Page 8 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Eight

Trey

I knew I was fucked the moment Sullivan walked into the locker room for morning skate.

Hair still damp from his shower, copper strands darker than usual. That familiar scent of his fancy cedar soap mingling with the sharp tang of antiperspirant and coffee. The slight hitch in his step that only someone who'd spent the night with him would notice.

Someone like me.

He didn't look at me as he placed his bag in his stall with that same methodical precision, lining everything up just so. Right angles. Perfect spacing. But the flush creeping up the back of his neck told me he was aware of me watching.

"Sullivan, Harrington," Coach Barnes barked, clipboard in hand. "You two are first up. Extra drills before the rest of the team gets here."

Sullivan nodded without speaking, already reaching for his gear. I kept my face carefully neutral. "Sure thing, Coach."

The locker room filled with the familiar symphony of preparation. Skates being sharpened. Tape ripping. Equipment bags unzipped. I stole glances at Sullivan as we dressed, remembering how it felt to peel those layers off him just hours ago. The way his breath had hitched when my hands had slid beneath his shirt. The unexpected softness of his skin contrasting with the hard muscle beneath.

"Today, Harrington," Sullivan said, already fully geared up and waiting by the door while I still had one skate unlaced.

"Keep your panties on, Harvard," I shot back, loud enough for the few other early arrivals to hear. Reynolds snorted from across the room.

The familiar insult rolled off my tongue too easily, a performance for our audience. Our agreed-upon cover. Act normal around the team. But my eyes met his briefly, and something electric passed between us. The memory of him beneath me, coming apart at my command.

On the ice, the tension shifted into something different. Something familiar. The crisp sound of our blades cutting through fresh ice. The hollow thwack of pucks against the boards during warm-up shots.

"Defensive zone coverage," Coach called, dropping pucks into position. "Sullivan, I want you playing the body more aggressively on the cycle. Harrington, tighten up your gap control."

We ran the drill a dozen times. Northern Tech's top line was known for their cycle game, maintaining possession along the boards before creating high-danger chances in the slot. Each repetition brought us closer to perfect synchronization. Reading each other's positioning. Anticipating movements. Communicating with subtle nods and quick glances rather than words.

By the tenth repetition, we were moving like we shared a brain. Sullivan stepping up at exactly the right moment, me sliding into position to cover the passing lane, both of us collapsing on the puck carrier in perfect harmony.

"Better," Coach grunted, which from Barnes was high praise. "Much better. Now run it again."

As we reset, Sullivan skated close enough that only I could hear his voice. "Your left side's open."

Not a criticism. Just information, delivered in that clipped, precise way of his. I adjusted my positioning slightly, feeling the improvement immediately when we ran the drill again.

"Northern Tech's forwards average six-two, two hundred pounds," Sullivan added during the next reset. "They'll try to overpower you on the wall."

I raised an eyebrow. "You been studying their stats, Harvard?"

His mouth quirked slightly, almost a smile. "Someone has to."

The rest of the team filed onto the ice gradually, and our private practice session transformed into full-team morning skate. Sullivan and I separated naturally, him joining the defensemen's shooting drills while I worked on breakouts with the forwards.

But I remained acutely aware of him across the ice. The fluid efficiency of his movements. The intensity of his focus. The way other players naturally deferred to his positioning. And underlying it all, the impossible knowledge of how he'd looked in my bed last night, guard down, control shattered.

In the locker room afterward, we maintained our careful distance. Sullivan with his precisely spaced gear, silent intensity radiating from him as he methodically removed each piece in order. Me with my chaotic stall, equipment strewn haphazardly, engaging in the usual locker room banter.

"Voyageurs scouting report," Reynolds announced, emerging from Coach's office with a stack of papers. "Northern Tech's been on a tear. Four-game winning streak."

"Their goalie's garbage, though," Williams countered, accepting his copy. "Let up five goals against Eastern last weekend."

"Yeah, but their first line's been lighting it up," Davis added. "Peters has nine points in his last three games."

Sullivan said nothing, just accepted his copy of the report and began scanning it with that same laser focus he brought to everything. I caught myself watching the way his eyes moved across the page, remembering how those same eyes had darkened with desire when I'd called him "good boy."

"Earth to Harrington." Matthews waved a hand in front of my face. "You planning on showering today, or just stinking up the locker room?"

I flipped him off casually, forcing my attention away from Sullivan. "Just planning my celebration for when I score on these Northern Tech fuckers tonight."

