Page 27 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)
Epilogue
Trey
T he arena looked nothing like I remembered from our season. Rainbow banners hung from the rafters, replacing the usual blue and silver. The boards, typically covered in corporate sponsors, now displayed Pride flags and supportive messages from local businesses. Even the ice had been painted with multicolored lines in place of the standard blue and red.
Yet it was the crowd that really struck me. On a muggy June Saturday, seven months after we'd beaten OSU in overtime, nearly five thousand people packed the stands for an exhibition game that meant nothing in the standings but everything to the players on the ice. Kids in rainbow face paint sat beside college students in Steel City Pride shirts, families with homemade signs, and older couples who looked like they'd weathered decades of hockey seasons together.
I adjusted my helmet, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the special Pride jersey we'd designed for today. The white base fabric gleamed under the arena lights, with rainbow gradient numbers that shifted from red at the shoulders to purple at the hem. "Pride Skate Series" arched over a small rainbow heart on the front, while our names stood out in bold black lettering against the white background. The custom rainbow piping along the sleeves and waist added flash without being gaudy. Even the socks featured rainbow stripes instead of our usual solid blue. Each player represented a different college program but united by the cause—Steel City, OSU, Northern Tech, even Hartford had sent players to participate.
"Impressive turnout," I said to Beau as we stretched side by side near the bench. "You really pulled this off, Harvard."
Beau's eyes scanned the crowd, cataloging details with his usual precision. But the small smile playing at the corner of his mouth was new. Pride, maybe. Or satisfaction at a plan executed perfectly.
"We're beating our projections by almost forty percent," he replied, but there was warmth beneath the practical assessment. "The biomechanics department's already collected over a hundred surveys. Great sample size for the research."
"Only you could make a Pride event sound like a scientific experiment," I laughed, bumping his shoulder with mine.
He turned to me, that half-smile widening slightly. "Why not do both? Support queer athletes and gather data at the same time."
But then his hand found mine, just for a moment, fingers squeezing with a meaning that required no analysis. Seven months since he'd come out to his father, and these small gestures still hit me like a body check every time.
"Did you see my mom?" he asked, nodding toward the north section. "Third row, blue jacket."
I followed his gaze to where Diana Sullivan sat, elegant as always in Steel City blue. Beside her, to my surprise, sat my mom and Mia. The three had formed an unexpected friendship over the past several months, united in their support of us.
"She brought the signs," Beau added, a hint of embarrassment coloring his voice. "Pretty sure this falls under what my psych textbook would call 'excessive parental pride.'"
I grinned at his attempt to sound clinical about what was obvious to everyone else—Diana Sullivan was bursting with pride for her son. The handmade sign she held read "PROUD OF MY #28" in carefully painted rainbow letters.
"What about your dad?" I asked carefully. Sullivan Senior remained a sensitive subject, the wounds still fresh despite the months that had passed.
Beau's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "He said no to the invitation. Sent a check instead with a note about 'supporting the cause but having schedule conflicts.'"
The complicated mix of hurt and resignation in his voice made me want to pull him into a hug, public arena be damned. But I knew better.
"His loss," I said instead, keeping my voice light. "At least your mom's here. And she brought reinforcements."
"Yes," Beau agreed, eyes lingering on the unlikely trio. "Mother texted that they've been planning a 'pride brunch' afterward. Her exact words were 'I'm making up for lost time supporting who you really are.'"
The simple statement hung between us, carrying the weight of twenty-one years of Sullivan expectations and the still-new freedom Beau had found in breaking free of them.
"Hey, lovebirds," Williams called, skating past us with a rainbow flag tied around his neck like a cape. "Save it for after we win."
"Exhibition game, Matt," I reminded him. "No winning or losing today."
"Tell that to Reynolds," Williams said, nodding toward our captain.
Reynolds stood at center ice, deep in conversation with Coach Barnes. His rainbow captain's band seemed at odds with the guy who'd made homophobic comments in the locker room less than a year ago. Yet here he was, not just participating but helping organize, volunteering extra hours, showing up early to hang banners. The same guy who once told me to "keep that gay shit out of the locker room" had become one of the event's most vocal supporters.
I still couldn't figure it out.
"Something's definitely up with Reynolds," Beau commented, following my gaze. "People don't usually change that much that quickly. Especially not someone like him."
