Page 5 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Five

Beau

T he concussion protocols were almost worse than the actual hit. Three days of tests, of the trainer shining lights in my eyes and asking me to track his finger and recall random strings of numbers. Three days of Coach Barnes checking in with uncharacteristic concern, of carefully worded questions about my medical history, of teammates treating me like I might shatter.

In the end, they decided I didn’t have a concussion, but I'd lost us the game. That was the part no one said out loud, but everyone knew. My inability to function in the noise and chaos, my breakdown on the ice... we'd lost 4-1, and at least two of those goals were directly attributable to my failures in coverage.

Coach hadn't blamed me explicitly. "These things happen," he'd said, his usually gruff voice softening. "We regroup and move forward." But I'd seen the disappointment in his eyes, heard the silent judgment. Sullivan men excel. This was a failure on an unprecedented scale.

And then there was Harrington.

The memory of his fight with Mercer played on a continuous loop in my head. The way he'd dropped his gloves the moment the whistle blew, the calculated fury in his movements, the words he'd spat at Mercer between punches.

"Don't. Fucking. Touch. Him."

Not "my teammate." Not "our defenseman." Him. Me, specifically. As if it were personal.

I sat at my desk, my biomechanics textbook open but unread, and replayed the moment again. The look in Harrington's eyes had been... possessive. Protective in a way that went beyond standard team loyalty. The kind of look that made something hot and unfamiliar curl in my stomach.

It was Tuesday afternoon. Five days since the game. Two days since I'd been cleared to return to light practice. Six days until our next matchup against Northern Tech.

And I couldn't focus on anything except Trey Harrington.

I opened my laptop, stared at the blank search field for a long moment, then typed with trembling fingers: "attracted to men but not gay."

The results populated immediately. Articles about bisexuality, sexual fluidity, questioning. Forums where men discussed experiences eerily similar to mine. I clicked on one titled "How I Realized I Was Bisexual at 22."

The author described a lifetime of dating women without feeling much passion, then a sudden intense attraction to a male friend that upended everything he thought he knew about himself. The parallels were unsettling.

I clicked back, tried another search: "Kinsey Scale test."

Twenty minutes and three different assessments later, I stared at results that consistently placed me somewhere between 2 and 3 on the scale. "Predominantly heterosexual, but more than incidentally homosexual," one site explained clinically. "Many men at this position on the scale may identify as bisexual or sexually fluid."

My throat constricted. This couldn't be happening. Not to me. Not to Beaumont Sullivan IV, heir to the Sullivan legacy, with NHL scouts tracking my every move.

But if it wasn't happening, why couldn't I stop thinking about Harrington? About the way he'd held me in the shower, the way his voice had dropped when he'd called me "good boy," the way my body had responded when he'd pressed against me?

I closed the Kinsey Scale results and hesitated before typing a new search: "gay hockey porn."

My finger hovered over the enter key for an endless moment before I finally pressed it. The results loaded, thumbnails displaying bodies in various states of undress, some in hockey uniforms, some not. My heart rate accelerated, my mouth suddenly dry.

I clicked on one titled "Locker Room Showdown."

Twenty minutes later, I slammed my laptop shut, breathing hard, my hands shaking. The evidence was undeniable. I'd been aroused. Intensely aroused. By men. By scenarios that reminded me uncomfortably of my own locker room encounters with Harrington.

I pushed away from my desk, pacing the small confines of my room. Parker was at his girlfriend's apartment, likely wouldn't be back until morning. I had the place to myself and my spiraling thoughts.

My phone buzzed on the desk. Another text from my father, the third this week.

"Scouts from Boston will be at the Northern Tech game. Make sure that head of yours is clear by then."

No asking how I was feeling. No concern for my health. Just the unrelenting pressure to perform, to excel, to live up to the Sullivan name.

I picked up the phone, staring at the message without responding. The weight of expectation pressed down on me, making it difficult to breathe. What would my father say if he knew what I'd just been watching? If he knew about the shower? About the way I couldn't stop thinking about Harrington?

I set the phone down without answering and returned to my laptop. Opened a new search: "famous bisexual athletes."

The list was shorter than I'd expected, but not empty. A few NHL players among them. Men who'd come out after retirement, mostly. A few who'd been out during their careers.

I clicked through to an interview with one of them, read his words about the freedom that came with acceptance, about how his performance had improved once he wasn't expending energy on hiding who he was.

