Page 9 of Pucking Lucky (Steel City Sinners #1)

Beau

The drive to Harrington's apartment was a careful exercise in focused attention. Each traffic light. Each turn signal. Each logical deduction about which car was his in the dark so I could maintain the appropriate following distance. The structured routine of driving normally calmed my scattered thoughts, but tonight, my mind kept returning to the statistical anomalies I'd experienced on the ice.

Sullivan men excel.

And for once, I had. Not just my usual effective but unspectacular defensive play. I'd scored. A highlight-reel goal that had ignited something unfamiliar and fiery in my chest. My performance metrics had soared across every measurable category.

One variable had changed from my standard pre-game preparations.

One significant, impossible-to-ignore variable named Trey Harrington.

I pulled into the visitor parking space next to his blue Corolla, exactly eight minutes after leaving the arena. A figure leaned against the building entrance. Harrington, illuminated by the yellow porch light, still in his game-day suit, though his tie hung loose around his neck. He straightened when he spotted me.

"Thought you might have changed your mind, Harvard," he called as I approached, but beneath the casual tone was something uncertain. Almost vulnerable.

"I said I was coming." I checked my watch. "It's only been eleven minutes since we left the rink."

"Counting the minutes?" His mouth quirked up at one corner.

"I always count." The confession slipped out before I could stop it. Usually, I hid this particular quirk, recognizing it as one of the many behaviors my father had spent years training me to suppress. But something about Harrington's direct, unfiltered nature made honest responses come more naturally.

He studied me for a second, then nodded. "Come on up."

His apartment looked different in the evening light than it had that morning. The kitchen light cast soft yellow patterns across the living room, highlighting the mismatched furniture that somehow created a cohesive whole. A worn couch with a handmade blanket thrown over one arm. A coffee table covered with textbooks and notebooks, pens scattered across open pages. Hockey gear lined one wall, sticks propped in the corner, gloves and helmet on a shelf above.

"Let me..." Harrington gestured vaguely at himself. "Just gonna change out of this suit."

I nodded, observing the space with a new perspective. Where Parker and I maintained strict separation between our possessions, here there were signs of shared space. A calendar on the refrigerator with two distinct handwriting styles. Hockey magazines stacked neatly beside sports psychology textbooks.

"You can sit down," Harrington said when he returned, now in worn sweatpants and a faded Steel City Hockey t-shirt. "Or stand there looking at my apartment all night. Whatever works for you."

Heat crept up my neck. "Your apartment is interesting."

"Interesting," he repeated, sounding amused. "That bad, huh?"

"No. Just different." I moved toward the couch, maintaining my usual careful distance from the objects and furniture around me. "Your blue couch with the yellow pillows. The hockey sticks were arranged by height. The takeout menus alphabetized on the refrigerator. It's... comfortable."

Harrington followed my gaze to the refrigerator. "That's Kai. Says it makes ordering faster in emergencies."

"Logical." I settled on one end of the couch, the worn cushion unexpectedly comfortable.

Harrington dropped beside me, closer than social norms typically dictated, his thigh inches from mine. The bruise around his right eye had darkened to a deep purple, spreading down his cheekbone. His bottom lip was split in the corner, a small cut that hadn't been there during the game.

Without conscious decision, I reached out, my fingers hovering near his jaw. "You should ice that."

He shrugged. "Had worse."

"That doesn't negate the physiological benefits of proper post-injury care." I stood, moving toward his kitchen. "Where do you keep ice packs?"

"Freezer. But Harvard, it's fine—"

I ignored his protest, opening the freezer door. Empty ice cube trays. Frozen vegetables. No ice packs. The refrigerator was equally sparse. Half a carton of milk. Three eggs. A jar of salsa.

"You need to shop," I said, pulling out the frozen peas.

"Yeah, well, scholarship doesn't cover groceries." He sounded defensive rather than embarrassed. "Meal plan only works when the cafeteria's open."

