Page 25 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Twenty-Four

Beau

T he morning light filtered through the hotel restaurant's floor-to-ceiling windows, casting elongated shadows across pristine white tablecloths. I arrived twelve minutes early for breakfast with my father and the Montreal connections, a habit ingrained since childhood. Punctuality was non-negotiable in the Sullivan household. Early was acceptable; on time was late.

The restaurant hummed with the quiet sounds of morning. Silver clinked against fine china. Coffee poured into cups with a liquid melody. Hushed conversations created a gentle murmur that rose and fell like waves. My senses registered each input automatically, a self-protective mechanism developed over years of sensory management.

My father sat at a corner table, back to the wall, facing the entrance. Always positioned for maximum awareness of his surroundings. His steel-gray suit appeared freshly pressed, not a wrinkle to be found. Beside him, Bergeron and Tremblay from Montreal were dressed in nearly identical navy suits, though Tremblay's tie featured a subtle pattern that broke their uniformity.

"Beaumont," my father said as I approached, glancing at his watch. "Excellent timing."

Not a greeting. Not "good morning." Just an acknowledgment of my adherence to his expectations.

"Father," I replied, taking the empty seat across from him. "Mr. Bergeron, Mr. Tremblay, good morning."

Bergeron nodded, his eyes already assessing me with the clinical detachment of someone evaluating livestock at auction. "Sullivan. How's the shoulder feeling after last night's game?"

The question startled me. I hadn't mentioned any shoulder discomfort. The subtle ache had begun after blocking a shot in the third period, but I'd kept it well-concealed during post-game interviews.

"It's fine, sir. No issues."

"Good, good," Tremblay interjected. "We noticed you favoring it slightly during the third period. Important to monitor these things. Durability is a key factor at the professional level."

The waiter arrived, saving me from responding. My father ordered black coffee. Bergeron and Tremblay both selected the hotel's breakfast buffet. I requested a plain omelet with fruit on the side.

"No toast?" my father asked, his eyebrow rising fractionally. "You need complex carbohydrates for recovery."

"I'm watching my glycemic load before the game," I replied, the explanation sounding hollow even in my own ears.

In truth, the thought of food twisted my stomach into knots. Last night with Trey had felt like freedom. This morning felt like stepping back into a cage I'd only just realized existed.

"As I was saying before Beaumont arrived," my father continued, turning back to the Montreal connections, "his defensive metrics have improved significantly since transferring to Steel City. The more physical ECAC conference has been beneficial for his development."

They discussed me as if I weren't sitting at the table. My statistics. My potential. My "areas for improvement." My body became a collection of performance metrics. My mind a psychological profile to be optimized. My future a financial investment to be carefully managed.

"His first step could be quicker," Bergeron observed, stirring cream into his coffee. "Modern NHL defensemen need explosive lateral movement to handle the increased speed of today's forwards."

"We've scheduled additional power skating sessions over winter break," my father assured him. "Coach Taylor works with several NHL players on exactly this issue."

Six months ago, this conversation would have consumed my attention completely. I would have mentally cataloged each criticism, calculated improvement percentages, developed training modifications to address their concerns. The Sullivan plan would have adjusted accordingly, each variable optimized for maximum NHL probability.

This morning, something had shifted.

I watched my father's perfectly manicured hands as he gestured to emphasize a point about my defensive zone coverage. Those same hands had once adjusted my eight-year-old shoulders into "proper Sullivan posture" when they slumped with exhaustion during one of his lectures. Those hands had packed away my mother's belongings after she left, erasing her presence from our home with methodical efficiency.

"Beaumont's biomechanical understanding gives him an edge in positional play," my father was saying. "He analyzes opposing forwards' tendencies with exceptional detail."

"Yet he still hesitates in transition situations," Tremblay noted. "That split-second of calculation could be problematic at the next level."

"He's working on that," my father replied smoothly. "Training his instincts to match his analytical abilities."