That couldn't be right. The energy spent hiding was nothing compared to the scrutiny that would come with being out. The loss of opportunities. The disappointment.

The thought of my father's face if he ever found out made me physically ill.

I closed the browser, rubbed my eyes. This wasn't helping. I needed to focus on hockey, on improving my performance, on ensuring that whatever had happened during the Voyagers game never happened again.

I opened my video analysis software and pulled up footage from our practices. Without conscious decision, I found myself focusing on clips featuring Harrington. The way he moved on the ice. The explosive power in his stride. The way he could shift from aggression to finesse in an instant.

And more puzzlingly, the way my own performance improved when we were paired together. The metrics were undeniable. Despite our antagonism, despite the confusing physical reactions, my statistics were consistently better when playing with Harrington than with any other linemate.

It made no logical sense. I should be more distracted, less effective. Instead, my reaction time improved by 12%, my successful zone clearances by 17%, and my decision-making metrics by a substantial margin. My point production had nearly doubled in the limited ice time we'd shared. The drills where Coach had paired us—before everything went wrong against the Voyagers—had produced my best performance analytics of the season.

The evidence was right there in the numbers: something about Trey Harrington made me play better hockey.

My phone buzzed again. Not my father this time, but a team-wide text from Williams:

"Party at my place tonight. 9PM. Celebrating Davies' birthday + one week until we crush Northern Tech."

Several responses appeared within seconds. The usual variations of "hell yeah" and crude emojis. Reynolds added: "First round on me for the birthday boy."

I placed the phone face down on my desk, intending to ignore it. Social gatherings were draining under the best circumstances, and these were far from the best. Besides, Harrington would likely be there. The last thing I needed was to confront these confusing reactions in a social setting, with alcohol involved.

But as I turned back to my analysis, a new thought surfaced. Controlled exposure. A scientific approach to understanding these responses. I could observe Harrington from a safe distance, in a social context rather than the charged environment of the ice or locker room. I could test my reactions, perhaps even disprove them.

It was rationalization, and I knew it even as I picked up the phone and typed a brief response:

"I'll be there."

W illiams' apartment was exactly what I'd expected. Crowded. Loud. The air thick with the scent of beer and cologne and too many bodies in too small a space.

I navigated through the crowd with my standard defensive strategy. Minimal eye contact. A red cup in hand as social camouflage. Strategic positioning in a corner where I could observe without being drawn into multiple conversations.

I'd had three beers by the time Harrington arrived.

He entered with his roommate Kai, moving through the crowd with that easy confidence that seemed to come as naturally to him as breathing. Dark jeans hugged his powerful thighs, a simple black t-shirt stretched across shoulders broader than they had any right to be. His black hair fell across his forehead in that careless way that somehow emphasized the sharp angles of his face—high cheekbones, strong jaw, straight nose. A hint of stubble darkened his olive skin, giving him that perpetually unfinished look that contrasted so sharply with my own meticulously maintained appearance.

My mouth went dry at the sight of him, a reaction I was becoming distressingly familiar with. My eyes tracked the movement of his hands as he gestured while speaking—strong hands with blunt fingers, capable of both the violence I'd witnessed on the ice and the surprising gentleness I'd experienced in the shower.

"Sullivan!" Davis materialized beside me, slapping my shoulder with drunken enthusiasm. "You made it! How's the head?"

"Fine," I said automatically, my eyes still tracking Harrington across the room. "Cleared for full contact practice tomorrow."

"Awesome! We need you and Harrington as our shutdown pair against Northern Tech. Their top line is scary good."

I nodded, only half listening as Davis launched into a detailed breakdown of Northern Tech's offensive strategies. Harrington had moved to the kitchen area, accepting a beer from Williams, laughing at something Reynolds said.

The sight of him interacting easily with Reynolds, of all people, sent an unexpected spike of... something... through me. Jealousy? Betrayal? The idea was absurd. I had no claim on Harrington, no reason to care who he socialized with.

"...don't you think?" Davis was saying, looking at me expectantly.

"Sorry, what?"

He followed my gaze across the room, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Ah. Still thinking about how he went to bat for you against Mercer?"

Heat crept up my neck. "I was just... analyzing team dynamics."

"Sure, man. Whatever you want to call it." He tapped his cup against mine. "For what it's worth, I've never seen Trey that pissed during a fight. And I've seen him drop gloves plenty."

With that cryptic observation, Davis wandered off toward a group of giggling sorority girls, leaving me alone with thoughts I wasn't equipped to process.