"Yeah, it's weird," I agreed. "But I'm not complaining. Never thought I'd see him volunteering to hang Pride banners after everything he said last season. Makes you wonder what changed."
Reynolds glanced up then, catching us watching him. His expression hardened for a split second before he nodded and skated toward the visitors' bench.
"OSU contingent is arriving," Beau observed, eyes tracking the players entering from the visitor's tunnel.
Six Ohio State players had joined the event, wearing their school's scarlet and gray blended with rainbow elements. Leading them was Carlson, their star goaltender, looking uncomfortable in his Pride-themed mask and pads.
"Good turnout from a Big Ten program," I commented, watching as the OSU players greeted their teammates for the day.
"Yes, especially considering..." Beau trailed off, his attention caught by something across the ice.
I followed his gaze to where Reynolds had gone suddenly still, his posture rigid as Carlson stepped onto the ice. Even from this distance, the tension between them was palpable.
"Weird," I muttered. "Those two have some kind of history?"
"Unclear," Beau replied. "But look at him - his pulse is racing, his shoulders are tense, and he keeps clenching his jaw. Classic stress response if I've ever seen one."
I sometimes forgot that Beau didn't just analyze hockey stats; he studied human biomechanics too. The way he could read physical cues most people missed still surprised me.
"Come on," I said, tugging at his jersey. "Let's get warmed up. Not everyone has your scientific detachment, Harvard. Some of us need to stretch."
The exhibition format divided us into two teams: Pride White and Pride Rainbow. I landed on Pride White with Beau, Williams, and two players from Northern Tech. Reynolds captained Pride Rainbow alongside Carlson and players from Hartford and Lakeside.
As we took warmup laps, I kept noticing Reynolds going out of his way to avoid Carlson, skating wide arcs around the OSU goalie as if sharing ice with him was physically painful. For his part, Carlson seemed equally determined to avoid Reynolds, focusing intensely on his stretching routine near the crease.
Coach Barnes blew his whistle, calling us to center ice for final instructions. The Pride Skate Series wasn't about winning; it was about visibility, community, and raising money for LGBTQ youth hockey programs. But hockey players are competitive by nature, and an edge of familiar pre-game tension hung in the air as we lined up.
"Remember," Coach said, looking around our circle, "this is about showing kids they belong in hockey, no matter who they are or who they love. Play hard, play clean, have fun."
His eyes landed briefly on Reynolds, a silent message passing between them that I couldn't interpret. Reynolds nodded once, jaw tight.
The crowd roared as the first puck dropped. Exhibition or not, hockey was hockey, and the pace picked up quickly. Without the pressure of conference standings, players tried trick shots and fancy passes they'd never risk in regular season. I found myself laughing as Williams attempted a between-the-legs shot that went hilariously wide.
Halfway through the first period, I came off the ice after a shift, gulping water on the bench, while Beau analyzed something on his tablet.
"Collecting data during the game?" I asked, peering over his shoulder.
"Testing a new tracking system," he explained, moving quickly through data screens with familiar ease. "It measures how players move and communicate in different situations. Turns out queer athletes might navigate space differently when they feel safe versus when they don't."
"And here I thought you were just enjoying the game," I teased.
He looked up, those green-gold eyes meeting mine directly. "I am. Turns out I can do both at once. Research and fun aren't mutually exclusive, Trey."
The simplicity of it hit me square in the chest. Seven months ago, Beau Sullivan would never have admitted to enjoying anything that didn't advance his professional hockey career. The Sullivan plan had no room for enjoyment for its own sake. Everything had been calculated, measured against NHL probabilities and his father's expectations.
Now he sat beside me, his research tablet in one hand and his rainbow-taped stick in the other, wearing a Pride jersey with SULLIVAN 28 on the back, looking more comfortable in his skin than I'd ever seen him.
"What?" he asked, noticing my stare.
"Nothing," I said, suddenly fighting an unexpected tightness in my throat. "Just proud of you, that's all."
A slight flush colored his cheeks, but before he could respond, Coach called his line for the next shift. He handed me his tablet, squeezing my shoulder briefly before hopping over the boards.
