Page 7 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Seven

Beau

I woke to unfamiliar sensations.

The weight of someone else's arm draped across my waist. The sound of steady breathing that wasn't my own. The scent of cedar and bergamot mixed with sweat and sex. Body heat radiating from a solid presence behind me.

Harrington. No, Trey. The name adjustment felt significant in a way I couldn't fully articulate.

For several moments, I allowed myself to savor the warmth. The unexpected comfort of another body curled around mine. The novel feeling of someone's breath against the nape of my neck. Then the analysis began, unstoppable as always.

Fact: I had slept with Trey Harrington. Fact: I had enjoyed it. Immensely. Fact: This contradicted twenty-one years of self-knowledge. Fact: No one could know about this.

My heart rate accelerated. I focused on my breathing, trying to prevent the cascade of panic that threatened to overwhelm me. Four counts in, four counts hold, four counts out. The same pattern Harrington had used with me in the shower. The memory sent heat flooding through me despite my anxiety.

Fact: I needed to leave.

I extracted myself from his grasp with careful movements, freezing when he stirred briefly, mumbling something unintelligible before settling back into sleep. I allowed myself one moment to observe him. Black hair tousled across his forehead. Long eyelashes resting against his cheeks. The stubble darkening his jaw. The sculpted planes of his chest rising and falling with each breath.

Objectively, aesthetically appealing. Only now I understood that my appreciation had never been purely objective.

I gathered my clothes from where they'd been discarded, moving silently across the unfamiliar room. Harrington's bedroom matched my mental image of him. Chaotic. Lived-in. Hockey trophies mingled with textbooks. Clothes draped over chairs. A Steel City University pennant pinned crookedly above the bed.

The bathroom offered a brief sanctuary. I stared at my reflection, cataloguing the evidence of last night's activities. Hair disheveled beyond recognition. A faint mark just below my collarbone. Eyes bright in a way I'd never seen before. I looked... different. Like someone else wore my face.

The shower provided a temporary structure. Hot water sluicing over my skin. The familiar routine of cleaning methodically from top to bottom. But even here, memories intruded. Harrington's hands on my body. His voice in my ear. "Good boy." The way those two simple words had undone me completely.

I dressed in yesterday's clothes, grimacing at the wrinkles. The shirt smelled faintly of beer and Harrington's apartment. The imperfection itched at me, a constant reminder of how far I'd strayed from my carefully constructed life.

Harrington's roommate was nowhere to be seen, for which I felt profound relief. The kitchen beckoned—clean enough, surprisingly. I located a simple drip coffeemaker on the counter, the kind you'd find at Walmart for fifteen dollars. Coffee grounds in the freezer. The familiar ritual of preparing coffee offered solace. Measure grounds. Add water. Press start. A concrete sequence with predictable results, unlike everything else about the past twelve hours.

My father's voice echoed in my head. Sullivan men control their impulses. Sullivan men don't indulge in distractions. Sullivan men certainly didn't experiment with other men. The voice had been my constant companion for twenty-one years. Now it seemed distant, faded, like an old recording played too many times.

"Morning."

Harrington's voice jolted me from my thoughts. I turned to find him leaning against the doorframe, wearing only basketball shorts that hung low on his hips. He looked... good. Unfairly good. The morning light from the kitchen window caught the angles of his face, highlighting the sharp cheekbones, the strong jaw darkened with stubble.

"I hope you don't mind," I gestured to the coffee maker, needing somewhere safe to focus my eyes. "I needed caffeine."

"Mi casa es su casa," he shrugged, the casual movement drawing my attention to his shoulders, his chest. I forced my gaze back to his face. "Though I usually just drink it black."

"That doesn't surprise me," I said, watching the dark liquid drip into the pot. "No cream, no sugar. Straight to the point."

The familiar banter steadied my nerves. This felt almost normal. Almost. Except for the memory of his hands on my skin. His mouth on mine. The way he'd taken me apart so completely.

"So," Harrington said, dropping into a kitchen chair. "Are we going to talk about it, or are we going to pretend it never happened?"