My coffee arrived. The porcelain cup felt warm against my fingers as I raised it to my lips. The bitter liquid contrasted sharply with the lingering taste of Trey's goodbye kiss this morning. He'd been half-asleep, hair mussed and eyes heavy-lidded, when I slipped out of bed at 7:15. The memory sent warmth through my chest that had nothing to do with the coffee.

"The research position complicates his training schedule," my father continued, the words cutting through my pleasant recollection. "But we're working with his professors to ensure hockey remains the priority."

A subtle pressure built at the base of my skull. The research position was mine. My achievement. My opportunity. Yet here was my father, already calculating how to minimize its importance, to fold it into the Sullivan plan without disrupting the predetermined narrative.

"Research position?" Bergeron's interest appeared genuine. "What field?"

"Biomechanics," I answered before my father could. "Studying ACL reconstruction techniques and prevention strategies in athletes."

"Interesting," Bergeron nodded. "Applied science. Could be valuable knowledge for a future in hockey operations."

"Exactly," my father agreed, expertly spinning even this deviation into his narrative. "Beaumont is positioning himself for front-office work after his playing career. The Sullivan name has connections throughout hockey. This research adds another dimension to his professional profile."

Our food arrived, the waiter arranging plates before us. My omelet sat before me, pale yellow and perfectly formed, surrounded by meticulously arranged fruit slices. I stared at it, suddenly unable to take a bite.

"Montreal has an excellent development system," Tremblay said, cutting into his pancakes. "We believe in balancing on-ice training with academic growth. Several of our prospects pursue graduate degrees during their ELC years."

"Excellent," my father nodded approvingly. "Beaumont has always excelled academically. His analytical approach to hockey mirrors his classroom performance."

Time seemed to slow as I watched my father smoothly incorporating my research position into his narrative. Even this independent achievement, this small step toward autonomy, was being absorbed into the Sullivan plan. Repackaged as a strategic advantage rather than a personal passion.

"The Steel City coaching staff speaks highly of your defensive positioning," Bergeron addressed me directly for the first time. "Though they mentioned some unusual performance fluctuations this season. Particularly in the Lakeside series."

My heart rate accelerated. The meltdown during the Lakeside game. My father's intervention with Coach. The forced separation from Trey that had nearly broken me.

"Minor adjustment issues," my father interjected before I could respond. "Coach Barnes experimented with different defensive pairings. The data showed Beaumont's metrics improve with consistent partnerships."

"And which partner gives you the best results?" Tremblay asked me.

The question hung in the air between us. A seemingly innocuous hockey inquiry that cut straight to the core of everything.

Trey Harrington gives me the best results. On the ice. Off the ice. In every way that matters.

"His statistics are strongest with the Harrington boy," my father answered when my silence stretched too long. "Though there are... complicating factors in that partnership."

Something inside me shifted. A tectonic plate moving imperceptibly beneath the surface, creating pressure that had nowhere to go but up.

"Harrington has good instincts," Bergeron agreed. "Raw talent, though undisciplined. Not NHL material, but a solid college defenseman."

Not NHL material.

The dismissal of Trey's abilities, delivered so casually over breakfast, ignited something in my chest. A flash of heat that expanded outward, warming parts of me that had been cold for as long as I could remember.

"Trey is an exceptional hockey player," I said, my voice steadier than expected. "His understanding of defensive zone coverage is intuitive rather than analytical, but equally effective."

My father's eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch. The Sullivan equivalent of shocked surprise.

"His size and physicality are assets," I continued, unable to stop now that I'd started. "And his hockey IQ is consistently underestimated by scouts who focus too much on traditional metrics."

"Perhaps," Tremblay conceded with the patronizing tone of someone humoring a child. "But professional potential requires more than college performance. Family connections, professional discipline, lifestyle considerations. The complete package."

"Speaking of complete package," my father smoothly redirected, "Beaumont has maintained a 3.92 GPA while playing Division I hockey. His training regimen is modeled after NHL standards, and his conduct off-ice is exemplary."