I wrapped the peas in a clean dish towel I found in a drawer, returning to the couch. "Hold this against your eye. Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off." I paused. "When did you last eat?"

Harrington shrugged, pressing the makeshift ice pack to his face. "Pre-game meal. Cafeteria closed after seven."

A quick calculation told me that had been nearly six hours ago. "You should eat something."

"Grocery situation isn't getting better in the last thirty seconds, Harvard." His voice was light, but there was an undercurrent of something sharper. Pride, maybe.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. "What kind of pizza do you like?"

His eyebrows shot up, then he winced as the movement pulled at his bruise. "You don't have to—"

"You need protein and carbohydrates for optimal recovery," I said, already scrolling through the delivery options on my phone. "I need adequate nutrition to maintain my performance metrics. Logical solution: we order food."

Harrington stared at me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. "Pepperoni and jalapeno," he said finally. "But I'm buying next time."

Next time. The casual assumption of future interactions sent an unexpected warmth through my chest. I nodded, placing the order for a large pizza, adding a two-liter soda and garlic knots because the app indicated a deal.

"Thirty-four minutes," I reported, setting my phone aside. My eyes returned to his bruised face, to the split in his lip. The evidence of violence stark against his olive skin. "Why did you fight him?"

"Daniels?" Harrington's jaw tightened. "He targeted Kai. Left his feet. Went for the head. You don't do that shit."

"The Code," I said, recalling the locker room conversations about hockey's unwritten rules.

"Yeah." He shifted the frozen peas, grimacing slightly. "But it was more than that. It was Kai specifically."

"Your roommate."

"Not just that. He's worked twice as hard as any of us. Walk-on. Too small for most coaches to even look at. But he's got more heart than the entire Northern Tech roster combined." Harrington's free hand clenched into a fist on his thigh. "Daniels knew exactly what he was doing. Targeting the smallest guy. Fucking coward move."

The intensity of his voice caught me off guard. Not just anger at a dirty play, but genuine protectiveness. I'd witnessed Harrington's explosive temper before, but this was different. This was calculated fury, channeled into precise violence with clear purpose.

"You broke his nose," I said, recalling the blood streaming down Daniels' face.

Harrington's mouth curved into a grim smile. "Good."

We lapsed into silence, but not the tense, uncomfortable kind that usually filled spaces between us. Something more companionable. I found myself studying his profile, noting details I'd come to recognize. The way the bruise highlighted the slight crook in his nose from an old break. The stubble darkening his jaw, heavier now at the end of the day than it had been this morning.

"You're staring," he said without looking at me.

"You have an asymmetrical facial structure that's statistically unusual among elite athletes." The words tumbled out before I could filter them.

He turned to face me, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Did you just call me ugly, Harvard?"

"No." The heat returned to my face. "The opposite, actually. Slight asymmetry is scientifically linked to perceptions of attractiveness. Perfect symmetry appears artificial to the human brain."

His eyebrows shot up. "So you're saying I'm hot?"

"I'm saying your features follow scientifically established patterns of facial attractiveness." The clinical description felt safer than the simpler truth: that yes, I found him attractive in ways I'd never experienced before.

Harrington laughed, the sound warming something in my chest. "Only you would compliment someone by citing scientific studies."

"It's factual," I insisted, but I couldn't help the small smile tugging at my lips.

"Tell me something that's not about statistics or science," he challenged, shifting to face me more directly, the ice pack lowering slightly.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Something about you. Something Sullivan Senior doesn't know."

I stiffened slightly at the mention of my father. "My father knows everything about me. That's how Sullivan men operate."

"Bullshit." Harrington's eyes narrowed. "There's got to be something. A secret. A guilty pleasure. Something that's just yours."

I considered his question, searching for something true but not too revealing. "I collect hockey cards," I admitted finally. "Not for investment purposes. I just... like them. The order of the sets. The statistics on the back. The feeling of completing a series."

"See? Was that so hard?" His smile was genuine now. "I bet dear old dad doesn't know about that."