The bluntness was pure Harrington. No easing into difficult topics. No careful social navigation. Just direct confrontation. In any other context, I would have found it jarring. Now, it was almost comforting in its predictability.

I watched the way his body arranged itself in the chair—the casual sprawl of his legs, the relaxed set of his shoulders so different from my own careful posture. His right thumb absently traced the faded scar on his left knuckle, a nervous habit I'd never noticed before. The small movement drew my attention to his hands. Strong hands. Capable hands. Hands that had explored every inch of my body last night.

"What's there to talk about?" I turned back to the coffee, focusing on the familiar process to steady my own hands.

"Oh, I don't know, Harvard. Maybe the fact that we just had mind-blowing sex after months of pretending to hate each other?"

"I wasn't pretending," I muttered, but the statement felt hollow now, even to me.

"Could've fooled me, with the way you were moaning my name last night."

Heat rushed to my face. "I did not moan your name."

"No? What about when I called you 'good boy'? Because you definitely—"

"Enough." I spun around, coffee forgotten. My heart hammered against my ribs. "What do you want from me, Harrington? A detailed analysis of what happened? A flowchart of my sexual identity crisis? Because I don't have either of those things for you."

The words emerged harsher than intended, but Harrington just raised his hands in mock surrender, unfazed by my outburst.

"Easy, Harvard. I'm not asking for your psychological profile. Just trying to figure out where we stand."

Where we stand. The question implied solid ground when everything felt like quicksand beneath my feet. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this moment—standing in Trey Harrington's kitchen the morning after sleeping with him, trying to categorize an experience that defied all my existing classification systems.

"Where we stand," I repeated, running a hand through my damp hair. "I don't know where we stand. I've never done... this... before."

"This being sex with a guy, or this being sex with someone you supposedly hate?"

"Both." I sighed, leaning back against the counter. The cool laminate pressed against my palms, grounding me in the physical present. "Look, I need to figure some things out. But in the meantime, no one can know about this. Especially not the team."

"Because they'd give you shit about it? Or because daddy might hear?"

His tone hardened on the word "daddy," and I flinched. The accuracy of his assessment stung.

"Both, again. Reynolds might not harass me now, but he would if he knew. And my father has NHL scouts watching my every move. If this got out—"

"Your perfect Sullivan image would be tarnished," he finished for me. The words came out bitter, accusatory.

"You don't understand what's at stake for me," I said quietly.

"Then explain it to me." He stood, moving closer. The small kitchen suddenly felt infinitesimal. "Because from where I'm standing, you're using your old man and Reynolds as excuses to stay in the closet."

"I'm not in the closet," I snapped. "You can't be in the closet if you're not gay."

"Right. Because straight guys regularly come their brains out with other men."

His crude phrasing sent heat rushing to my face. I couldn't argue with the evidence. My body had responded to him in ways it never had to anyone else. The data was undeniable, however inconvenient to my worldview.

"Sexuality is a spectrum, Harrington. You said so yourself last night."

"Yeah, and you're somewhere on the not-straight part of that spectrum, Harvard. Might want to start coming to terms with that."

We stood toe to toe now, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. Close enough that I remembered vividly how it felt to have his body pressed against mine, his hands everywhere.

"What happened last night," I said, my voice dropping lower as I struggled to organize my thoughts, "was... intense. And confusing. And I need time to process it."

"And in the meantime?" he asked, his eyes dropping to my mouth.

"In the meantime, we're teammates. We play together. We act normal around the team."

"And when we're alone?"

The question sent a jolt of heat through me, my body responding before my mind could catch up. Pupils dilating. Heart rate increasing. Breathing pattern changing.

As he moved closer, I couldn't help cataloging the physical details I'd somehow overlooked before. The small scar bisecting his left eyebrow. The way his collarbone created a perfect shadow beneath it. How his throat worked when he swallowed, the movement hypnotic. The subtle shifts in his musculature as he breathed—thousands of micro-movements I could now recognize as distinctly Harrington. Distinctly Trey.

