Page 4 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Four

Trey

N othing was working this morning.

I groaned in frustration, my hand moving faster as weak sunlight filtered through my half-closed blinds. My usual fantasies weren't cutting it. Not the guy from my summer league with the amazing ass, not the bartender from Thrash who'd slipped me his number last weekend. I was close but couldn't quite get there. My body was tense with need but my mind scattered.

"Fuck," I muttered, slowing down, considering giving up altogether. It was game day. I needed the release, the clarity that came after. It had been part of my routine since juniors. Clear the pipes, clear the mind.

My grip tightened as unbidden images flashed through my mind—copper hair darkened by shower spray, pale skin with a constellation of freckles, green-gold eyes wide with vulnerability.

Sullivan.

"No," I growled, trying to redirect my thoughts. Anyone but him. Anyone but the uptight, privileged asshole who'd been getting under my skin since day one.

But my traitorous mind circled back to the locker room. To the shower. To Sullivan's body, trembling against mine, naked and vulnerable.

The memory of Sullivan pressed against me sent an unexpected jolt through my system. My cock hardened further in my grip as I recalled the feeling of his body, the way he'd responded to my touch, my commands.

"That's it," I had whispered in his ear. "Good boy."

I bit my lip, rhythm quickening at the memory, heat pooling low in my stomach. Maybe this once. Just to get it out of my system.

I imagined Sullivan—uptight, perfect Sullivan—coming undone beneath me. Imagined pressing him against the wall, holding him there, whispering praise in his ear as he surrendered that iron control.

"You like that, straight boy?" I murmured to the empty room, the fantasy taking shape now. Sullivan blushing at the praise, at being called a good boy, at finally letting someone else take charge.

In my mind, he was fighting it—fighting me—until he wasn't. Until those green-gold eyes glazed over with want, until that perfect composure shattered under my hands, my mouth, my words.

"That's right," I whispered, hips jerking up to meet my fist. "Show me what a good straight boy you are."

I was close now, so close, my breath coming in harsh pants as I imagined Sullivan's perfect mouth open on a gasp, his pristine image crumbling as I claimed him, marked him, ruined him for anyone else.

The orgasm hit me like an open-ice check, sudden and devastating. I came with Sullivan's name trapped behind my clenched teeth, spilling hot over my fist as waves of pleasure crashed through me.

Reality came crashing back as I lay there, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling. What the fuck was wrong with me? This was Sullivan. The guy who'd transferred in and immediately become Coach's golden boy without even trying. The guy whose daddy probably had NHL scouts on speed dial. The guy who represented everything I'd worked so hard to overcome in this sport.

And yet I couldn't get him out of my head.

I cleaned up quickly, methodically, refusing to acknowledge the lingering images still flashing behind my eyes.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from my mom.

Good luck today, honey! Call me after if you can. Mia's recital went great.

I smiled despite my conflicted mood. Mom always knew game days, always texted. Never demanding, just present. She and my sister were the only constants in my life since Dad walked out.

I texted back: Thanks, Mom. Will call. Tell Mia I'm proud of her.

I pushed myself up from the bed, shaking off the lingering fantasy about Sullivan. I had a game to focus on. The Voyagers were coming in hot, known for their aggressive, borderline dirty play. I'd need all my concentration, all my discipline.

Sullivan was just a momentary lapse. A weird fixation born from that strange moment in the shower. Nothing more.

Just a way to get off on game day.

So why couldn't I shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted inside me?

B y the time I walked into Monongahela Arena, I'd convinced myself I was over it. The morning's... indiscretion... had been just that—a one-time thing to clear my head. Sullivan wasn't even that attractive. Not objectively. Too pale. Too precise. Too... everything that wasn't my type.

I spotted Kai by his locker. Most games, he might get five minutes of ice time, if he was lucky. But he never complained, never showed anything but gratitude for the opportunity.

"Ready?" I asked, dropping my bag into my stall beside his.

He snorted. "Ready to warm the bench, you mean?"

“Eh, you might get out there in third period if we’re up. Never know.”