Exemplary conduct. The phrase echoed in my mind as I remembered Trey's body moving against mine last night. His hands tangling in my hair. His voice was rough with desire as he whispered my name. The freedom I'd found in his arms, so far from my father's definition of "exemplary conduct."

"Sullivan men understand the importance of presenting the right image," my father continued. "Hockey is as much about perception as performance."

The pressure inside me built with each word. Years of repressed emotions, of careful calculations, of precise control, all pushing against barriers that suddenly seemed paper-thin.

"The expanded research position could be problematic," my father said, folding his napkin with geometric precision. "Twenty-five hours weekly is excessive during hockey season. I've spoken with Professor Winters about reducing the commitment to fifteen until after playoffs."

The plate shifted beneath my feet again. My research position. My achievement. My decision.

"You spoke to Professor Winters?" The words escaped before I could analyze them, my voice sharper than intended.

"Of course," my father replied, not recognizing the tremor in my foundations. "The Sullivan name carries weight at Steel City. Professor Winters understood the need to prioritize your hockey development."

"That position was my accomplishment," I said, each word deliberate and clear. "My work. My opportunity."

"And it remains so," my father assured me in the tone he used when explaining particularly obvious concepts. "Simply with a modified timeline that better aligns with our professional goals."

Our goals. Not my goals. Our goals.

"Now, regarding the NHL combine in June," my father continued, unaware of the seismic activity beneath his feet. "Beaumont will need specialized training for the interview portion. Sullivan men excel at physical metrics, but the psychological evaluations require preparation."

Something snapped. No calculation. No analysis. No careful weighing of variables and probabilities. Just clarity, bright and sharp as winter sunlight reflecting off fresh ice.

"Dad." The word cut through his monologue like a skate blade through tape. "I'm bisexual."

The silence that followed held an electricity I'd never experienced. My father froze mid-sentence, coffee cup suspended between table and lips. Bergeron and Tremblay exchanged glances loaded with unspoken communication.

Did I just say that out loud? The thought crashed through my mind as panic surged through my system. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I was certain everyone could see it through my shirt. What had I done? Twenty-one years of careful calculation destroyed in a three-second confession.

My throat constricted, hands trembling slightly against the tablecloth. I could backtrack. Claim it was a joke or a misunderstanding. The Sullivan plan could still be salvaged if I retreated now.

"Beaumont," my father said, setting his cup down with controlled precision. "This is hardly the time or place for personal matters."

But Trey's face flashed in my mind. His genuine smile. The way he'd held me last night. The freedom I'd found in his arms.

No. I was done hiding.

"I'm bisexual," I repeated, my voice stronger despite the dryness in my throat. "And Trey Harrington is my boyfriend."

His face remained perfectly composed, but a muscle jumped in his jaw. The tell I'd recognized since childhood when he was furious but maintaining control.

"Gentlemen," he addressed the Montreal connections, "if you'd excuse us for a moment. Family matter."

"Of course," Bergeron replied, already rising. "We'll give you some privacy."

"Not necessary," I said, the words feeling foreign, but right. "This isn't private information. Not anymore."

My father's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Beaumont."

One word. My name. Loaded with warning and authority and the weight of Sullivan expectations.

"No," I said simply. "I'm done hiding. Done calculating every variable to maintain your version of me. Done pretending that hockey is the only thing that matters."

"You're emotional," he observed, voice pitched low but intense. "We can discuss this privately after you've had time to think rationally."

"I've been thinking rationally my entire life," I replied, surprised by how calm I felt despite my racing heart. "I've analyzed every possibility. Calculated every outcome. And I've concluded that I'm happier when I'm authentic. When I'm with Trey. When I'm pursuing research alongside hockey."

Bergeron cleared his throat awkwardly. "Perhaps we should reschedule."

"Actually," I said, turning to face them directly, "you should know this. If my sexuality is going to be a problem for Montreal, I'd rather know now than after you draft me."

The directness of my statement seemed to catch them off guard. Professional hockey maintained a culture of "don't ask, don't tell" regarding sexuality. Players weren't expected to come out. They were expected to maintain the appearance of normalcy, whatever their private lives might contain.