The game continued with the usual ebb and flow of hockey, but without the brutal physicality of the regular season. Pride Rainbow took a 3-2 lead into the final period on the strength of a beautiful goal by one of the Hartford players. I barely registered the score, too busy watching the increasingly strange dynamic between Reynolds and Carlson.
They never spoke directly. Never made eye contact. Yet they seemed hyperaware of each other's presence on the ice, their movements suggesting a complicated history I couldn't begin to unravel.
During a TV timeout midway through the third period, I watched Reynolds skate to the bench for water, his eyes fixed firmly away from where Carlson was adjusting his pads at the far end of the ice.
"What's the deal with those two?" I asked Williams, who was fiddling with his pride tape beside me.
Williams shrugged. "No idea. But it's awkward as fuck. Like watching my parents during their divorce."
The comparison struck me as oddly specific, yet somehow perfect. That same charged atmosphere of people who knew each other too well, with too much history and too many unresolved feelings.
Coach called my line, and I filed the observation away as I jumped over the boards. The rest of the game passed in a blur of rainbow jerseys and cheering crowds. When the final buzzer sounded with Pride Rainbow winning 5-4, both teams met at center ice for the ceremonial handshake line.
I watched carefully as Reynolds and Carlson approached each other. Their handshake lasted half a second, neither meeting the other's eyes before quickly moving on to the next player. If I hadn't been looking for it, I might have missed the way Carlson's hand lingered in the air after Reynolds pulled away, like he'd wanted to hold on longer.
Post-game, the locker room buzzed with the peculiar energy of competitors who had played for fun rather than standings. Players exchanged phone numbers and social media handles, making plans to meet up later for the after-party at Thrash.
I showered quickly, eager to find Beau and see how his research collection had gone. As I made my way down the hallway toward the equipment room where he'd set up his tech station, I heard voices around the corner. Angry, hushed voices that stopped me in my tracks.
"Seeing you here feels like some kind of sick joke," Reynolds said, his voice rough with an emotion I'd never heard from him before. Something raw and personal that made me instinctively press back against the wall.
"I came to support the cause." The defensive edge in Carlson's reply suggested there was much more beneath the surface. "When Davis sent the invitation, I thought... I don't know what I thought."
"That we'd what? Pick up where we left off?" A harsh laugh from Reynolds. "Four years of silence and then you show up wearing a rainbow jersey like nothing happened?"
"That's not fair, Jack." Carlson's voice had dropped to barely above a whisper, but the hallway's acoustics carried it to where I stood frozen. "You know why I couldn't–"
"Couldn't what? Acknowledge what happened between us? Look me in the eye after everything?" There was a tremor in Reynolds' voice I'd never heard before—our unshakeable captain suddenly sounding vulnerable. "You made your choice at Exeter. You chose hockey, scouts, your perfect reputation over..." A pause. "Over us."
The weight of that last word hung in the corridor. I knew I should walk away. This was clearly private, loaded with history I had no business hearing. But my feet wouldn't move, my back pressed against the cold cinderblock wall.
"I was eighteen and terrified," Carlson replied, his voice breaking slightly. "My parents found those texts on my phone, and overnight, my whole future was collapsing. What was I supposed to do?"
"You could have stood by me instead of throwing me to the wolves." The pain in Reynolds' voice was so naked I had to close my eyes. "Do you have any idea what it was like, watching you deny everything? Hearing you tell everyone I was lying, that I was... obsessed with you?"
A frustrated sound I couldn't quite identify. "What about now? You're getting another shot next season. Your last chance at the NHL. What's your excuse this time?"
"That's not fair," Reynolds shot back, his voice suddenly tight with anger. "You know what's at stake for me. I've been working my whole life for this. One more season as a super senior after sitting out sophomore year with that knee injury... this is all I've got left."
"And you think coming out would ruin that? After everything you've seen with Sullivan and Harrington this year?"
"It's different for forwards vs. defensemen," Reynolds argued, but his voice had lost some of its force. "Especially undrafted seniors looking for free agent contracts. One whisper in the wrong scout's ear, and I'm done. You've already signed with Columbus's system. Easy for you to judge from the safety of a contract."
The silence that followed felt suffocating. I tried to process what I was hearing, every interaction I'd ever had with Reynolds suddenly reframing itself in my mind. The homophobic comments. The unexpected support for the Pride Skate. The strange tension with Carlson.