"Got stuff for dinner tonight?" he asked, changing the subject. Our post-game ritual, win or lose—hanging out at our apartment, bitching about classes, and unwinding.

"It's your turn to cook," I reminded him.

"I'll do my ramen thing then. Got some cheap packets yesterday but picked up actual vegetables and an egg. It'll be good."

That was Kai—somehow making dorm food into something worth eating. We'd bonded over being raised by strong single mothers, over being outsiders in hockey for different reasons—him for his size and heritage, me for my sexuality.

"Will do. Thanks, man."

"Harrington!" Williams clapped me on the shoulder as he entered the locker room. "Ready to crush some Voyagers?"

I nodded. "Been waiting all week."

The truth was, I loved playing teams like the Voyagers. Physical, aggressive teams that thought they could intimidate their way to victory. Teams that underestimated me because I was openly gay, assuming I'd shy away from contact.

I lived to prove them wrong.

"Those fuckers play dirty," Reynolds added from across the room, already half-dressed in his gear. "Especially that goon, Mercer. Don't turn your back on him."

The locker room was buzzing with the particular energy of game day—focused tension, guys locked in their own pre-game rituals. Davis meticulously taping his stick. Matthews doing his weird jumping jacks in the corner. Williams blasting his hip-hop playlist at a volume just low enough to avoid Coach's wrath.

"You think Sullivan's been acting weird?" Kai asked quietly.

I froze. "What do you mean?"

Kai shrugged, seemingly casual, but his eyes were sharp. "Just... ever since your fight at practice. And then that thing at the party. He seems... off."

"Maybe he's just an awkward guy," I said, focusing intently on checking my skate edges. "Not everyone can be as charming as me."

"Right. And that's why you've been avoiding him like he's got the plague." He paused, then added, even more quietly, "Something happen between you two?"

Before I could answer—or deflect—Sullivan walked in, precisely twenty-five minutes before warm-ups. Always the same timing, never varying by more than a minute. I pretended to be engrossed in a conversation with Kai, but I couldn't help tracking Sullivan in my peripheral vision.

He moved with that careful precision that set my teeth on edge, placing his bag in exactly the same position as always. His face was a blank mask of concentration as he began his methodical pre-game ritual.

My mouth went dry as memories from this morning's fantasy crashed over me. I turned away, focusing intently on Kai's commentary about the Voyagers' penalty kill. But I could feel Sullivan there, just two stalls away, a quiet presence that somehow managed to fill the entire room.

We hadn't spoken since the shower incident three days ago. Had carefully avoided being alone together, had barely made eye contact during practice. The silence between us was loaded with things neither of us wanted to acknowledge.

"You're not even listening," Kai said, nudging me. "Look, whatever's up with you two, figure it out after the game, okay? Team needs your head in the game."

"Nothing's up," I insisted. "And my head's always in the game."

Kai gave me a look that said he didn't believe me for a second, but he dropped it.

"Looking a little tense there, Harrington," Reynolds smirked as he walked past. "Worried about getting your pretty face messed up by the Voyagers?"

"Fuck off, Reynolds."

He laughed, but moved on, clearly in too good a mood to pick a fight before the game.

Kai leaned in, his voice low. "Don't let him get to you. That's exactly what he wants."

"Trust me, Reynolds is the least of my problems today," I muttered, though I appreciated Kai's support.

Coach Barnes entered the locker room, game notes in hand, his expression serious but not grim. "Gather round, gentlemen."

We formed our usual pre-game circle, and I found myself directly across from Sullivan. Our eyes met briefly before he looked away, his jaw tight.

"Voyagers are coming in hot," Coach began. "Three-game winning streak. They're big, they're physical, and they don't mind taking penalties to intimidate."

Sullivan stood perfectly still, eyes fixed somewhere over Coach's shoulder. His hands kept adjusting the strap of his helmet—right side, then left, then right again. A nervous tic I'd noticed before but never really paid attention to.

