Page 26 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)
Twenty-Five
Trey
T he locker room buzzed with pre-game energy, guys taping sticks and adjusting gear while Coach Barnes reviewed OSU's power play formations on a whiteboard. I checked my phone for the twelfth time in twenty minutes, reading Beau's text again.
Just told my father about us. And the Montreal connections. I'm free.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a mixture of pride and anxiety churning in my gut. What exactly had happened at that breakfast? Was Beau okay? His follow-up message said he was "better than good," but this was Sullivan we were talking about—the guy who once classified a sprained ankle as "minor discomfort."
"Earth to Harrington," Matthews called, snapping me back to reality. "You planning to gear up or just stare at your phone all day?"
"Yeah, sorry," I mumbled, shoving my phone into my bag and reaching for my under-armor. The locker room felt too warm, too loud, every voice and clanking equipment amplified by my distracted mind.
"You seen Sullivan?" Reynolds asked from across the room, his tone casual but eyes sharp. "Coach wants to review special teams before skate."
"He'll be here," I replied, more confidently than I felt. "Breakfast with his dad and those Montreal guys."
Reynolds nodded, something like understanding flashing across his usually stern face. "Those hockey dad breakfasts are brutal. My father used to break down my entire game over pancakes, like I was watching game film instead of trying to eat."
The unexpected moment of empathy from Reynolds threw me. Before I could respond, the locker room door swung open and Beau walked in.
His copper hair caught the fluorescent lighting, slightly windblown like he'd walked fast across campus. His posture was different somehow—still that perfect Sullivan straightness, but without the rigid tension that usually accompanied it. His eyes found mine immediately, a smile breaking across his face that transformed him completely.
"Harvard," I called, relief washing through me. "About time."
"Way more people out than I expected," he replied, settling into his stall beside mine. His voice carried its usual precise diction, but there was a lightness I'd never heard before. "Sunday mornings are usually quiet."
"So how'd it go?" I asked quietly as the other guys resumed their conversations.
"I just threw out twenty-one years of the Sullivan plan in about ninety seconds," he replied, methodically arranging his gear. "Definitely not what I expected to do at breakfast."
"Holy shit," I whispered, leaning closer. "You really told them everything? Your dad and the Montreal guys?"
His eyes met mine, clear and certain. "Everything. No calculated responses. No probability assessments. Just truth."
The pride that surged through my chest was so intense it physically hurt. I wanted to pull him into my arms right there in the locker room, consequences be damned, but settled for a light bump of our shoulders.
"Fuck, Harvard. That's... I don't even know what to say."
"A rarity for Trey Harrington," he observed, the corner of his mouth lifting in that subtle almost-smile that always made my heart race. "Perhaps I should come out to NHL executives more often."
"Sullivan! Harrington!" Coach barked from the doorway. "Special teams meeting. Now."
We followed Coach to the video room, where he outlined adjustments to our penalty kill structure based on OSU's tendencies from last night's game. Beau analyzed everything with his usual precision, but there was a new energy to his contributions, a confidence that went beyond statistics.
"OSU's power play overloads the strong side," he explained, gesturing to the whiteboard. "Their weakside winger cheats toward the slot, creating a backdoor opportunity if we pressure too aggressively."
"So we adjust our diamond to compensate," I added, building on his observation. "Force them into lower percentage shots from the perimeter."
Coach nodded, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Good. Implement that this afternoon. Sullivan, you and Harrington are our shutdown pair against their top line. Keep them to the outside."
As we walked back to the locker room, Beau pulled me into an empty equipment closet, closing the door behind us.
"What the—" I started, then fell silent as his lips found mine in a kiss that stole the air from my lungs. His hands framed my face, fingers cool against my skin, body pressing mine against the shelving unit. When we finally broke apart, both breathing harder, I stared at him in amazement.
"What was that for?" I asked, voice rough.
"No reason," he replied, eyes brighter than I'd ever seen them. "Just wanted to."
"Who are you and what have you done with Harvard Sullivan?" I teased, but my heart was racing at this new, impulsive version of him. "Not that I'm complaining."