The locker room emptied gradually as players headed to class or lunch, leaving the usual pre-game quiet. I lingered in the shower longer than necessary, hot water sluicing over tired muscles, steam filling the tiled space. By the time I emerged, only Sullivan remained, meticulously packing his bag.

"See something interesting in that scouting report, Harvard?" I asked, towel slung low on my hips as I approached my stall.

His eyes flicked up, then deliberately away. "Their defenseman Carter has a tendency to pinch on his weak side. Creates two-on-one opportunities if you can beat him to the outside."

Pure hockey talk. Safe. Professional. But the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him.

"I'll keep that in mind," I said, deliberately taking my time drying off, watching his profile from the corner of my eye. "Got plans before the game?"

"My usual routine," he replied, still not looking directly at me. "You?"

I shrugged, pulling on my jeans. "Nap. Protein shake. The usual."

The silence between us hummed with unspoken awareness. Last night had changed things between us, created a new current that ran beneath our usual antagonism. I could see him struggling with it, that analytical brain of his trying to categorize what couldn't be easily defined.

"About last night," I started, keeping my voice low despite the empty locker room.

"Not here," he cut me off, finally looking at me directly. His green-gold eyes were guarded but intense. "We agreed."

"Right." I ran a hand through my damp hair, frustration and something softer mingling in my chest. "Team-only spaces. Forgot."

His expression softened fractionally. "I'm not saying we can't... discuss things. Just not here."

The careful phrasing made me want to push him against the lockers and kiss that proper vocabulary right out of his mouth. See how articulate he could be with my hands on him.

Instead, I nodded. "Later, then."

He hesitated, then nodded back before slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading for the door. I watched him go, the confident straight line of his back, the precise rhythm of his steps. The surreal knowledge that I knew exactly what that body looked like without the careful layers of clothing. How it felt beneath my hands.

The door swung shut behind him, leaving me alone with thoughts far more complicated than I'd bargained for when I'd started this... whatever this was.

I finished dressing and headed out, the cold Pittsburgh air a shock after the warmth of the locker room. Six hours until game time. Six hours to get my head straight and remember that this thing with Sullivan was just physical. Just blowing off steam. Just a way to channel the weird antagonistic energy that had been building between us since the day he'd transferred to Steel City.

Back at my apartment, I settled into my pre-game routine. Lunch. Game film. Nap. When it came time for the final part of my ritual—jerking off to clear the pipes, clear the mind—I found myself thinking about Sullivan. Not just thinking. Remembering. The way he'd felt beneath me last night. The way he'd said my name.

I came embarrassingly fast, Sullivan's name trapped behind gritted teeth.

This game night was already different from any other. Might as well embrace the change.

Game nights at Monongahela Arena had their own specific sensory signature. The sharp bite of refrigerated air. The low, expectant hum of the crowd filtering in. The hollow echo of pucks hitting the boards during warm-ups. The squeak of blades on fresh ice during pre-game laps.

From the moment I stepped onto the ice for warm-ups, I could feel it. The extra edge in the atmosphere. Northern Tech brought their own fanbase, a rowdy section of purple and gold that clashed with Steel City's blue and silver. Their players were already on the ice, running through their drills with the cocky confidence of a team on a win streak.

Sullivan emerged from the tunnel right on schedule, exactly twelve minutes before official warm-ups began. He always did that, taking a few solitary moments on the ice before the rest of the team joined. I watched as he performed his ritual. Three laps counterclockwise. Ten gentle wrist shots from the hash marks. Stretching routine at center ice, the same sequence every time.

I joined him for the last part, dropping into a stretch beside him. "Daniels has been watching you since you came out," I said quietly, nodding toward Northern Tech's hulking defenseman.

Sullivan didn't visibly react, continuing his routine without interruption. "He can watch all he wants."

"He's got a reputation. Targets smaller players, especially skilled ones."

Sullivan raised an eyebrow. "I'm six-one. Hardly small."

"Yeah, well, you skate pretty. Guys like Daniels hate that." I watched Northern Tech's bench, where Daniels was talking with teammates. "He did the same thing to Eastern's smallest forward last month. Left his feet, targeted the head. Kid missed three weeks with a concussion."

The mention of the dirty hit made Sullivan's expression harden slightly. "Good to know."

The rest of the team spilled onto the ice, and our conversation ended. But as I skated through warm-ups, I kept one eye on Daniels, noticing how the Northern Tech enforcer tracked Sullivan's movements. Something territorial and hot unfurled in my chest at the observation.