"He'd consider it childish." I stared at the wall above his shoulder. "Unproductive."

"Fuck that," Harrington said with surprising vehemence. "Not everything has to be productive."

His simple rejection of my father's lifetime of teachings hit me harder than expected. I found myself telling him more. "My sister collects them, too. She's fourteen. We used to trade them before I left for college."

"You have a sister?" Harrington looked genuinely surprised. "You've never mentioned her."

"Half-sister," I clarified. "From my father's second marriage. Charlotte. She lives with him and Teresa in Connecticut."

"You miss her?"

The question caught me off guard with its directness. "Yes," I admitted. "She texts me about her collection sometimes. Has questions about players I've met."

"That's cool," Harrington said, and he sounded like he meant it. "My sister Mia's fifteen. Drives me crazy half the time, but I'd do anything for her."

"You mentioned in the shower that she gets sensory overload sometimes," I said carefully, testing whether he remembered that vulnerable moment.

"Yeah. Similar to what happened to you." His voice softened. "She was diagnosed with sensory processing issues when she was little. My mom worked two jobs to pay for the specialists she needed."

The mention of the shower incident hung between us, neither acknowledging it directly. But something had shifted. A new understanding forming.

"Has anyone ever suggested you might be on the spectrum?" Harrington asked, his tone neutral, lacking the judgment I usually heard when people broached this topic.

I stiffened. "My mother had me tested when I was eight. The results were... inconclusive. My father doesn't believe in labels, just excellence."

"Of course he doesn't," Harrington muttered, anger flashing across his features before he controlled it. "So what you're saying is yes."

I shrugged, uncomfortable with the directness of his assessment. "The screening indicators were significant but not definitive. My mother implemented various coping strategies. My father implemented his own methods of ensuring I didn't display any visible signs."

"His own methods," Harrington repeated, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Before I could answer, a knock at the door signaled the pizza's arrival. I moved to answer it, relieved by the interruption. The delivery woman handed over the food, and I tipped her generously through the app.

"Dude, thirty percent?" Harrington asked, looking over my shoulder at my phone screen. "That's excessive."

"She's working late on a hockey game night. Statistically, college students are poor tippers. The additional four dollars will make a significant psychological difference to her perceived value of her work."

Harrington stared at me for a moment, then laughed. "You're something else, Sullivan."

We moved to the small kitchen table, Harrington grabbing plates from a cabinet. The pizza smell filled the apartment, making my stomach growl. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until the food arrived.

"So," Harrington said as he grabbed a slice, cheese stretching between the pizza and the plate, "you were about to tell me what your father's 'methods' were."

I focused on precisely cutting my pizza slice into manageable pieces, buying time. "Standard behavioral modification techniques. Nothing unusual."

"Try again," Harrington said, his voice soft but firm. "I've seen how you react when someone mentions your father. That's not normal familial respect. That's fear."

The observation was uncomfortably accurate. I stared at my plate, struggling to form words that wouldn't reveal too much. "My father believes in excellence without excuses. When I displayed behaviors he considered... problematic, there were consequences."

"What kind of consequences?" Harrington's voice had taken on that dangerous edge again.

"Additional training sessions. Extended study periods. Restricted privileges." I kept my voice neutral, reciting facts rather than emotions. "Sometimes physical challenges. Running until I couldn't feel my legs. Push-ups until my arms gave out. The regular tests became a kind of endurance sport."

"That's fucked up," Harrington said bluntly. "That's not parenting, that's abuse."

I looked up sharply. "It's how Sullivan men are raised. It's effective. Look at the results."

"Yeah, I see the results," he said, setting down his pizza. "A guy who folds in on himself when he gets overwhelmed. Who thinks his worth is measured in statistics and performance metrics. Who's terrified of making a mistake."

The assessment stung with its accuracy. I pushed my plate away, appetite vanishing. "You don't understand. The Sullivan name means something in hockey circles. My grandfather played for Boston. My father had scouts following him until he blew out his knee at eighteen. The expectations are... significant."