His expression turned more serious. "I told them everything, Trey. That I'm bisexual. That you're my boyfriend. That I won't hide anymore to maintain the Sullivan image."
"How did your dad react?" I asked, already imagining the worst.
"Initially with denial. Then with damage control," Beau said, his voice steady despite the subject. "He attempted to frame it as a 'phase' that wouldn't interfere with my professional trajectory."
"Asshole," I muttered.
"Indeed. But I informed him and the Montreal connections that my relationship with you improves my hockey metrics by twenty-seven percent compared to other defensive pairings."
I couldn't help laughing. "Of course you used stats to justify our relationship."
"Utilizing their own metrics against them seemed the most efficient approach," he explained. Then his expression softened. "But the statistics weren't why I did it. I did it because hiding was becoming statistically improbable to maintain long-term."
"Come here," I said, pulling him into another kiss, gentler this time. "I'm so fucking proud of you."
A knock at the door startled us apart.
"If you two are done making out in there," Davis called through the door, "Coach wants everyone on the ice in five minutes."
Beau's eyes widened, and I felt heat rise in my cheeks. I opened the door to find Davis standing there with a knowing grin.
"How did you..." I began.
"Dude, it's obvious." Davis rolled his eyes. "Also, Reynolds is looking for you. Something about the Rainbow Tape Foundation sending stuff for today's game."
"The Rainbow Tape Foundation?" Beau asked, confusion evident in his voice. "I'm unfamiliar with that organization."
"Pride tape," I explained. "Rainbow colored tape for hockey sticks. Some guys use it to show support for LGBTQ players."
"And Reynolds wanted this information?" Beau asked skeptically.
"Apparently," Davis shrugged. "World's full of surprises. Now move your asses before Coach makes us all skate suicides."
Beau appeared to be processing this development as we hurried back to the locker room. Reynolds stood by his stall, a roll of rainbow-colored hockey tape in his hand. The room quieted slightly as we entered.
"Sullivan," Reynolds called, holding up the tape. "Thought you might want this for your stick today."
The locker room fell completely silent, every eye on Beau. I felt myself tensing, ready to jump to his defense if needed, but Reynolds' expression held none of his usual antagonism.
"For what purpose?" Beau asked carefully.
"Support," Reynolds replied simply. "Word travels fast around here. Figured you might want to make a statement today."
Beau's eyebrows rose fractionally. "You're offering pride tape?"
"Look," Reynolds said, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. "I've been an ass about some things. But hockey's hockey. If you and Harrington are a thing, and it makes our defense better, I'm good with it."
The simple acceptance in those words, coming from the teammate I'd least expected to support us, hit me like a body check. Beside me, Beau stood perfectly still, his analytical mind clearly racing to process this development.
"Not just for Sullivan," Williams chimed in from across the room, holding up his own stick. "I'm using it too. My cousin came out last year. This stuff matters."
"Team's stronger when everyone can be themselves," Davis added, already wrapping the colorful tape around his stick blade. "I'm in."
One by one, guys around the locker room volunteered to use the tape. Not everyone, but enough to make a statement. Even Matthews, who rarely expressed opinions about anything beyond hockey and beer, quietly requested a roll from Reynolds.
"Looks like I read this team all wrong," Beau murmured, loud enough for only me to hear.
"People surprise you sometimes," I replied, bumping his shoulder with mine. "In good ways."
"Harrington! Sullivan!" Coach barked from the doorway. "Less talking, more gearing up! Ice in two minutes!"
The pre-game skate passed in a blur of drills and systems work. Beau and I moved with perfect synchronicity, our bodies anticipating each other's movements before they happened. The rainbow tape on our sticks flashed with each pass, each shot, a visual reminder of what had changed since yesterday.
Back in the locker room, Coach's pre-game speech was characteristically blunt.
"Yesterday we showed we can compete with OSU. Today we show we can beat them," he said, eyes scanning the room. "Play our game. Execute our system. Trust your teammates."
His gaze lingered briefly on Beau and me, then on the rainbow tape visible on several sticks throughout the room. He nodded once, a slight smile breaking through his usual stern expression.
"Whatever helps you play your best hockey, that's what matters to me," he said simply. "Now get out there and show these Big Ten boys what ECAC hockey is all about."