I finished my beer, the alcohol creating a pleasant warmth that dulled the sharp edges of anxiety. Under normal circumstances, I'd have left by now. Made an appearance, fulfilled the social obligation, retreated to the quiet sanctuary of my apartment. But tonight, my feet remained rooted to the spot, my eyes continually finding their way back to Harrington.

The controlled exposure experiment was failing spectacularly. Rather than disproving my reactions, each glimpse of him sent fresh waves of awareness through my system. The way he gestured when he spoke. The flash of his smile. The shift of muscle beneath the fabric when he reached for something.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Parker.

Hey man, got Alicia over. Mind giving us some space until tomorrow?

I stared at the message, irritation flaring. It wasn't the first time Parker had sexiled me, but his timing couldn't have been worse. My head was already swimming slightly from the beer, and the prospect of finding alternate accommodations at nearly midnight was less than appealing.

I could crash at Davis's place, but his roommate snored like a chainsaw. The library was closed. A hotel seemed excessive.

"Looking a little lost there, Harvard."

I nearly dropped my phone at the sound of Harrington's voice, suddenly right beside me. He leaned casually against the wall, close enough that I could smell that familiar cedar-bergamot scent. When had he moved from the kitchen?

"Not lost," I said, slipping my phone back into my pocket. "Just contemplating logistics."

"Logistics?" He raised an eyebrow, taking a swig of his beer. "Sounds exciting."

"Roommate issues." The alcohol made me more forthcoming than usual. "Parker has a girl over."

Harrington's mouth quirked up at one corner, not quite a smile. "Ah. The eternal struggle of shared living spaces." He paused, then added with careful casualness, "You can crash at our place if you need. Kai's staying at his mom's tonight."

I blinked, certain I'd misheard. "Your place?"

"It's just a couch," he said, a challenge entering his voice. "Unless you're afraid to be alone with me, straight boy."

The nickname sent that now-familiar heat curling through my stomach. "I'm not afraid of you, Harrington."

"Prove it." He pushed off from the wall, finishing his beer in one long swallow. "I'm heading out now. You coming or not?"

Every logical part of my brain screamed that this was a bad idea. That putting myself in proximity to Harrington, after a week of increasingly confusing revelations about my sexuality, after several beers had lowered my inhibitions, could only end in disaster.

Yet I found myself nodding. "Let me grab my jacket."

The walk to his apartment was mercifully brief, the cool night air clearing my head somewhat. We traveled in silence, a careful three feet of space between us, the tension almost palpable.

Harrington's apartment was on the third floor of an older building near campus. He unlocked the door and stepped aside to let me enter first, a surprisingly gentlemanly gesture that seemed at odds with his usual demeanor.

The space was unexpectedly neat. A small living room with a comfortable-looking couch, a coffee table stacked with textbooks and notes, a modest TV stand. The kitchen was visible through an archway, equally tidy.

"Not what you expected?" Harrington asked, noting my surprise as he closed the door behind us.

"I expected more... chaos."

He snorted. "That's Kai's influence. He's borderline obsessive about organization." He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair. "Want something to drink? Water? Beer?"

"Water." My mouth was suddenly dry again, the reality of being alone with him in his apartment settling over me like a physical weight.

He nodded, disappearing into the kitchen. I heard the sound of a cabinet opening, water running. I remained standing awkwardly in the center of the living room, unsure what to do with myself.

"Sit down, Sullivan," Harrington said when he returned with two glasses of water. "You look like you're about to bolt."

I sat stiffly on one end of the couch, accepting the water with a muttered "thanks." He took the other end, leaving a careful distance between us. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint sounds of traffic outside.

"So," he said finally, "cleared for full contact tomorrow?"

"Yeah." I took a sip of water, grateful for the neutral topic. "Coach wants us back as the shutdown pair against Northern Tech."

"Good." His eyes met mine over the rim of his glass. "We work well together. On the ice."

The qualification hung in the air between us, laden with implication. My heart rate accelerated, that now-familiar heat returning to pool low in my abdomen.

"About the game," I said, desperate to focus on safer territory. "With Mercer. You didn't have to do that."

"Do what?" His expression gave nothing away.

"Fight him. Defend me." The words came out stiffer than I'd intended.

"It's the code." His voice was carefully neutral. "Any player would have done the same."