It suddenly made a terrible kind of sense.
"Jack," Carlson's voice again, softer now, almost pleading. "It's been four years. When I saw your name on the Pride Skate roster, I thought maybe... maybe it was time to talk. To try to explain."
"There's nothing to explain." Reynolds' voice had hardened again, though something beneath it still trembled. "What happened at Exeter stays buried. We've moved on."
"Have we?" A shuffling sound, like someone stepping closer. "Because every time you look at me, I still see it. That same look from senior year. Like you're fighting the urge to either hit me or—"
"Don't," Reynolds cut him off sharply. "Just... don't, Eric. Not here."
I heard footsteps approaching and quickly ducked into an empty trainer's room, heart pounding like I'd just finished a bag skate. Through the partially open door, I watched Reynolds storm past, his face flushed and jaw clenched. A moment later, Carlson followed, moving slower, his expression a complex mix of anger and something that looked painfully like hope.
When the hallway cleared, I made my way to Beau's tech station, my mind reeling from what I'd overheard. I found him methodically packing equipment into labeled cases, his copper hair still damp from his shower.
"Hey," I said, leaning against the doorframe. "How'd the data collection go?"
"Really well," he replied, looking up with that small, genuine smile that always made my heart skip. "We got way more responses than expected. Already seeing some interesting patterns between out and closeted players."
"Of course you're already analyzing the data," I laughed, moving to help him pack. "Some things never change."
"Would you want them to?" he asked, pausing to look at me directly.
I considered the question, thinking about how far we'd come since those first antagonistic practices. Beau was still Beau—analytical, methodical. But now his data and calculations existed alongside other parts of himself he'd kept hidden for so long.
"Not a chance," I said honestly. "I'm pretty into the whole package."
His cheeks colored slightly, but he didn't look away. "Good. The feeling's mutual."
We finished packing in comfortable silence, the familiar rhythm of moving together that we'd developed both on and off the ice. As we loaded the last case into his car, my phone buzzed with a text. I glanced down, surprised to see Reynolds' name on the screen.
Can we talk? Not at Thrash. Somewhere private.
I stared at the message, suddenly remembering what I'd overheard between Reynolds and Carlson. Beau noticed my expression change.
"Something wrong?" he asked, closing the trunk.
"It's Reynolds," I said, showing him the text. "Wants to talk privately. I think... I think it might be about Carlson."
"Carlson?" Beau's eyebrows rose. "The OSU goalie?"
"I overheard something weird after the game," I admitted. "Reynolds and Carlson arguing in a hallway. About their past at Exeter. Sounded like they were more than just teammates back then."
Beau's eyes widened as he processed this new information. "That would explain a lot. The tension between them all day. Reynolds' rapid shift from homophobic comments to Pride support."
"Exactly," I nodded. "Now he wants to talk. What should I do?"
Beau considered this, his expression thoughtful. "You helped me figure things out. Maybe he needs someone who gets it."
I looked down at the phone again, thinking about how far we'd all come since last season. Reynolds, with his buried past and complicated present. Beau finally integrating all parts of himself after years of compartmentalization. And me, somehow at the center of it all, still figuring out how to be both a hockey player and a proud gay man in a world that often asked you to choose.
"Maybe all of us just need someone who gets it," I said finally, typing a response to Reynolds.
Meet at the visitor's lounge in 20. Just you and me.
His reply came seconds later: On my way. Thanks.
Twenty minutes later, I waited in the nearly empty visitor's lounge, a small room off the main concourse with a few couches and a coffee machine. Most of the Pride Skate participants had already headed to Thrash for the after-party, leaving the arena quiet aside from cleaning staff.
Reynolds pushed through the door, still in his post-game suit but with his tie loosened and the top button undone. The confident captain who commanded our locker room was nowhere to be seen. This Reynolds looked exhausted, shoulders hunched as if carrying an invisible weight.
"Thanks for meeting me," he said, voice low. "Didn't want to do this at Thrash with everyone around."
"No problem," I replied, taking a seat on one of the couches. "Everything okay?"
He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the careful styling. "You heard, didn't you? In the hallway with Carlson."
I considered lying, but decided against it. "Yeah. Enough to get the gist."