The arena roared as we took the ice for warm-ups. Family Weekend meant the stands were packed with parents, siblings, alumni. I spotted my mom and Mia in their usual section, now joined by Beau's mother. On the opposite side, Sullivan Senior sat with his wife and the Montreal connections, his expression carefully neutral as he watched Beau circle the ice.
"Your dad's here," I said as we lined up for shooting drills.
"Doesn't matter," Beau replied, eyes focused on the net. "I don't need his approval anymore."
The simple statement, delivered with such certainty, made something warm unfurl in my chest. This was a new Beau—still analytical, still precise, but freed from the weight of his father's expectations.
When the national anthem ended and the starting lineups were announced, Coach sent us out for the opening faceoff against OSU's top line. The rainbow tape on our sticks gleamed under the arena lights, impossible to miss.
OSU's center, a draft pick of the Nashville Predators, smirked as he saw the tape. "Making a statement today, boys?" he asked as they lined up for the faceoff.
"Just playing hockey," I replied evenly. "Problem with that?"
His smirk faltered slightly. "Your funeral."
The puck dropped, and everything beyond the game disappeared. OSU came out flying, determined to avenge their narrow victory from yesterday with a more convincing performance. But something had changed in our team overnight. The casual solidarity of the rainbow tape, the unexpected support from teammates like Reynolds, had created a unified purpose that translated to our play.
Midway through the first period, OSU's top line hemmed us in our defensive zone for a brutal shift. Beau and I had been on the ice for nearly two minutes, legs burning with fatigue, when their star winger fired a shot from the slot that our goalie barely turned aside.
"Switch!" Beau called, his voice cutting through the chaos.
I read his intention instantly, sliding into position to take his man while he moved to pressure the puck carrier. The seamless exchange bought us the second we needed to clear the zone and get a much-needed line change.
"Fucking beauty, boys!" Coach called as we collapsed onto the bench, lungs heaving. "That's how you defend!"
The first period ended scoreless, both teams generating chances but neither breaking through. In the locker room, the energy was focused, determined. No speeches needed, just the quiet confidence of a team finding its identity.
The second period began with increased intensity. OSU's coach had clearly instructed them to target Beau and me specifically, their forecheckers finishing every check with extra vigor.
After one particularly vicious hit sent Beau crashing into the boards, Reynolds, of all people, confronted the OSU player responsible.
"Keep it clean," I heard him warn, skating between them. "Or deal with me next."
The unexpected defense from our captain, who'd previously made homophobic comments in the locker room, stunned me. Beau picked himself up, nodding once at Reynolds in acknowledgment.
"Didn't see that coming," he murmured as he skated past me. "But I'll take it."
Our power play connected five minutes into the second when Williams fired a perfect shot past Carlson in the OSU net. 1-0 Steel City.
The lead didn't last long. OSU's relentless pressure resulted in a goal two minutes later, their top line executing a perfect tic-tac-toe passing play that no team could have defended. 1-1.
As the second period wound down, the game's intensity ratcheted higher. Every hit finished. Every inch of ice contested. The crowd responded, the arena vibrating with noise that pressed against my eardrums and sent adrenaline surging through my system.
During one stoppage, I glanced up to see my mother and Beau sitting together, both wearing Steel City blue, both leaning forward with identical expressions of nervous tension. The sight made my chest tighten with something that felt dangerously like happiness.
The third period began with the teams still deadlocked at 1-1. OSU came out pressing, their superior depth beginning to show as our legs grew heavier. Only our goalie's brilliance kept the game tied, sprawling saves and desperate blocks maintaining the deadlock as the clock ticked down.
With eight minutes remaining, disaster struck. OSU's forechecking pressure forced a turnover, leading to a clean breakaway. Their star center deked beautifully, sliding the puck through our goalie's five-hole. 2-1 OSU.
Coach called timeout, gathering us at the bench with uncharacteristic urgency.
"This is our moment," he said, eyes intense beneath his salt-and-pepper eyebrows. "Everything we've worked for. All the early morning practices. All the video sessions. Time to show what Steel City hockey is about."
