Page 10

"Move your feet, Sean! What the hell kind of defensive coverage is that?"

Coach Barnett's voice cut through the sounds of skates carving ice and sticks slapping pucks. I gritted my teeth, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in my shoulder as I pushed myself harder, faster.

The afternoon practice was brutal, even by Coach's standards. After barely scraping by with a win in Vermont, he'd been on a mission to "fix our lazy-ass defensive gaps," which meant drill after punishing drill with minimal breaks.

On a normal day, I could handle it. Today, with my shoulder feeling like someone was driving ice picks into the joint, it was torture.

"Three-on-two scrimmage!" Coach barked. "First line offense against Sean, Karlsson, and Peterson! Let's go!"

I positioned myself at the blue line, trying to mask how heavily I was breathing. Across from me, Zach smirked as he lined up with the other forwards. That cocky grin usually meant he had something tricky planned.

Sure enough, when the whistle blew and they charged toward our end, Zach drew my attention before making a quick pass to the freshman winger coming up on my right. I pivoted to intercept, but my reaction was a split second too slow—I was instinctively protecting my injured shoulder, pulling back from the contact that would normally be automatic.

The freshman slipped past me easily, faked out our goalie, and buried the puck in the net.

"What the hell was that?" Coach Barnett's face was flushed with anger as he skated over. "Sean! Get over here!"

I glided toward him, chest heaving, sweat dripping beneath my practice jersey despite the rink's chill.

"Where's your head at today?" he demanded, loud enough for the entire team to hear. "That was basic coverage! My dead grandmother could have made that play!"

"Sorry, Coach," I managed, eyes fixed on the ice. "Won't happen again."

"Damn right it won't," he growled. "You've been off all week. What's going on with you?"

I could feel the team watching, waiting for my response. Zach had skated closer, his earlier smirk replaced by concern.

"Just feeling a bit under the weather," I lied, the half-truth easier than admitting I was injured. "Nothing serious. I'll push through it."

Coach studied me skeptically, his eyes narrowing. "You better. Because if you can't get your head out of your ass, you'll be watching from the bench while Jensen takes your minutes." He jerked his head toward a sophomore defenseman who'd been gunning for my spot all season. "I don't care if you're our star blue-liner—I need players who can perform."

"Understood, Coach."

"Good. Now get back out there and show me you deserve your starting spot."

As I skated back to position, I caught a glimpse of movement at the edge of the rink. Lucas was there, notebook in hand, watching the practice intently. Our eyes met briefly before I looked away, a mixture of embarrassment and dread washing over me. Great. He'd witnessed that whole humiliating exchange.

I threw myself into the rest of practice with reckless intensity, ignoring the screaming pain in my shoulder. Every hit, every shot, every defensive play was like fire spreading down my arm, but I refused to show it. I had too much to prove.

By the time Coach finally blew the whistle ending practice, I was running on sheer willpower. My legs felt like lead as I trudged toward the locker room, deliberately avoiding Lucas's gaze as I passed the area where he was jotting notes.

"Yo, Sean!" Zach called, catching up to me. "You okay, man? You look like shit."

"Thanks," I muttered. "Just tired."

"Bullshit." He lowered his voice, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. "It's your shoulder, isn't it? It's getting worse."

I didn't answer, which was answer enough.

"Sean, you need to—"

"I need to shower and get the hell out of here," I cut him off sharply. "What I don't need is a lecture."

Zach raised his hands in surrender. "Fine. Be stubborn. But if you pass out on the ice because you're too proud to admit you're hurt, I'm telling everyone your most embarrassing drunk stories at your funeral."

In the locker room, I waited until most of the team had cleared out before heading to the showers. The hot water was blissful agony on my battered shoulder, and I stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting it soothe the tightness in my muscles.

By the time I emerged, only a few stragglers remained, gathering the last of their gear. I dressed slowly, carefully, each movement calculated to minimize the strain on my injury.