Reynolds nodded, his jaw tight. "Figured. Wasn't exactly being quiet."
"Look, man," I said, leaning forward. "Whatever happened between you two at Exeter, it's none of my business. But if you want to talk about navigating hockey as a not-straight player, I'm here. No judgment."
Reynolds exhaled slowly, tension visible in the set of his jaw. "It's my fifth year coming up. My last chance after blowing out my knee sophomore season. I've got exactly one shot left to make an impression on NHL scouts."
The raw anxiety in his voice hit me hard. I knew how much Reynolds had invested in hockey, how desperately he wanted that professional contract. He'd worked his way back from a devastating knee injury that had cost him an entire season, pushed through rehab that would have broken most players.
"Coming out complicates that," I acknowledged. "I get it."
"Do you?" His gaze was suddenly intense. "Because you and Sullivan, you're different. You've got two more years. You're established players. Sullivan's got family connections. I'm an undrafted super senior forward with a repaired ACL and no safety net. One whisper to the wrong scout that I'm gay, and I can kiss that free agent contract goodbye."
I considered this, thinking about how different his situation was from mine or Beau's. "So what about Carlson? How does he fit in?"
Reynolds' jaw clenched, something vulnerable flashing across his features. "Eric was everything back at Exeter. Best goalie in prep hockey. Top prospect. My best friend since freshman year. And then... more than that. Until his parents found our texts."
He paused, seemingly lost in memories I could only imagine.
"He denied everything. Said I was making it up, that I was obsessed with him. I became the crazy one, the stalker. People I'd known for years suddenly wouldn't look me in the eye. And I had to transfer for senior year."
The pain in his voice made my chest tighten. I thought about Beau's father, his threats and manipulation, and realized Reynolds had faced his own version of that nightmare at just eighteen.
"That's why all the homophobic comments at the beginning of the season," I guessed quietly.
"Defense mechanism," he admitted with a grimace. "Keep everyone at a distance. Make sure nobody would ever suspect."
"But now Carlson's here. At the Pride Skate. Wearing rainbow tape."
Reynolds laughed bitterly. "Yeah. Four years later, with a Columbus contract in his pocket, he's finally ready to talk. While I'm still scrambling for my one last shot."
The dilemma was clearer now. Reynolds had spent years burying this part of himself, focusing single-mindedly on his NHL dream. Now Carlson had reappeared, reopening wounds that had never fully healed, all while Reynolds faced the most critical season of his career.
"So what do you want, Reynolds?" I asked finally. "Because it sounds like you've got feelings for this guy that didn't just disappear."
His eyes met mine, suddenly uncertain in a way I'd never seen from our captain. "How do you do it? You and Sullivan? How do you balance hockey and... everything else?"
"One day at a time," I said, echoing the words that had become a mantra for Beau and me. "And by remembering that hockey is what we do, not who we are."
Reynolds was quiet for a long moment, considering this. "I want both," he finally admitted. "The NHL shot I've worked my whole life for. And... maybe a chance to hear what Eric has to say. To see if there's anything left worth fixing."
I nodded, understanding the impossible choice he faced. "So what's stopping you from having that conversation? Not coming out publicly, just talking to him privately?"
"Four years of anger. Fear. The fact that I still don't know if I can trust him after what happened." Reynolds rubbed his hands over his face. "And I have no idea where to even start."
The vulnerability in this admission from our usually unshakeable captain hit me hard. Whatever had happened between him and Carlson had left wounds deep enough to shape Reynolds into the person I'd known this past season—the homophobic comments, the rigid control, the unexpected support for the Pride Skate. All of it suddenly made a terrible kind of sense.
"You start by listening," I said finally. "Hear him out. Decide after if it's worth pursuing. But Reynolds," I leaned forward, meeting his eyes directly, "don't let fear make this decision for you. I almost lost Beau that way."
He nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "I don't even know how to reach out to him now."
"I might have an idea about that," I said, thinking of the contact information Davis had collected from all the Pride Skate participants. "But the real question is: are you ready for that conversation?"
Reynolds looked up, his expression a complex mix of hope and fear that reminded me powerfully of Beau during those early days of figuring out who he was beyond the Sullivan plan.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I'm tired of wondering what if. And seeing you and Sullivan today, being yourselves out there on the ice..." He shook his head. "It made me think maybe there's a way to have both."