When play resumed, there was a new energy on our bench. A refusal to accept defeat that translated into desperate, inspired hockey. Williams hit the post. Davis was robbed by a spectacular glove save. The pressure built with each shift, the crowd growing louder with every scoring chance.
With two minutes remaining, Coach sent Beau and me over the boards against OSU's top line—a calculated risk, matching offense against offense in a desperate attempt to tie the game.
"Get me one more chance," I said to Beau as we climbed over the boards. "Just one good look."
He nodded, eyes locked on mine with perfect understanding. "Weakside seam. Their defensemen collapse toward the puck. I'll find you."
The faceoff was in our defensive zone. OSU won the draw clean, their center immediately firing a shot that our goalie blocked away. The rebound skittered toward the corner, where I battled their winger for possession.
"Move it!" Beau called, perfectly positioned for an outlet pass.
I slid the puck his way, then immediately accelerated up the ice, sensing opportunity rather than seeing it. This was the chemistry everyone talked about—the inexplicable ability to anticipate each other's movements, to know where the other would be before they got there.
Beau held the puck for a heartbeat, drawing two OSU forecheckers toward him, then fired a perfect stretch pass that hit my tape at the far blue line. I was in behind their defense, breaking in alone on Carlson.
The goalie came out aggressively, cutting down the angle. In that split second, I made the decision not to shoot. Instead, I pulled the puck to my backhand, drawing Carlson toward me, then slid it across the crease where Davis had driven the net.
The tap-in goal was so easy it looked like we'd practiced it a thousand times. 2-2.
The arena erupted, the roar so loud it felt physical. My teammates surrounded me along the boards, thumping my back and shouting things I couldn't hear over the crowd noise. But my eyes found Beau, standing slightly apart as always, his expression alive with something that went far beyond statistics and probabilities.
When overtime began, there was an electricity in the air that hadn't been there before. Four-on-four play opened up the ice, creating space for skill and speed that had been contained in the tighter-checking regulation time.
A minute in, Beau collected the puck behind our net, eyes scanning the ice with characteristic precision. Instead of the safe play up the boards, he caught everyone by surprise with a diagonal pass that hit me in stride at center ice.
I crossed the blue line with speed, OSU's defenseman backing off to respect the threat. In that moment of hesitation, I saw Beau activating from the back side, completely uncovered as he drove toward the net.
The pass was instinctive, a backhand flip that floated over the defenseman's stick and landed perfectly for Beau. He collected it in full stride, pulled it to his forehand, and fired in one smooth motion.
The puck hit the back of the net before Carlson could even react. Game over. 3-2 Steel City.
For a moment, the arena fell silent in collective disbelief. Then it exploded, the crowd on its feet, teammates pouring over the boards in celebration. I reached Beau first, crashing into him so hard we both fell to the ice in a tangle of limbs and equipment.
"Did you calculate that?" I laughed into his ear as guys piled on top of us.
"I took a chance," he replied, grinning in a way I'd never seen before. "Some risks are worth taking."
The celebration continued in the locker room, guys shouting and laughing, replaying the overtime goal again and again. Coach allowed it for a few minutes before calling for attention.
"That," he said, gesturing to the whole room, "is what happens when a team comes together. When every player is free to be their best self, on and off the ice."
His eyes found Beau and me, a rare smile breaking through his usual stern expression. "Sullivan, Harrington—that's the defensive chemistry I've been waiting to see all season. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."
"Does that mean we can keep making out in the equipment closet?" Williams called, drawing laughter from around the room.
"It means," Coach clarified, expression serious again, "that this team supports each other. Period. Anyone who has a problem with that can find somewhere else to play."
The simple declaration, delivered in Coach's no-nonsense manner, settled over the room with unexpected weight. This wasn't just about Beau and me anymore. It was about something bigger—a culture shift that started with rainbow tape and ended with a statement that left no room for questions.
As the celebration wound down and guys headed for the showers, Reynolds approached us, his usual stern expression softened slightly.
"Nice goal, Sullivan," he said, offering his fist for Beau to bump. "Didn't know you had that kind of finish in you."
"Got lucky, I guess," Beau replied, but there was humor in his voice as he returned the fist bump. "Even I can surprise myself sometimes."