"Harrington, Sullivan," Coach continued, pulling my attention back. "You two are our shutdown pair tonight. I want you shadowing their top line every shift. They've got that kid McIntyre—quick hands, nasty release. Don't give him an inch."

I nodded, but my stomach knotted. An entire game paired with Sullivan. After avoiding him for three days. After that morning's fantasy. Perfect.

"Nakamura," Coach turned to Kai, "I want you ready to go in the third. Your speed could be an asset if we need to open things up."

Kai nodded, surprise and determination flashing across his features.

"Questions?" Coach looked around the circle. "No? Good. Standard lines otherwise. Play smart, play physical, but play disciplined. Remember what happened against Keystone last season."

His eyes flicked to me for the briefest second—a reminder of my fight, my suspension, the championship we'd lost. I clenched my jaw but said nothing.

"Let's go, Steel City!" Davis shouted as we broke the huddle, and the rest of the team echoed the chant.

As we filed toward the tunnel for warm-ups, Sullivan fell into step beside me.

"We should talk," he said quietly, his voice tight but controlled. "About defensive coverage."

"Nothing to talk about." I kept my eyes forward, ignoring the way my skin prickled at his proximity. "Stay on your side. I'll stay on mine."

"It's not that simple, and you know it. Their top line runs cycle plays. We need to communicate on switches."

I finally looked at him and immediately wished I hadn't. Those green-gold eyes were intense, focused entirely on me, and something hot and uncomfortable twisted in my chest.

"Fine," I muttered. "You call the switch. I'll follow your lead."

A flicker of surprise crossed his face. I wasn't usually one to cede control so easily. But he nodded, seemingly satisfied.

The moment we hit the ice for warm-ups, I pushed everything else aside. This was hockey—the one place where things made sense. Where I understood the rules, the expectations. Where I excelled.

Warm-ups went smoothly enough. Sullivan and I managed to run our standard defense partner drills without awkwardness, the familiar rhythms of the ice providing a buffer against the tension between us. We weren't friends—didn't need to be—but we could be professionals.

During a water break, I couldn't help noticing Reynolds working with Matthews on face-off techniques, patiently demonstrating hand positioning over and over. For all his toxic bullshit off the ice, on the ice, Reynolds was undeniably one of our strongest players.

"He's been helping the younger guys a lot this season," Davis commented, following my gaze. "Says he wants to leave the program better than he found it."

"Still an asshole," I muttered.

Davis shrugged. "Complicated guy. His dad played for the Penguins' farm team back in the day. Never made it up. Reynolds has been chasing that NHL dream since he was like five." He tapped his stick against his skates. "Doesn't excuse the homophobic crap, but might explain why he's so intense about anything he thinks might hurt the team's image with scouts."

I watched as Reynolds perfectly executed a drill, then immediately turned to give pointers to a freshman. There was something almost desperate in his dedication—like a man racing against time.

It was easier to hate him when I didn't see him as human.

The Voyagers took the ice for their warm-up, and I immediately spotted Mercer—6'4", 240 pounds, with a reputation for targeting smaller skilled players. He caught me looking and smirked, making a show of smashing his stick against the boards.

"Real mature," I muttered.

"Ignore him," Sullivan said from beside me, startling me. I hadn't realized he was so close. "That's exactly the reaction he wants."

I rolled my eyes. "I've been dealing with assholes like him my entire career, Harvard. I don't need your advice."

Sullivan's expression remained neutral, but I saw something like hurt flash in his eyes before he skated away, back straight, movements precise as ever.

Guilt gnawed at me. He was trying to help, and I'd been a dick. But apologizing would mean acknowledging the weird tension between us, and that wasn't happening.

Not today. Not ever.

The arena filled quickly—a Friday night sellout, the crowd buzzing with energy. We lined up for the national anthem, and then the starting lineup took center ice. Sullivan and I would be second pair tonight, but Coach had made it clear—we'd be matching up against McIntyre's line all game.

The buzzer sounded, the puck dropped, and everything else faded away. This was hockey. This was simple.

Except it wasn't.