"I don't know if being alone together is a good idea."

"Felt like a pretty fucking good idea last night," he said, stepping closer, close enough that I could feel his breath on my face. The scent of sleep and mint toothpaste mingled together. His body radiated heat like a furnace, drawing me in despite my better judgment.

I swallowed hard, trying to maintain some semblance of rational thought. "This is exactly what I mean. I can't think clearly when you're..." I gestured vaguely at his bare chest, the contours of muscle that I now knew intimately, both by sight and touch.

"When I'm what, Harvard?" He smirked, clearly enjoying the effect he was having on me despite the serious conversation.

"When you're being you," I finished lamely.

He laughed, the tension easing slightly. "Look, I'm not asking for a commitment here. Not looking to hold your hand in the cafeteria or make you post about us on Instagram."

"Then what are you looking for?"

The question seemed to catch him off guard. He hesitated, something vulnerable flashing across his features.

"I'm not looking to be your gay awakening experiment," he said finally, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "I've been that for guys before. It sucks. But I'm also not going to push you out of whatever closet you think you're not in."

I blinked, surprised by his honesty. The consideration behind his words.

"I remember when I came out to my mom," he continued, eyes distant with memory. "She told me, 'Being honest about who you are isn't easy, but pretending to be someone else is harder.' She's always had a way of cutting through the bullshit."

The personal detail caught me off guard. Harrington rarely spoke about his family. The glimpse into his life outside hockey felt like an unexpected gift.

"I don't know," he admitted finally. "But I know I want to do that again. And I think you do too."

The straightforward statement cut through my tangled thoughts. The simple truth of it was undeniable. Yes, I wanted him again. The realization should have terrified me. Instead, it felt like finally solving a complex equation.

"Yes," I said softly. "I do."

Something in his expression shifted, softened. He reached out, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze.

"So we keep it simple. We play hockey. We act normal around the team. And sometimes, when no one's watching, we do other things."

"Friends with benefits?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He laughed. "Are we friends, Sullivan?"

"Definitely not," I said, but I couldn't stop the hint of a smile that tugged at the corners of my mouth.

"Enemies with benefits, then."

I rolled my eyes, but some of the tension had eased from my shoulders. "That's not a thing."

"It is now." He leaned in close enough that his lips nearly brushed mine. "So what do you say, Harvard? You in?"

My hand rested on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath my palm. His skin was warm, the contact sending tingles up my arm. My eyes dropped to his mouth, then back up.

"What about the team?" I asked. "Reynolds..."

"Fuck Reynolds," he said bluntly. "What happens between us is our business. Besides," he added with a smirk, "pretty sure Reynolds is compensating for something with all that homophobic bullshit."

His observation caught me off guard. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "Just something Davis mentioned once. Reynolds was weird about the showers freshman year. Always waited till everyone was gone." He raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't be the first time the biggest homophobe was dealing with his own shit."

The theory made a surprising amount of sense. I filed it away for further analysis.

"This is a bad idea," I murmured, even as my body leaned imperceptibly closer to his.

"Probably," he agreed. "But bad ideas make the best stories."

I searched his eyes, looking for mockery or deception. Found only heat and a strange sort of honesty. Up close, I could see that his eyes weren't simply brown as I'd categorized them before. They contained flecks of amber near the iris, darkening to almost black at the edges. His pupils were dilated, a physiological response mirroring my own interest. The data point was oddly reassuring.

His body language shifted as he waited for my response—weight transferring subtly to the balls of his feet, spine straightening by approximately two degrees, chest expanding slightly with a deeper breath. I found myself tracking these minute changes with a new level of awareness, my sensory processing hyper-focused on him in a way I'd never experienced with anyone else.

"Have you ever done this before? With a teammate?"

Something flickered in his expression. "No. I've had strict rules about not hooking up with teammates. Too messy when it ends." His thumb brushed across my jaw in a gesture that felt startlingly intimate. "Guess you're the exception."