Pre-game warm-ups blurred into the familiar rituals of preparation. Coach's strategy reminders. Final equipment adjustments. The national anthem with Sullivan standing beside me in the line-up, our shoulders not quite touching.

The puck dropped, and everything else fell away. Just hockey. The language I'd been fluent in since I was five years old. The only place where things had always made perfect sense.

Sullivan and I were paired from the first shift, tasked with shutting down Northern Tech's high-scoring first line. From the moment we hit the ice together, something clicked. The same chemistry from morning skate, but amplified by the game environment. We communicated without words, reading each other's positioning instinctively.

Northern Tech's top center, Peters, tried to establish the cycle on his first shift, muscling his way along the boards. Sullivan anticipated the move, stepping into the play with uncharacteristic physicality. His shoulder caught Peters square in the chest, separating man from puck with surgical precision. I swooped in to collect the loose puck, starting the breakout with a clean tape-to-tape pass to Williams.

"Nice fucking hit," I said as we retreated to the bench after the shift.

Sullivan nodded, eyes tracking the play. "He over-commits on his forehand. Leaves himself vulnerable."

By the end of the first period, it was clear something special was happening. Sullivan was playing the best hockey I'd ever seen from him. Not just his usual positional excellence and precise passing. He was adding a physical edge that had been missing from his game, finishing checks, battling in front of our net with a ferocity that seemed to surprise Northern Tech's forwards.

"Sullivan and Harrington, you're up against their first line next shift," Coach called as the second period began. "Keep doing what you're doing. They've got nothing."

Sullivan nodded, that laser focus firmly in place as we hit the ice again. Three minutes into the period, Northern Tech mounted their first sustained offensive pressure. Peters slipped a cross-ice pass to his winger, who one-timed a shot that our goalie blocked into the corner. The puck rimmed around to Daniels at the point, who wound up for a heavy slap shot.

Sullivan read the play perfectly. He dropped to one knee in the shooting lane, expanding his body to take away the angle. The puck caught him square in the chest protector, the impact audible even from my position near the hash marks. In one fluid motion, he was back on his feet, corralling the rebound and starting up ice.

What happened next was something I'd never seen from Sullivan before. Instead of making the safe play, the simple chip up the boards, he accelerated through the neutral zone. He cut across the blue line with surprising speed, catching Northern Tech's defense flat-footed. Their defenseman Carter committed exactly as Sullivan had predicted from the scouting report, pinching toward the wall. Sullivan expertly pulled the puck to his backhand, slipping past Carter and suddenly finding himself on a clear break toward the net.

The entire arena seemed to hold its breath. Sullivan wasn't known for his offensive prowess. Five career NCAA goals, all straightforward point shots. But in this moment, he was channeling something different, something unexpected.

He closed in on the Northern Tech goalie, shoulders faking a forehand shot before pulling the puck smoothly to his backhand and lifting it over the sprawling netminder's pad.

The red light flashed. The arena erupted. Sullivan had scored his first goal of the season, and it was a fucking beauty.

I reached him first in the celebration, crashing into him with probably more force than necessary, wrapping him in a hug that lifted him briefly off the ice. "Holy shit, Harvard!" I shouted over the noise. "Where the fuck did that come from?"

His face was flushed with exertion and something that looked suspiciously like joy. For once, that careful mask had slipped completely, revealing a fierce, almost savage satisfaction. "Told you Carter over-commits to his weak side."

The rest of the team mobbed us, thumping Sullivan's helmet, shouting congratulations. Even Reynolds looked impressed, giving Sullivan a respectful tap of his stick against his shin pads when we returned to the bench.

"That was Sullivan?" Davis asked incredulously as we watched the replay on the jumbotron. "Are we sure he didn't get body-snatched or something?"

I couldn't stop the grin from spreading across my face. "Turns out Harvard's got some hands."

Sullivan sat beside me on the bench, his breathing gradually returning to normal, but something had changed in his demeanor. A new confidence, a looseness in his usually rigid posture. He leaned toward me slightly, his voice pitched for my ears only.

"Twenty-seven percent increase in my puck possession metrics today," he murmured, eyes fixed on the ice. "And that was my first shot at over ninety miles per hour all season."

Only Sullivan would be calculating his metrics in the middle of a game. But the implication was clear. He was playing better than ever before, and he was connecting it directly to what had happened between us last night.

The thought sent an unexpected thrill through me.