From the first shift, something was... off. Sullivan was a half-step behind on coverage, hesitating on pinches he'd normally make without thinking. His usual fluid movements seemed stiff, mechanical.

"Watch the backdoor!" I shouted as McIntyre slipped behind him, nearly converting a perfect cross-ice pass. Sullivan jerked his head around, as if startled by my voice, and barely got his stick down in time to prevent a goal.

In the neutral zone, I found myself having to cover extra ice as Sullivan seemed lost in his own head, his positioning uncharacteristically sloppy. Twice I had to bail him out on plays he'd normally handle easily.

Between shifts, I watched him on the bench—eyes unfocused, one hand constantly adjusting and readjusting his helmet strap in that same pattern. Right, left, right. Right, left, right. Over and over.

"What the fuck is wrong with him?" Reynolds muttered beside me. "Harvard looks like he's never played hockey before."

I ignored him, eyes still on Sullivan. Something wasn't right, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

First period ended scoreless, more due to our goalie's heroics than any solid defensive play. In the locker room, Sullivan sat in his stall, staring at nothing, his right leg bouncing in a rapid rhythm.

Coach paced in front of us, frustration evident in every line of his body. "What the hell was that? Sullivan, you're playing like you've never seen a forechecking pattern before. Harrington, you're out of position half the time trying to cover for him."

I opened my mouth to defend Sullivan, surprisingly, but Coach had already moved on to critiquing the forwards.

Davis leaned over from the stall beside me. "Sullivan okay?" he asked quietly. "Never seen him this off."

I shrugged, but found my eyes drifting back to Sullivan, who was now methodically adjusting each piece of his uniform, lips moving silently as if counting.

Second period started with the Voyagers on the attack, and things got worse. Sullivan flinched visibly at a particularly loud cheer from the crowd, then missed a routine breakout pass. Moments later, he hesitated on a pinch, allowing McIntyre to slip past him for a clean breakaway.

Goal. 1-0 Voyagers.

Coach was furious, but kept us together, apparently committed to his matchup strategy despite the evidence that it wasn't working.

The Voyagers, sensing blood in the water, started targeting Sullivan specifically. On our third shift of the period, Mercer lined him up along the boards—a textbook bodycheck that sent Sullivan sprawling onto the ice. Nothing dirty, just hard hockey.

But as Sullivan pushed himself up, I caught the look on his face—pure panic, his usual composure completely shattered. His eyes darted around the arena wildly, as if searching for an escape.

Something clicked in my brain. The flinching at loud noises. The repetitive movements. The complete loss of focus in a chaotic environment.

It reminded me of Mia during one of her sensory overload episodes. The same distant look, the same desperate attempt to create order through patterns and counting.

Sullivan was on the verge of a meltdown.

The realization hit me like a puck to the face. This wasn't just Sullivan having an off game. This was Sullivan struggling to function in an environment that was suddenly too loud, too bright, too everything.

Just like in the shower.

I skated closer to him as we set up for the faceoff in our zone. "Sullivan," I said quietly, "you're okay. Focus on me."

His eyes met mine, wide and disoriented, before he gave a jerky nod. "I'm fine."

He wasn't fine. Not even close. But telling Coach wasn't an option. Sullivan would never forgive me for exposing his vulnerability.

So I adapted. Started giving him simple, direct instructions. "Stay high. Watch point. Cover left." Short commands that cut through the noise and gave him clear tasks to focus on.

It helped, marginally. Sullivan's play steadied, though he was still nowhere near his usual level. We made it through the rest of the second period without conceding another goal, though the Voyagers continued to press.

In the second intermission, I made a point of sitting next to Sullivan, creating a buffer between him and the rest of the team. He didn't acknowledge me, but I noticed his breathing gradually syncing with mine—in for four, hold for four, out for four. The same pattern I'd guided him through in the shower.

"Alright, third period," Coach announced. "We're only down one. Get Sullivan the puck in transition. He's our best outlet passer. And for God's sake, somebody hit somebody! They're walking all over us out there."

As we took the ice for the third, I felt a new determination. Sullivan was struggling, but I could help him through this. We could still salvage the game.

