreographed dance we'd perfected over our weeks together.

Moonlight spilled through the blinds I'd forgotten to close, creating silver stripes across the navy comforter. As we crossed the threshold, I guided him to sit on the edge of the bed. His olive skin glowed in the patches of light, muscles shifting beneath his partially unbuttoned shirt.

I finished undoing the remaining buttons, my fingers steady despite the electricity coursing through me. When I pushed the fabric from his shoulders, revealing the defined planes of his chest and abdomen, my breath caught.

"You're beautiful," I said simply, no statistical analysis, just truth.

His eyes widened slightly, as if my directness surprised him. "Beau..."

I silenced whatever he might have said with another kiss, my hands exploring the warm skin now available to me. His muscles jumped beneath my fingertips as I traced the ridges of his abdomen, the curve of his hipbones, the small of his back.

The wordless exchange continued as we removed each other's clothes, our movements synchronized without need for instruction. When we were both down to our underwear, I reached for the lube in the nightstand drawer, then looked at him with newfound confidence.

"I want to try something different tonight," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

His eyebrows rose with interest. "Different how?"

Instead of answering directly, I gently pushed him to lie back on the bed, then straddled his hips in one fluid motion. The hardness of him pressed against me through the thin fabric of our underwear, drawing a groan from deep in his throat as I deliberately rolled my hips.

"Fuck, Beau," he groaned, his hands sliding up my thighs to grip my hips. "You're killing me here."

The raw desire in his voice sent heat cascading through my system. I leaned down to kiss him deeply, relishing the way his stubble scraped against my skin, the way his tongue slid against mine with practiced familiarity.

When I pulled back, his breathing had accelerated, pupils dilated with want. "I want to ride you," I said, my voice low but clear. "I want to be in control."

His eyes darkened further, fingers digging into my hips. "God, yes," he breathed, the want in his voice unmistakable. "Whatever you want, baby."

The endearment sent an unexpected thrill through me. I'd cataloged Trey's tendency to use such terms during sex, but my response to them had intensified over time—another data point in the evolving equation of us.

I reached for the lube in the nightstand drawer, uncapping it with steady hands despite the desire coursing through me.

"Let me help you get ready," Trey said, extending his hand.

I nodded, handing him the bottle. He coated his fingers generously, eyes never leaving mine as I lifted myself slightly to give him better access.

The first press of his finger against my entrance made me gasp, the sensation familiar yet always intense. He worked me open slowly, patient despite his obvious restraint. One finger became two, then three, stretching me thoroughly as I rocked back against his hand.

"Fuck, you're tight," he murmured, his free hand stroking my thigh soothingly. "You good?"

"Yes," I managed, pushing back against his fingers, seeking more. "I'm ready."

He reached for a condom from the drawer, but I took it from his hand. "I want to do it," I insisted, maintaining control of this moment.

When I was ready, I rolled the condom onto him with practiced movements, then positioned myself above him. Our eyes locked as I slowly sank down, taking him inch by inch, the sensation like that first perfect stride onto fresh ice.

His breath caught audibly. "You feel fucking incredible, Harvard," he groaned, his fingers digging into my hips. "Like a perfect top-shelf glove save."

The hockey reference in this intimate moment sent an unexpected thrill through me. I adjusted my angle, seeking that spot inside me that triggered the most intense physical response.

"Right there," I gasped as I found it, my body responding instinctively to the stimulation. "God, Trey."

"Fuck," he groaned, his eyes dark with want as he watched me. "Love hearing you say my name like that."

Fully seated, I paused to adjust to the fullness, to the angle which was entirely new from this position. His cock pressed against spots inside me that sent sparks shooting up my spine. When I began to move, rising and falling in a slow rhythm, the sensation was overwhelming.

"That's it," he encouraged, voice rough with desire. "Take what you need, baby. You look so fucking good like this."

The praise washed over me, warming something in my chest that had nothing to do with physical pleasure. I braced my hands on his chest, using the leverage to control the pace, to find the angle that sent electricity through my system.

His hand wrapped around my cock, stroking in counterpoint to my movements. The dual stimulation pushed me toward the edge faster than expected, pleasure building at the base of my spine.

"Trey," I gasped, my hips losing their rhythm as the pressure built at the base of my spine. "I can't hold on much longer."

"Then don't," he said, his voice rough with need as he looked up at me. "I've got you, Beau."

The combination of his touch and the rare use of my first name pushed me over the edge. I came with a broken cry, my usual self-control shattering completely. My body clenched around him, drawing a harsh groan from his throat.

His hands gripped my hips, holding me in place as he thrust up into me, chasing his own release. The overstimulation bordered on too much, but I welcomed it, wanting to feel everything, to remember every second of this moment.

When he came, his entire body tensed beneath me, muscles flexing beautifully as he pulsed inside me. His expression in that moment of complete surrender burned itself into my memory—vulnerability and pleasure and something that looked dangerously like love.

After, we lay tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin. His fingers traced lazy patterns on my back, raising goosebumps in their wake. I rested my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow from racing to steady.

"That was..." he began, then trailed off. "I don't have words, Harvard."

A small smile tugged at my lips. "The great Trey Harrington, wordless? Statistical improbability."

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath my ear. "Smart ass."

Silence settled between us, comfortable rather than awkward. My mind, typically racing with calculations and probabilities, felt unusually quiet. Content.

"What are you thinking about?" Trey asked after several minutes.