The second period ended with us up 1-0 on Sullivan's goal. In the locker room, Coach made minimal adjustments. "Keep doing what you're doing. Sullivan, Harrington, you two are shutting them down perfectly. Peters doesn't have a shot on goal yet." He glanced toward the end of the bench where Kai sat, quietly re-wrapping the tape on his stick. "Nakamura, I want you ready for the third. Your speed could give us an advantage if they start pressing."

Kai looked up, surprise flashing across his features. Despite his sprained ankle still healing, Coach was giving him a shot. "Yes, Coach."

Northern Tech came out hard in the third, desperate to even the score. Eight minutes in, Coach gave Kai the nod. "Fourth line, you're up. Nakamura, I want you pushing the pace."

Kai slipped over the boards, his first shift in nearly two weeks. His speed was evident immediately, his edges sharp as he darted through the neutral zone during his first touch of the puck. Northern Tech struggled to contain him as he weaved through their defense, nearly setting up Williams for a scoring chance.

But Northern Tech's frustration was mounting with each passing minute. During Kai's second shift, he collected a loose puck near the Northern Tech bench. As he turned to start up ice, Daniels came flying across, leaving his feet and driving his shoulder directly into Kai's head.

The impact sent Kai spinning, his smaller frame crumpling to the ice like a rag doll. His helmet went flying, skittering across the surface. He didn't move.

The arena went silent for a split second before erupting in outrage. Our bench exploded, players on their feet, sticks banging against the boards. Davis and Matthews were halfway over the boards before Coach pulled them back.

"You're fucking dead, Daniels!" Reynolds shouted from our bench. "Fucking dead!"

Even Coach was livid, screaming at the officials as our trainer rushed onto the ice to attend to Kai. Sullivan's face had gone stone cold beside me, his eyes locked on Daniels, who was already being escorted to the penalty box with only a minor penalty.

"That's five and a game!" Coach was shouting. "He left his feet! Targeted the head!"

As Kai was helped off the ice, wobbling on uncertain legs, a cold fury settled in my chest. This wasn't hockey. This was predatory bullshit from a guy who specifically went after the smallest player on our team—my roommate, who'd worked twice as hard as anyone else just to earn his spot as a walk-on.

"Harrington." Reynolds' voice cut through the chaos as we regrouped on the bench. His face was hard, eyes cold. He gave me a single nod, no words necessary.

I nodded back, understanding perfectly. This transcended personal differences. This was about The Code.

When I hit the ice for the power play, I could feel the electricity in the building. The crowd knew what was coming. The Northern Tech bench knew what was coming. Everyone knew.

As soon as Daniels stepped out of the box after his pathetically inadequate two-minute minor, I made my move. I didn't even wait for the whistle. Just dropped my gloves and went straight for him.

"You piece of shit!" I snarled, grabbing his jersey with my left hand. "You think targeting the smallest guy on the ice makes you tough?"

Daniels tried to backpedal. "It was a hockey play—"

My right fist cut off his excuse, connecting solidly with his jaw. "Leaving your feet? Targeting his head? That's not hockey!" Another punch landed flush on his nose. "That's against The Code!"

He fought back, landing a glancing blow to my temple that barely registered through the rage. This wasn't just a fight. This was justice. For Kai, for every smaller player who'd been targeted by goons who mistook bullying for toughness.

"The smallest guy on our team!" I punctuated each word with another punch. "Our fucking walk-on!"

The linesmen finally intervened, separating us. As they escorted me to the penalty box, the entire arena stood and applauded. Northern Tech's coach was protesting furiously, but even the refs seemed to understand what had happened. They'd missed the call on the ice, and hockey had its own system of justice.

Five for fighting. Worth every second.

From the penalty box, I saw Sullivan step up his game even further. He played like a man possessed, logging nearly four straight minutes on the penalty kill, single-handedly shutting down Northern Tech's power play. When he finally made it to the bench for a change, gasping for air, his eyes found mine in the penalty box. He nodded once, a gesture of acknowledgment that somehow felt more significant than any words could have been.

In the training room, Kai was being evaluated for a concussion. Through the glass partition, I could see his face was ghostly pale, but he raised his hand in a small thumbs-up when he saw me in the box.

When I was finally released, the game was tied 1-1, Northern Tech having scored on a fluky deflection. Five minutes remained in regulation. Coach immediately paired Sullivan and me together again, sending us out against Northern Tech's top line for what would likely be the decisive shift.

We'd barely settled into a defensive position when Peters attempted a cross-ice pass that Sullivan read perfectly. He stepped into the lane, intercepting the puck and immediately transitioning to offense. Northern Tech's defense scrambled to recover.