"There is," I assured him. "It's complicated and messy and definitely not what either of us planned. But yeah, it's possible."
For the first time since he'd arrived, Reynolds smiled—a small, uncertain thing, but genuine. "So, about getting Carlson's number..."
B ack at Beau's apartment, we collapsed onto his couch, the physical and emotional toll of the day finally catching up to us. He kicked off his shoes and settled beside me, closer than he would have allowed himself months ago. I let my fingers trace the line of his shoulder, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt.
"Come here," I murmured, pulling him against me until his back pressed to my chest. He stiffened momentarily—old habits dying hard—before relaxing with a soft exhale that tickled my arm.
"The Pride Skate was a huge success," he said, fatigue evident in his voice despite the satisfaction in his eyes. "We hit all our targets. Fundraising, participation, research... everything."
"In normal human speak: it was a huge win," I translated, pressing my lips to the soft spot behind his ear. His skin tasted faintly of salt and the citrus body wash he always used.
"Yeah," he agreed, tilting his head to give me better access. "A win."
I let my hand slide beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers splaying across the warm skin of his stomach. Seven months together, and the simple intimacy of touching him still felt like a revelation. His breathing quickened slightly as my hand drifted higher, tracing the contours of his chest.
"This particular celebration method wasn't included in my post-event analysis," he said, voice hitching as my teeth grazed his earlobe.
"Improvisation," I murmured against his neck. "Sometimes the best plays are unscripted."
He turned in my arms, meeting my gaze with those green-gold eyes that still made my heart stumble. "I'm becoming increasingly comfortable with unplanned variables," he admitted, sliding his hand along my jaw before pulling me into a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened.
Our conversation paused as Beau's mouth found mine again, his fingers threading through my hair with a possessiveness that still surprised me. For someone who had once calculated every interaction, every touch, every word exchanged between us, Beau had become remarkably comfortable initiating physical affection when we were alone.
"I can't believe Reynolds is finally talking to Carlson," I said when we finally broke apart, my hands still resting on Beau's hips. "After everything I heard in that hallway."
"Think they'll figure it out?" Beau asked, settling more comfortably against me.
"I hope so. Reynolds deserves a shot at happiness, even with his NHL dreams on the line." I traced my fingers along Beau's jaw. "Everyone does."
Twenty minutes later, tangled in Beau's sheets with his head resting on my chest, I watched the late June sunlight cast golden patterns across his bedroom wall. His breathing had slowed to that contented rhythm that always followed our most intimate moments, his usual rigid control giving way to a peaceful surrender I'd come to treasure.
Outside, rainbow flags remained visible on lampposts across campus, catching the evening breeze. Throughout the weekend, the Pride Skate Series would continue with skills clinics for LGBTQ youth and a fundraising gala tomorrow night. Beyond that, the summer stretched ahead, full of possibilities neither Beau nor I had calculated into our futures a year ago.
But for now, in this perfect moment between the day's triumph and whatever came next, it was enough to lie with Beau's weight against me, his copper hair tickling my chin, planning the next season, the next Pride Skate, the next chapter of a story that had surprised us both from the beginning.
I pressed a kiss to his forehead, breathing in the familiar scent of him—citrus shampoo, clean sweat, and something uniquely Beau that I could never quite name but would recognize anywhere.
"I've been thinking about Reynolds and Carlson since I overheard them," I said, fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. "Those two have way more baggage than we ever did."
"No way," Beau replied with surprising certainty. "I doubt anyone could top our mess. But I'm curious to see what happens with them."
"Of course you are," I laughed, tightening my arms around him.
He lifted his head to meet my eyes, that rare full smile transforming his face. "Some people are worth watching more than others," he said, pressing a kiss to my jaw before settling back against my chest.
I held him closer, watching the light shift as afternoon surrendered to evening. We'd face Reynolds' questions soon enough. We'd navigate the complexities of being openly together in the hockey world. We'd build on today's success with next year's Pride Skate Series.
But right now, with Beau in my arms and the day's victory still humming through us both, I knew with absolute certainty that whatever challenges came next, we'd face them the way we'd faced everything else since that first confrontation in the locker room.
Together. On the ice and off it. No calculations needed.