"The Canadiens organization values diversity," Tremblay said carefully, the corporate response clearly assembled on the fly. "Personal matters are... personal."

Translation: Stay in the closet publicly, and we won't ask questions.

"My personal life includes my boyfriend," I said, the word feeling right and true on my tongue. "I won't hide him or pretend we're just teammates to please scouts or executives."

My father's face had gone completely still, the Sullivan mask of control firmly in place. But beneath the surface, I could see calculations running, adjustments being made to the Sullivan plan, contingencies being evaluated.

"Beaumont has always been focused on his development," he said smoothly, attempting to regain control of the narrative. "This... phase... won't interfere with his professional trajectory."

"It's not a phase," I corrected him. "And my relationship with Trey improves my hockey, not hinders it. Our defensive metrics together are 27% better than with any other pairing."

The irony of falling back on statistics in this moment wasn't lost on me. Even now, breaking free of my father's expectations, part of me sought validation through numbers. Old habits died hard.

"Interesting," Bergeron murmured, eyeing me with newfound curiosity. "Many teams worry about chemistry issues with openly gay players."

"Bisexual," I corrected automatically. "And my chemistry with Trey on the ice speaks for itself. Watch the game today. See how we play together. Then decide if my sexuality matters more than my hockey."

The direct challenge hung in the air between us.

"We'll certainly be watching with interest," Tremblay nodded, clearly eager to escape this increasingly uncomfortable situation. "Sullivan, perhaps we should continue this discussion after today's game? Give everyone some time to... reflect."

My father nodded once, the movement so controlled it appeared mechanical. "Wise suggestion. Beaumont clearly needs to refocus before this afternoon's matchup."

The dismissal was typical, the redirection to hockey, his standard method for avoiding emotional complexity. But this time, I refused to follow his lead.

"I'm perfectly focused," I said, standing up. "On hockey. On research. On building a life that includes all parts of me, not just the ones that fit the Sullivan plan."

"Sit down, Beaumont," my father instructed, his voice hardening. "We haven't finished our discussion."

"I have," I replied, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "You've spent twenty-one years telling me who I am and what I want. Today I'm telling you. You can listen or not, but I'm done hiding parts of myself to maintain an image you created."

Without waiting for his response, I turned and walked away. Each step felt lighter than the last, as if gravity had suddenly recalibrated. Behind me, I could hear my father making apologetic noises to the Montreal connections, explaining away my behavior as pre-game nerves or temporary emotional disturbance.

But it didn't matter anymore. For the first time in my life, I'd spoken my truth without calculating the optimal outcome. Without running probability scenarios or risk assessments. Without waiting for permission or approval.

The morning light hit my face as I stepped outside the hotel. The cold air filled my lungs with each breath, sharp and clarifying. My heart pounded against my ribs, adrenaline coursing through my system in unfamiliar waves.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Trey.

Good luck with breakfast. You've got this. See you at pregame.

I smiled, warmth spreading through my chest despite the December chill. My fingers moved across the screen, typing words I'd never imagined sending.

Just told my father about us. And the Montreal connections. I'm free.

His response came almost immediately.

Holy shit Harvard! You okay? Need me?

The concern in his message made my throat tighten unexpectedly. Four weeks ago, I'd approached my relationship with Trey as an equation to be solved. A series of variables to be optimized. A risk to be carefully managed.

Now I understood it was something else entirely. Something that couldn't be quantified or predicted. Something worth fighting for.

I'm good. Better than good. See you at the rink.

As I walked toward campus, my mind was strangely quiet. No racing calculations. No probability assessments. Just certainty, bright and clear as winter sunlight. Whatever happened next with my father, with Montreal, with hockey, I had chosen authenticity over approval. Chosen Trey and research and self-acceptance over the Sullivan plan.

For the first time in twenty-one years, I was fully Beau, not just Beaumont Sullivan IV. And it felt like finally exhaling after holding my breath my entire life.