Sullivan carried the puck to the blue line before firing a perfect pass to me, streaking down the right wing. I caught the pass in stride, took two quick steps, and found myself alone with the goalie. A quick forehand-backhand move, and the puck was in the net.

2-1 Steel City, with 3:47 remaining.

The celebration was electric. Sullivan reached me first this time, his usually stoic face transformed by raw emotion as we collided in a full-body embrace. The rest of the team piled on, a mass of blue and silver jerseys and pure euphoria.

"Fucking beautiful pass," I shouted into his ear above the roar of the crowd.

"Fucking beautiful finish," he shot back, eyes bright with something I'd never seen from him before. Pure, unfiltered joy.

We held on for the win, the final horn triggering another round of celebration. The locker room afterward was buzzing with the particular energy that comes from defeating a ranked opponent. Music blasting. Players reliving key moments. Coach making his way through the room, offering rare words of praise.

"Good fight, Harrington," Reynolds said, surprising me with something that almost sounded like respect. "Daniels had it coming."

"No one targets Kai," I replied, the protective edge raw in my voice. "Especially not a goon who outweighs him by seventy pounds."

Reynolds nodded, his expression serious. "The Code is The Code." He paused, looking over at Sullivan, who was surrounded by reporters. "Hell of a game overall. Never seen Sullivan play like that."

Matthews slapped my shoulder as he passed. "Way to send the message. No one touches our walk-on."

There was a unity in the locker room I hadn't felt since the season started. Even guys who normally kept their distance were stopping by to ask about Kai, who was still with the medical team getting evaluated.

The celebration spilled over into plans for a team outing. "Thrash is doing two-dollar drafts tonight," Williams announced. "Team tradition after beating a ranked opponent."

I found myself watching Sullivan as the invitation circulated. His eyes met mine briefly across the room, a loaded glance that sent heat pooling low in my stomach despite my exhaustion. We hadn't discussed post-game plans. Hadn't gotten that far in our "enemies with benefits" arrangement.

The locker room gradually emptied as guys finished their post-game routines, heading for the parking lot in small groups. Sullivan was typically one of the last to leave, his methodical approach extending to his cooldown and recovery process. I deliberately dawdled, taking extra time with my gear, waiting until we were among the last few players remaining.

"You coming to Thrash?" Davis asked me as he grabbed his bag.

"Maybe later," I shrugged. "Got some stuff to handle first."

Davis' eyes flicked between Sullivan and me, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Right. Stuff." He shouldered his bag. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, Harrington."

Once the locker room had mostly cleared out, I ducked into the medical room where Kai was sitting on an exam table, an ice pack pressed to the side of his head. The team doctor was scribbling notes on a clipboard nearby.

"How's he doing, Doc?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe.

"Mild concussion. No skating for at least a week," the doctor replied, not looking up from his notes. "Could have been much worse."

I moved closer to Kai, whose normally olive complexion still looked too pale. "Hey, man. How you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck," he said with a weak smile. "But I heard you got him good."

"Broke his fucking nose," I confirmed, the protective anger still simmering beneath the surface. "He'll think twice before targeting you again."

Kai's eyes met mine, something vulnerable beneath his usual reserved expression. "Thanks for having my back. Not everyone would have gone after a guy that size."

"That's what teammates do," I said simply, squeezing his shoulder gently. "You need me to drive you home?"

He shook his head, then winced at the movement. "My mom's on her way. Doctor called her."

"Text me when you get home, alright? I've got..." I hesitated, not wanting to say too much. "Plans tonight, but I'll swing by Baker Hall tomorrow. Bring you some of that ramen you like."

"With the good egg?" he asked, a hint of his usual humor returning.

"With the good egg," I promised. "And Kai? That was a sick play before he hit you. Coach noticed."

A small smile tugged at his lips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Get better quick. We need your speed."

As I headed back to the locker room, I found Sullivan still there, continuing his routine, meticulously arranging his gear for tomorrow's practice. I watched him, noticing the careful precision of his movements, the way his hands smoothed each piece of equipment before placing it in his bag.

"Your eye's swelling," he said without looking up.

I touched my face, feeling the tender spot where Daniels had landed his best punch. "Worth it. Guy's a piece of shit."

Sullivan nodded, still focused on his task. "The replay showed he left his feet. Should have been a major penalty."

"Refs in this league couldn't call their own mothers." I shrugged, wincing slightly at the movement. The adrenaline was wearing off, and I was starting to feel every hit from the game, especially the fight.