The question would normally trigger an automatic deflection, a redirection to safer topics. But tonight felt different. The dinner with our families. His near-slip outside when he'd almost said he loved me. My own response that had surprised us both.

"I'm thinking about tomorrow," I admitted. "About breakfast with my father and the Montreal connections."

His hand stilled on my back. "Are you worried?"

"Oddly, no." The realization surprised me as I spoke it aloud. "I'm calculating variables, potential outcomes, but not with the usual..."

"Panic?" he supplied when I hesitated.

"Statistical anxiety," I corrected, earning another rumbling laugh.

"And why is that, do you think?" His hand resumed its gentle patterns on my skin.

I considered the question with my usual thoroughness. My father would ask about NHL prospects, about training regimens, about whether I was maintaining the Sullivan standard of excellence. The Montreal connections would evaluate my potential professional value, weighing my defensive positioning against countless other prospects with more impressive physical stats or higher-profile programs.

All of this was predictable. Measurable. Quantifiable.

What was new was my reaction to it. The knowledge that these evaluations no longer defined my self-worth with the same absolute authority they once had.

"Because I've identified other variables with greater significance," I said finally.

"Like what?" His voice was careful, neutral, but I could feel the tension in his body beneath mine.

"Like you." The admission came easier than expected. "Like biomechanics research. Like the fact that my mother supports me regardless of NHL outcomes."

His chest expanded with a deep breath. "Beau..."

"I've been thinking," I continued, propping myself up on one elbow to look at him. "Running the numbers."

"Of course you have," he said, but the teasing held only warmth.

"The probability of NHL success, considering my size, my program, my playing style, was always approximately 32 percent," I explained. "I accepted those odds because failing wasn't an option in the Sullivan plan. Because I had no alternative path that generated equivalent satisfaction probabilities."

"And now?" he asked quietly.

"Now I do." I met his eyes, letting him see the certainty I felt. "The graduate biomechanics programs I've researched all offer viable career trajectories with 68-74 percent satisfaction probability based on interest alignment."

Something like disappointment flickered in his eyes before he masked it. "That's good, Harvard. Options are good."

"You don't understand," I said, frustrated by my inability to articulate what felt so clear in my mind. "The statistics are secondary. That's the point. For the first time, I'm considering paths that aren't certainties, that can't be reduced to percentage probabilities."

"Like what?"

"Like us." My voice dropped lower. "There's no statistical model for what I feel when I'm with you. No predictable outcome. No calculable trajectory."

His eyes widened, understanding dawning. "And that doesn't freak you out?"

"It did," I admitted. "It should. By all logical reasoning, I should be running probability scenarios and risk assessments until I can quantify exactly what this means."

"But you're not?"

"No." The certainty in my voice surprised even me. "Because I've realized something important."

"What's that?" His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing along my cheekbone.

"The scenarios without you in them..." I swallowed hard, vulnerability sitting foreign but necessary in my throat. "Even with optimal professional outcomes, they feel empty. Incomplete. Like solving for X while ignoring Y and Z."

His breath caught audibly. For once, Trey Harrington seemed at a loss for words.

"I want all the variables," I continued. "Not just the ones my father deems acceptable. If that means recalculating my NHL probabilities, adjusting my timeline, exploring alternative career paths... the math still works. Better, actually."

"Beau," he said, my name almost a whisper. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

The analytical part of my brain wanted to define terms, to clarify parameters, to ensure we were operating from identical premises. But the part of me that had grown beyond pure calculation knew exactly what he was asking.

"You're the variable that changes everything," I said, the words feeling like jumping off a cliff and discovering I could fly. "And right now, you're the only one that matters."

His eyes glistened in the dim light, something raw and vulnerable crossing his features. Then he pulled me down into a kiss that felt different from any before—deeper, tender, but with an undercurrent of desperate relief.

"Fuck, Harvard," he whispered against my lips when we broke apart. "Who knew you could be so poetic about equations? That's some next-level dirty talk."

A small laugh escaped me, surprising us both. "Not my usual vernacular."

"No shit," he replied with that crooked grin that never failed to make my heart race. "But I like it. Shows you're evolving."

"Into what?" I asked.

"A hockey player who can think with something other than his stat sheet." He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the casual tenderness of the gesture making something flutter beneath my sternum. "It's a good look on you, Sullivan."

We held each other in the quiet darkness, my head tucked beneath his chin, his arms secure around me. Tomorrow loomed with its complex web of expectations and evaluations. Breakfast with my father and the Montreal connections. Game two against OSU. The continuing navigation of our relationship in the team context.

But for the first time, I wasn't calculating every potential outcome, wasn't running probability scenarios until my brain ached. For years, I'd approached my hockey career as the only acceptable variable in my life equation. My father's NHL connections, his carefully plotted timeline, the Sullivan family legacy—these were constants, not variables to be questioned.

The biomechanics research position had introduced the first perturbation in this model. Twenty-five hours weekly. First authorship possibilities. A path that utilized my analytical mind without requiring my father's connections or approval.

But that was just a career shift—numerical values changing while the base equation remained similar. Trey represented something more fundamental: a complete restructuring of the equation itself.

As sleep claimed me, one final thought crystallized with perfect clarity: whatever my father said tomorrow, whatever the Montreal connections offered or threatened, I had options now. Alternatives that didn't depend on maintaining the Sullivan legacy. A future that included variables of my own choosing.

And somehow, the chaos of that uncertainty felt more right than the precision I'd always clung to.