"So you carry the weight of two generations of failed hockey dreams. That's gotta be fun."

His bluntness was both jarring and strangely comforting. No one in my life had ever named the situation so directly.

"My father has numerous NHL connections," I said quietly. "His support is conditional on meeting certain standards. Both on and off the ice."

Harrington's eyes narrowed. "Standards like not being gay?"

"I'm not gay." The reflexive response felt hollow, especially given our current situation.

"Right." Harrington took another bite of pizza, chewing thoughtfully. "So what happens if daddy's golden boy doesn't make it to the NHL? World ends?"

I'd never seriously considered this possibility. It was unthinkable. "Failure isn't an option for Sullivan men."

"It's not failure if it's not what you want," Harrington said, surprising me again. "Do you even want to play professional hockey, or is that just what's expected?"

The question hit me like an open-ice check. I'd never separated what I wanted from what was expected. The distinction hadn't seemed relevant.

"I... enjoy hockey," I said carefully. "The precision of it. The strategy. The way individual actions build to team outcomes. The statistical analysis of performance metrics."

"That's not what I asked," Harrington pressed. "I asked if you want to play in the NHL."

I stared at him, unable to formulate a response that felt true. "I don't know," I admitted finally, the words bitter on my tongue. "I've never considered alternatives."

Something shifted in Harrington's expression, softening around the edges. "That's okay, you know. Not knowing what you want."

The simple acceptance in his voice sent an unexpected wave of relief through me. I reached for my pizza again, finding my appetite had returned. We ate in companionable silence for several minutes, the only sounds the occasional clink of plates and glasses.

"What about you?" I asked finally. "Is the NHL the goal?"

He shrugged, reaching for a third slice. "Would be nice. But I'm realistic. Six-two forwards without first-round draft potential don't exactly have NHL scouts lining up. Especially not openly gay ones." His voice took on an edge. "NHL's fine with performative Pride nights, but actually drafting an out player? Different story." He paused, expression softening. "Plus, I'm studying sports management as a backup. Actually, not a backup. It's a plan. My mom didn't work two jobs all these years for me to bet everything on a hockey lottery ticket."

I studied him, revising my mental model of Trey Harrington. The brash, undisciplined player I'd first categorized him as was revealing layers of thoughtfulness and pragmatism I hadn't expected.

"What?" he asked, catching my stare.

"You're not what I expected," I admitted.

His mouth quirked up in a half-smile. "Yeah, well, you're not exactly living up to the stuck-up rich boy stereotype either. Not entirely, anyway."

"Gee, thanks."

"You made a joke," he pointed out, grinning. "The robot has humor circuits after all."

I rolled my eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. This was the easy banter of the ice, but without the edge of antagonism that had defined our earlier interactions.

We finished eating, and I insisted on cleaning up despite Harrington's protests. "My mother raised me with manners," I explained, rinsing plates in the sink.

"Your mom sounds cool," he said, leaning against the counter beside me.

"She is. She left when I was fourteen. Couldn't handle my father's... intensity."

"Shit, I'm sorry."

I shrugged. "She calls every week. Sends care packages. It's fine."

Harrington reached past me to place his glass in the sink, his arm brushing mine. The casual contact sent a jolt of awareness through me that had nothing to do with my usual sensory sensitivity.

"We should check that eye again," I said, needing a distraction from the sudden tension between us.

He followed me back to the couch, dropping onto it with his usual casual grace. I sat beside him, closer this time, and gently removed the now-thawed bag of peas from his face. The bruise looked slightly less angry, the swelling reduced.

"How's it feel?" I asked, my voice coming out lower than intended.

"Better," he said, his eyes never leaving mine. "Your bedside manner isn't half bad, Sullivan."

"I've had extensive first aid training. A Sullivan man is always prepared."

"A Sullivan man this, a Sullivan man that," he mimicked, but there was no real heat in it. "Ever occur to you that maybe you're more than just a Sullivan man?"