"Why?"

The question slipped out before I could censor it. Why had he broken his rule for me, of all people?

"Because on the ice," he said slowly, as if discovering the truth as he spoke, "we're better together than we are apart. The stats don't lie. And off the ice..." He shrugged, not quite meeting my eyes. "Let's just say I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since that shower."

His admission sent a rush of heat through me. The knowledge that he'd been affected too, that this wasn't entirely one-sided, was strangely comforting.

Before I could respond, Harrington's phone buzzed on the counter. The screen lit up with Coach's name.

"Saved by the bell," I muttered, stepping back from him, relieved and disappointed in equal measure.

He grabbed the phone, scanning the message. "Coach wants us at the rink for extra drills before morning skate. Says our timing was off against the Voyagers."

I nodded, instantly shifting focus. Hockey. The familiar territory of ice and strategy. This I understood. This I could control.

"When?" I asked, all business now.

"An hour. Game's tonight."

I stiffened. "Tonight? Northern Tech is tonight?"

"Yeah. You didn't check your calendar this morning?" He looked smug. "Game day, Harvard."

"Shit." I ran a hand through my damp hair, mentally rearranging my day. "I was... distracted."

Harrington's satisfied smirk indicated he knew exactly what—or who—had distracted me. The knowledge that I'd forgotten something as fundamental as a game schedule change was jarring. I never forgot schedule changes. Never failed to check team communications. My routines were precise, reliable.

Until Harrington.

"Seven o'clock puck drop," he said. "Coach wants extra drills before morning skate to fix our defensive zone coverage."

I nodded again, mentally reviewing my pre-game routine. Everything would need to be compressed. Abbreviated. The thought sent a flicker of anxiety through me.

"I need to go back to my place," I said, checking my watch. 8:17 AM. Five hours and forty-three minutes until I needed to leave for pre-game skate. "Get my pre-game routine started."

"Always the ritual," Harrington said, but there was no mockery in his tone. Just something that sounded almost like fondness.

I gathered my things, movements efficient despite the unfamiliar surroundings. At the door, I paused, looking back at him. For a moment, I allowed myself to see him clearly. Not as the antagonist I'd constructed in my mind. Not as the cocky, undisciplined player who represented everything I wasn't. But as the man who'd held me through a meltdown. Who'd fought Mercer for targeting me. Who'd taken me apart and put me back together in ways I'd never imagined possible.

"See you at the rink," I said, my voice carefully neutral despite the turmoil inside.

"Sullivan," he called, just before I could leave. "About last night..."

I tensed, hand on the doorknob. "What about it?"

I braced for mockery. For some crude comment that would reduce what had happened between us to something simple, controllable.

"Play like you did with me on the ice before Voyagers," he said instead. "We were good together."

The simple statement hit me with unexpected force. The numbers. The chemistry. The undeniable fact that we played better together despite everything.

"I know," I said quietly. Then, surprising myself: "Maybe this arrangement has unexpected benefits."

Harrington's eyebrows shot up, a grin spreading across his face. "Hockey benefits? Is that what you're going to call your orgasm from now on?"

Heat flooded my face. I opened my mouth, closed it again, finally managing, "You're impossible."

"You like it," he shot back.

I didn't deny it, just shook my head and walked out, the door clicking shut behind me. In the hallway, I stopped, leaning against the wall as reality settled over me. I'd just agreed to a secret sexual relationship with Trey Harrington. With a game against Northern Tech tonight that would test whatever this was between us.

The anxiety I'd been expecting washed over me, but beneath it was something else. Something that felt suspiciously like anticipation. Like possibility. Like the satisfaction of solving a particularly complex equation.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. My father. I knew without checking the screen.

I ignored it, straightening my shoulders and heading for the stairs. I had a pre-game routine to complete. A strategy to formulate. And a newfound awareness that not everything in life followed predictable patterns.

Some variables couldn't be controlled. Like Trey Harrington, and whatever was happening between us. For once, the unpredictability didn't feel threatening.

It felt like freedom.