That plan lasted exactly 2:37 into the third period.

We were in our defensive zone, Sullivan battling for position in front of our net with the Voyagers' hulking winger, Barnes. I was tied up with McIntyre along the half-wall, trying to cut off a passing lane.

I didn't see exactly what happened. Just heard the crash of bodies against the boards, followed by Sullivan crumpling to the ice, his stick clattering away.

The whistle blew as our goalie froze the puck, but my attention was entirely on Sullivan, who wasn't getting up. He was on his knees, helmet off, one gloved hand pressed against his temple.

I reached him first, dropping to one knee beside him. "Hey, you okay?" I asked, pitching my voice low so only he could hear.

"Fine," he managed, but his eyes weren't focusing properly, and I could see blood trickling from a cut above his right eye.

The ref skated over. "He needs to go to the bench."

I helped Sullivan to his feet, steadying him when he swayed slightly. As we skated toward the bench, I glanced back to see what had happened.

The replay was showing on the jumbotron—Mercer leaving his feet, driving his elbow directly into Sullivan's head while the ref's view was blocked by the net. A textbook dirty hit. And he'd gotten away with it.

Something hot and dangerous uncurled in my chest as I got Sullivan to the bench, where the trainer immediately began examining him. Looking across the ice, I spotted Mercer laughing with his linemates, shooting smug glances toward our bench.

After helping Sullivan to the trainer, I returned to the ice for the next faceoff. Coach had shuffled the lines, moving me up to play with our top defensive pair since Sullivan was out. The official dropped the puck, and play resumed.

I bided my time, waiting for the right moment. Hockey has a code—unwritten rules about what's acceptable and what crosses the line. Targeting the head was a cardinal sin, especially with a deliberate elbow like the one Mercer had thrown.

Three shifts later, the opportunity presented itself. The whistle blew on an offside call, and I found myself lined up across from Mercer for the faceoff.

"Nice of your boyfriend to leave the game early," Mercer smirked. "Guess he couldn't handle real hockey."

I skated closer, just enough to ensure he heard me clearly. "You want to throw elbows, do it to someone who can fight back."

He straightened, his eyes narrowing. "That an invitation, fairy?"

"Drop your gloves and find out."

It was the formal challenge—as traditional as they come in hockey. The whistle blew. Mercer's face split in a predatory grin as he tossed his stick aside and shed his gloves in one fluid motion. I did the same, shaking my hands loose.

The linesmen backed away slightly—another part of the code. Let the players settle it, but be ready to jump in when it's done.

We circled each other briefly before I closed the distance. Mercer threw the first punch, a wild right that I slipped under, countering with an uppercut that connected solidly with his jaw. He staggered back, but kept his footing.

"That all you got?" he taunted, spitting blood onto the ice.

I didn't waste breath responding. Just moved in again, grabbing his jersey with my left hand for leverage while I drove my right fist into his face—once, twice, three times in rapid succession. The satisfying crunch of cartilage told me I'd found his nose.

He landed a glancing blow on my temple that sent stars across my vision, but the adrenaline was pumping too hard for me to feel it. I maintained my grip on his jersey, keeping him close, denying him the space to land the heavy punches he clearly wanted to throw.

"Don't. Fucking. Touch. Him." Each word was punctuated with another blow. My knuckles splitting open on his face.

Mercer's legs buckled as my last punch caught him square on the jaw. He went down hard, and I let him fall, the universal signal that the fight was over. The linesmen immediately moved in, separating us, though there was no need. I'd already backed away, the code satisfied.

As they escorted me to the penalty box, I caught Sullivan's eye on the bench. He was watching me with an expression I couldn't decipher. Not surprise at the fight itself, which was expected given the code, but something deeper in his eyes at hearing my words. That "him" had been too personal, too specific, and I could see him processing it.

For just a moment, something passed between us. A current of understanding, maybe gratitude, his green-gold eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made my heart hammer harder than the fight had. He gave a barely perceptible nod, just a slight dip of his chin, but somehow it felt more significant than any words could have been.