Sullivan finally looked up, his green-gold eyes assessing my face with clinical precision. "You need ice on that."

"I've had worse."

We fell silent again, the weight of the day settling between us. Sullivan had played the game of his life. I'd fought for Kai. We'd connected for the game-winning goal. And beneath it all was the memory of last night, the knowledge of how our bodies fit together. The unspoken question of what happened next.

We finished packing in silence and headed for the parking lot together, maintaining a respectable distance. The night air was crisp, our breath forming small clouds in the cold. The lot was mostly empty now, just a few cars remaining.

"Hell of a game, Harvard," I said as we reached his sleek silver Audi. Of course Sullivan drove a fucking Audi.

"Yes," he agreed, but his eyes were distant, that analytical brain of his clearly working overtime. "My performance metrics were significantly elevated across all categories."

I leaned against the car next to his, trying to look casual despite the fatigue settling into my bones. "That goal was filthy. Didn't know you had hands like that."

A faint smile touched his lips. "Neither did I."

We stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the unspoken heavy between us. Finally, Sullivan cleared his throat.

"I've been analyzing the data," he said, his voice taking on that precise tone he used when discussing statistics or strategy. "My performance tonight showed marked improvement in several key areas. Shot velocity up seventeen percent. Decision-making speed increased by nearly twenty-three percent. Physical engagement metrics at a career high."

I raised an eyebrow. "You calculating this shit while you play?"

"No," he admitted. "After. During cooldown. The numbers are quite clear." He hesitated, then added, "There's only one significant variable that changed in my pre-game routine."

My mouth went dry as I realized where he was going with this. "Yeah?"

Sullivan met my eyes directly, a flush rising to his cheeks despite the cold. "I think we should consider repeating the experiment. For consistency in the data."

Heat shot through me, unexpected and fierce. "The experiment," I repeated, unable to keep the amusement from my voice. "That what we're calling it?"

His blush deepened, but he held my gaze. "I'm simply suggesting that there may be a correlation between our... activities... and my improved performance metrics."

"So what you're saying is," I moved closer, lowering my voice despite the empty parking lot, "you think fucking me is your good luck charm?"

Sullivan's eyes darkened at my crude phrasing, pupils dilating visibly even in the dim lighting of the parking lot. "I wouldn't put it quite that way."

"But that's what you mean. Harvard Sullivan thinks getting laid before games makes him play better hockey."

"The data supports the hypothesis," he said stiffly, but I could see the want in his eyes, the same heat that was building in my own system.

Something shifted in my chest, a strange tightening that had nothing to do with the bruises from tonight's game. Sullivan was initiating this. Not me pushing boundaries or taunting him into it. Him, making the conscious choice to continue whatever this was between us. The realization hit harder than any of Daniels' punches.

Last night, I'd been the instigator. The one in control. But this—Sullivan analyzing the data, coming to his own conclusions, actually seeking me out—this was different. This was him choosing me, not just responding to my provocations. I wasn't just a one-time experiment in sexuality anymore. I was becoming something he wanted.

The knowledge was both terrifying and fucking intoxicating.

I'd spent weeks convincing myself I just wanted to crack that perfect Sullivan composure, to see him come undone. But standing here in this parking lot, watching him take the lead in his carefully analytical way, I had to admit there was something more happening. Something I wasn't ready to name.

"Well, we should definitely test this hypothesis further," I said, stepping even closer, hoping my voice didn't betray the riot of feelings beneath my casual tone. "For science."

Sullivan glanced around the empty parking lot, then back to me. "Coach announced we have a road trip next week. Two games. Eastern University and Lakeside."

"Road trips," I nodded, understanding the implication. Hotel rooms. Shared spaces away from campus. "Lots of opportunities for... data collection."

Sullivan's lips quirked up slightly. "Precisely."

The air between us felt electric, charged with possibility and want and the lingering high of victory. I wanted to kiss him right there in the parking lot, consequences be damned. Wanted to drag him back to my apartment and recreate every moment from last night, discover new ways to take him apart.

But Sullivan was right. We needed to be careful. Smart. The team, the season, his future in the NHL, all of it depended on discretion.

"So," I said, forcing myself to step back slightly. "Your place or mine? For this... experiment."

Sullivan hesitated, that analytical brain of his visibly weighing options. "Yours," he decided finally. "Parker's at his girlfriend's tonight. My roommate will be home."

"Scientific and practical," I grinned. "Lead the way, Harvard. I'll follow you."