"Not like that." I set my water down, turning to face him more fully. The alcohol still buzzing in my system gave me a courage I wouldn't normally possess. "Not with... whatever that was."

His jaw tightened. "What are you implying?"

"You tell me." The challenge left my mouth before I could reconsider.

Harrington's eyes darkened. "You've been thinking about that a lot, haven't you?"

"No." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.

"Bullshit." He leaned forward, his eyes suddenly sharp. "You've been analyzing it like game tape. Rewinding and rewatching, trying to make sense of it."

He was right. But admitting that would mean acknowledging everything else I'd been analyzing this week. The shower. The research. The gay porn I'd watched while thinking of him.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I said, my voice lacking conviction.

"Don't I?" He moved closer, his eyes never leaving mine. "Because I think I'm the only one here being honest. You've been avoiding me since the shower."

"I haven't been avoiding you." Another lie.

"Then why can't you look me in the eye for more than two seconds?" He was closer now, near enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. "Why does your pulse jump every time I get near you?"

I jerked my gaze away, mortified to realize he was right. "This is ridiculous."

"No, what's ridiculous is watching you tie yourself in knots trying to deny what's happening here." His voice dropped lower, taking on an edge I hadn't heard before. "You know what I think, Sullivan? I think you're terrified. Not of me. Of yourself."

"Shut up," I snapped, anger flaring hot and sudden.

"Did I hit a nerve?" His smirk was infuriating, knowing. "Tell me something, Harvard. Did daddy dearest ever teach you how to handle wanting something you're not supposed to have? Or was that lesson right after the one about never showing weakness?"

The taunt hit its mark with devastating precision. I stood abruptly, fury coursing through my veins. "You don't know a damn thing about my father."

"I know enough." Harrington rose too, meeting me eye to eye. "The great Sullivan legacy. All those expectations weighing you down, making you so fucking uptight you can barely breathe."

"I said shut up." My hands curled into fists at my sides, trembling with the effort of restraint.

"Make me," he challenged, stepping closer, invading my space. "Or are you afraid of what happens if you touch me again?"

Something inside me snapped. All the confusion, the denial, the careful compartmentalization of the past week—it all coalesced into a surge of pure rage. I grabbed the front of his shirt, shoving him backward until his shoulders hit the wall with a satisfying thud.

"I said. Shut. Up." Each word came out between clenched teeth, my face inches from his.

Instead of fighting back, Harrington laughed—a low, taunting sound that sent a fresh surge of anger through me. "There he is. Finally, something real from the perfect Sullivan."

"Fuck you," I snarled, tightening my grip on his shirt.

His smile was sharp, dangerous. "Is that what you want, Harvard? Because your body's telling a very different story than your mouth."

I shoved away from him, putting distance between us. "You're delusional."

"No, I'm just not lying to myself." He pushed off from the wall, closing the distance I'd created. "You think I haven't noticed? How you watch me in the locker room? How you reacted when I held you in the shower?" He stepped closer, voice dropping to a taunting whisper. "How hard you got when I called you good boy?"

Heat flooded my face, a mixture of shame and fury. "That wasn't—I didn't—"

"You did." Another step closer. "And you know what? I've been thinking about it too. About how you felt against me. About the sounds you made. About what would happen if we took it further."

My back hit the edge of the bookshelf. Nowhere left to retreat. "Stop it."

"Why?" He was too close now, crowding me, his scent filling my lungs with every breath. "Because it's working? Because it's turning you on?"

I wanted to deny it. Wanted to push him away, to storm out, to preserve the careful facade I'd maintained my entire life. But my body betrayed me, responding to his proximity, to the challenge in his eyes, to the memory of his hands on me in that shower.

"This isn't happening," I said, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.

"Yes, it is." Harrington's hand shot out, gripping my jaw, forcing me to look at him.

"Let go of me," I demanded, but made no move to break his hold.

His eyes dropped to my mouth, lingered there. "Make me."

The taunt ignited something primal inside me. Without conscious thought, I surged forward, slamming him back against the opposite wall. His head hit with an audible thud, but before I could feel satisfaction at the small victory, his hands were in my hair, yanking painfully as he crashed his mouth against mine.

The kiss was violent, a collision rather than a connection. All teeth and fury and pent-up frustration finally finding an outlet. I bit his lower lip hard enough to taste copper, a savage thrill shooting through me at his surprised grunt of pain.