"Yeah, well," Reynolds cleared his throat awkwardly. "Just wanted to say... you two were right. The team's better when you play together. However that works."
He walked away before either of us could respond, leaving me staring after him in amazement.
"Did Captain Homophobe just give us his blessing?" I asked, not quite believing what I'd just witnessed.
"Part genuine, part hockey practicality," Beau observed. "Still a big step up from where we started."
I laughed, pulling him into a quick, one-armed hug before remembering where we were. But for once, Beau didn't tense or pull away. Instead, he leaned into the contact, just for a moment, before resuming his methodical post-game routine.
Outside the arena, both our families waited. My mom wrapped me in a tight hug, followed by Mia, who immediately began a detailed breakdown of the overtime goal that would have made Beau proud.
"That pass was sick!" she exclaimed. "Like you knew exactly where he'd be without even looking!"
"Sullivan and I have developed nonverbal communication patterns that increase our on-ice effectiveness," I explained in my best Harvard impression, making Beau roll his eyes.
"That pass should've been picked off," he countered. "But somehow your instincts made it work, anyway."
"My instincts, huh?" I grinned. "Not analytics?"
"Sometimes," he admitted, the corner of his mouth lifting in that almost-smile, "the numbers don't tell the whole story."
Diana Sullivan approached then, wrapping her son in a hug that softened his usually perfect posture. "That was magnificent, darling," she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Your father may not say it, but you were brilliant today."
Speaking of the devil, Sullivan Senior was making his way toward us, the Montreal connections trailing behind him like expensive shadows. His face gave nothing away as he approached, but I could feel Beau tensing beside me.
"Beaumont," he said formally, stopping a few feet away. "A word."
Beau straightened his shoulders. "Whatever you have to say can be said here. In front of my friends and family."
Sullivan Senior's jaw tightened fractionally. "The Montreal representatives were impressed with your play today, particularly the game-winning goal. They're willing to overlook this morning's... discussion... if you're prepared to be more discreet moving forward."
The clinical way he discussed his son's sexuality made my blood boil, but Beau placed a calming hand on my arm before I could say anything.
"I appreciate their interest," Beau said evenly, "but I've been reconsidering my priorities. The biomechanics research position offers me opportunities the NHL doesn't."
His father's composure faltered for a split second. "Don't be ridiculous. You've been working toward professional hockey since you were five."
"No," Beau corrected him. "You've been working toward it. I've been following along because I didn't know there were other options."
"This is about the Harrington boy, isn't it?" Sullivan Senior's eyes flickered to me with cold assessment. "You'd throw away your future for some college fling?"
I started to step forward, but Beau beat me to it.
"This is about me choosing a path that lets me be myself," he said firmly. "All of myself. The research I'm doing could help prevent career-ending injuries for countless athletes. That matters more to me than following the Sullivan plan."
"You're making a mistake," his father warned. "A career in hockey research will never provide the opportunities I've arranged for you."
"Maybe not," Beau agreed. "But it will provide something more important: the chance to be myself without compromise."
Sullivan Senior's expression hardened. "I see. Well, when you come to your senses, you know where to find me." With that, he turned and walked away, the Montreal executives following awkwardly behind him.
I watched Beau carefully, ready to offer whatever support he needed. A complex mix of emotions crossed his face—grief for the relationship they might have had, relief that the confrontation was over, and something that looked surprisingly like peace. His shoulders, usually rigid with the weight of Sullivan expectations, relaxed almost imperceptibly.
"Are you okay?" I asked quietly.
He considered the question thoughtfully, watching his father's retreating form. "I think I am," he finally said. "For the first time, disappointing him doesn't feel like the end of the world." A small, genuine smile touched his lips. "It actually feels like the beginning of something better."
Diana squeezed her son's hand. "I'm so proud of you, Beau. Your father will come around, eventually."
"And if he doesn't," I added, "his loss."
Beau watched his father go, his expression thoughtful rather than devastated. "You know," he said suddenly, "I've been thinking about organizing something for LGBTQ hockey players. Some kind of Pride event or exhibition series."
"Pride Skate Series," Mia suggested immediately. "Has a nice ring to it."