The hallway was mercifully empty when I finally exited, my gym bag slung over my good shoulder. I was so focused on the thought of getting home and icing my arm that I nearly collided with someone waiting just outside the door.

Lucas.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft but steady. "Got a minute?"

My heart sank. Of all the people I didn't want to face right now, Lucas topped the list. Not because I didn't want to see him—God knows I'd thought about him constantly since that night at Hat Trick's—but because I was raw, in pain, and in no state to maintain the walls I'd so carefully constructed.

"Actually, I was just heading out," I said, already moving past him. "Team meeting tomorrow, need to review some film."

"Sean." Something in his tone made me pause. "Is your shoulder okay?"

The direct question, asked with such genuine concern, hit like a body check. I felt my defenses rising, panic blooming in my chest. Had he seen something at practice? Had he been watching that closely?

"My shoulder's fine," I snapped, more harshly than I'd intended. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Lucas didn't flinch at my tone, just studied me with those perceptive eyes that seemed to see right through me. "I don't know. Maybe because you've been favoring your right side for weeks. Or because you grimace every time someone bumps into you. Or because Coach just reamed you out for a defensive lapse that the Sean I've been watching all season would never make."

"So now you're an expert on my playing style?" I felt cornered, defensive. "Are you writing an analysis piece or something?"

"I'm concerned," Lucas said simply. "As a friend."

The word 'friend' stung, though I had no right to feel hurt by it. Wasn't that what I'd asked for? A simple, uncomplicated friendship?

"Well, don't be," I said curtly. "There's nothing wrong, and even if there was, it wouldn't be any of your business."

I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth, especially when I saw the flash of hurt in Lucas's eyes. But I couldn't take them back, couldn't explain that I was lashing out because I was scared—scared of being benched, scared of disappointing my father, scared of losing my shot at the future I'd been working toward my whole life.

"I see," Lucas said after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. "My mistake."

"Look," I ran a hand through my still-damp hair, "whatever you're looking for, there's no story here, okay? There's nothing wrong with me, and I'd appreciate it if you'd just back off and stop trying to pry into my life."

The sharpness in my voice surprised even me, but I was too wound up to soften it. Everything hurt—my shoulder, my pride, my head—and Lucas standing there with his concerned eyes and his perceptive questions was more than I could handle right now.

Lucas's expression shifted from hurt to something cooler, more resolved. He nodded once, stepping back to let me pass. "Fine. Message received."

I walked past him, guilt already swirling in my gut as I felt his eyes on my back. I wanted to turn around, to apologize, to tell him that the problem wasn't him but me—my fear, my pain, my inability to be honest about either.

But I kept walking, shame and frustration propelling me forward until I rounded the corner and was out of sight. Once alone, I let my composure crack, slamming my fist into a locker door with a muffled curse.

Pain flared instantly, radiating from my knuckles up to my already agonized shoulder. "Shit," I hissed, cradling my hand against my chest.

Leaning against the cool metal of the lockers, I closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted beyond just the physical. What was wrong with me? Why did I keep pushing away the one person who seemed to genuinely care that something wasn't right? The one person who saw past the facade I worked so hard to maintain?

Because he terrified me, that's why. Not just his questions about my shoulder, but everything about him—the way he looked at me, the way he made me feel, the way he made me want things I couldn't have. Things that didn't fit with the life I was supposed to be living, the person I was supposed to be.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out to find a text from my father:

Just spoke with Coach Barnett. He says you're off your game. Everything better be squared away by the time those scouts come on Saturday.

No "how are you," no concern, just expectations and pressure. As always.

I didn't respond, shoving the phone back into my pocket with more force than necessary. The weight of everyone's expectations felt suffocating. All watching, all demanding perfection. And now Lucas, with his gentle probing and genuine concern, threatening to unravel the careful fiction I'd constructed that everything was fine.

The worst part was, I'd wanted to tell him. When he'd asked about my shoulder, part of me had wanted to admit how bad it was, to lean on him both figuratively and literally. To let someone else share the burden for once.