Instead of pulling away, Harrington retaliated, one hand sliding from my hair to the back of my neck, gripping hard enough to bruise as he forced the kiss deeper. His other hand found my hip, fingers digging in, pulling me roughly against him.

The first press of his body against mine sent a shock of awareness through my system. He was hard, unmistakably so, the ridge of his erection pressing against my hip. More disturbing was my own body's immediate, uncontrollable response—my cock hardening with embarrassing speed, a strangled sound catching in my throat.

Harrington broke the kiss, panting slightly, a triumphant gleam in his eye. "Still want to tell me you're straight, Sullivan?"

"This doesn't mean anything," I growled, even as my body betrayed my words, hips pressing forward of their own accord, seeking more contact.

"Keep telling yourself that." His hand moved from my hip to palm roughly over the front of my jeans, drawing a sharp gasp from me. "Your cock seems to disagree."

I should have pushed him away. Should have stopped this madness before it went any further. Instead, I found myself frozen in place, caught between the competing desires to flee and to press into his touch.

"What's it going to be, Harvard?" Harrington's voice was rough, taunting. "Run away again? Or finally admit what you want?"

"I don't want you," I insisted, the lie transparent to both of us.

"No?" His hand squeezed deliberately, making me choke back a moan. "Then why are you rock hard right now? Why aren't you pushing me away?"

I suddenly noticed how the muscles in his forearms flexed as he held me—years of stick-handling and weight training evident in every corded tendon. Despite everything, I couldn't help appreciating how his body had been sculpted by the same brutal training regimen as mine, creating something both familiar and enticing. A fleeting thought crossed my mind that his hands, roughened by hockey gloves and puck battles, would feel different from a woman's—stronger, more knowing somehow.

I crushed my mouth against his, pouring all my frustration, my confusion, my anger into the kiss. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tender. It was a battle for dominance, a clash of wills. His hands found my hips, calluses catching slightly on the fabric of my shirt as he pulled me harder against him. He bit at my lower lip, forcing a groan from deep in my chest.

The sound seemed to ignite something in Harrington. He pushed me backward, not breaking the kiss, until the backs of my legs hit the couch. With a hard shove, he sent me sprawling onto the cushions, then followed, straddling my lap in one fluid motion. His thighs, powerful from thousands of skating strides, locked around mine with the same efficient strength he used to pin forwards against the boards during games.

"Look at you," he taunted, grinding down against my obvious arousal. "So much for straight boy Sullivan."

I grabbed his hips, intending to push him off, but found myself pulling him closer instead, seeking more of that intoxicating friction. "Shut up."

"Make me." The challenge was clear in his eyes, in the defiant tilt of his chin.

I surged up, capturing his mouth again, swallowing his smug laugh. His hands found my shoulders, pushing me back against the couch as he took control of the kiss, deepening it, his tongue invading my mouth with the same aggressive confidence he brought to everything.

The taste of him—beer and mint and something uniquely Harrington—filled my senses, drowning out the warning bells clanging in my head. This was wrong. This was dangerous. This was crossing a line I'd never even acknowledged existed.

And yet I couldn't stop. Couldn't pull away. Couldn't do anything but grip his hips harder, pulling him down as I thrust up, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of the electrifying sensation that shot through me with each point of contact.

Harrington broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, pupils blown wide with arousal. "Bedroom," he growled, rolling his hips deliberately against mine. "Now."

The single word sent a jolt of panic through me, cutting through the haze of desire. This was moving too fast, hurtling past boundaries I wasn't sure I was ready to cross.

"I don't—" I started, uncertainty freezing me in place.

Harrington's expression shifted, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. "What's wrong, Sullivan? Afraid you can't handle it?"

The taunt hit its mark. My jaw tightened, pride warring with apprehension. "There's nothing I can't handle."

"Prove it." He stood, looking down at me with a mixture of challenge and hunger that made my skin prickle with heat. "Or are you all talk?"

I should have walked away then. Should have recognized the manipulation for what it was. Instead, I found myself rising from the couch, following him down the short hallway toward what I assumed was his bedroom.

Each step felt like crossing a threshold I could never un-cross. Yet I couldn't make myself stop, couldn't force my feet to turn and walk in the opposite direction. Some magnetic pull kept me moving forward, following Harrington into territory I'd never imagined exploring.

At his bedroom door, Harrington paused, turning to face me. In the dim light of the hallway, his expression was impossible to read.

"Last chance to back out, Sullivan," he said, mockery lacing his tone. "Before I ruin you for anyone else."