"It does," Beau agreed, looking genuinely enthusiastic. "Most college players don't have the resources or support to come out. Having visible role models could make a difference."
"That's a brilliant idea," my mom said. "Sarah Harrington, kindergarten teacher by day, hockey mom and ally organizer by night."
"We could start with an exhibition game," Beau continued, his mind clearly racing with possibilities. "Steel City hosting, inviting players from other schools. Rainbow tape and jerseys. Maybe partner with the biomechanics department to collect data on LGBTQ athlete experiences."
The way his eyes lit up talking about this potential project told me everything I needed to know. The NHL had never made him look like this—excited, inspired, fully alive. This was Beau finding his passion, perhaps for the first time.
"Dinner at Angelo's?" my mom suggested, including Beau and Diana in the invitation with her characteristic warmth. "My treat to celebrate."
"Actually," Beau interjected, surprising me with his directness, "I'd like to take everyone out tonight. If that's acceptable."
Four pairs of eyes turned to him in surprise. Beau Sullivan, voluntarily initiating a social gathering? Another unexpected development in a day full of them.
"I believe it's customary to celebrate significant victories," he explained, a hint of pink coloring his cheeks. "Both on and off the ice."
"I think that sounds lovely," Diana agreed, linking her arm through my mother's with the ease of old friends rather than new acquaintances.
As our mothers and Mia walked ahead, planning dinner details and rehashing the game's highlights, I pulled Beau aside, letting them get a few steps ahead.
"Hey," I said softly, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically nervous. "I need to tell you something."
His eyes met mine, curious and open in a way they'd never been before today. "What is it?"
I took a deep breath, heart hammering against my ribs. This wasn't how I'd planned it. There was no romantic setting, no perfect moment I'd orchestrated. Just us, still sweaty from the game, standing in a university parking lot while our families chatted a few yards away. But somehow, it felt absolutely right.
"I love you," I said simply. "I think I have for a while now. Maybe since that first time we played together and everything just clicked. Maybe even before that, when all I could think about was how much you annoyed me."
His eyes widened, lips parting slightly in surprise. For a terrifying moment, he said nothing, and I wondered if I'd completely misread everything.
"You don't have to say it back," I added quickly. "I just wanted you to know. After everything today, it felt important to tell you."
"I love you too," he said, the words coming out in a rush, like he was afraid they might disappear if he didn't say them fast enough. "I didn't have the vocabulary for it before. It wasn't in any of my statistical models or probability scenarios. But I do. I love you, Trey."
The simple declaration hit me harder than any check I'd ever taken on the ice. Beau Sullivan, who calculated everything, who weighed every variable and analyzed every outcome, was telling me he loved me without qualification or condition.
I pulled him into a kiss, not caring who might see, pouring everything I couldn't articulate into the contact. His hands came up to frame my face, holding me like something precious.
When we broke apart, both slightly breathless, the world around us seemed sharper somehow, colors more vivid, sounds clearer. I became aware of Mia whistling appreciatively in the background, and my mother's gentle laughter.
"Well," Beau said, a smile spreading across his face that transformed him completely, "I suppose that makes our relationship status unambiguous to any remaining observers."
"Definitely not Harvard's finest analytical moment," I teased, lacing my fingers through his, "but I'll take it."
His hand in mine, we walked toward our waiting families, toward dinner, toward a future neither of us could have calculated even a week ago.
Something fundamental had shifted between us. The careful dance of hiding and revealing, of calculating risks and managing variables, had given way to something simpler and infinitely more complex: truth.
Beau Sullivan was still the analytical, precise defenseman with the perfect posture. But now he was also just Beau, allowed to exist fully in the light rather than carefully partitioned into acceptable and unacceptable components.
And I was still Trey Harrington, the impulsive forward with the disciplinary history. But now I was also his partner, both on the ice and off it, no longer a secret to be managed but a future to be embraced.
Tomorrow, we'd start planning the first-ever Pride Skate Series. We'd figure out how to balance hockey with Beau's growing passion for research. We'd navigate whatever came next with his father, with the team, with our future plans.
But tonight was for celebrating everything we'd already won, both on and off the ice.