Page 12

The pain medication was wearing off, each bump in the road sending fresh jolts of agony through my shoulder. I stared out the window of Zach's car, watching familiar campus buildings slide past as we headed home from the rink.

"You look like shit," Zach observed helpfully. "Even worse than usual."

"Thanks," I muttered. "Really boost a guy's confidence."

"Just saying. Maybe it's time to admit—"

"Don't start." I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window. "Not now."

Zach fell silent, though I could feel the weight of his concern in the glances he kept shooting my way. We drove the rest of the short distance in silence, pulling up in front of the off-campus house we shared with two other teammates.

The moment we walked through the front door, I made a beeline for the couch, no longer able to pretend I was fine. Zach followed, eyeing the way I cradled my arm against my body.

"Wait here," he instructed, disappearing into the kitchen.

Our other roommate, Tristan, poked his head out of his room. "Hey, I was about to order pizza. You guys want—" He stopped, taking in my slumped posture. "Dude, you okay?"

"Fine," I said automatically. "Just tired."

Tristan looked skeptical but didn't press. "I'll get you the usual," he said, retreating back to his room.

Zach returned with an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel. "Here," he said, pressing it gently against my shoulder. "Hold this."

I complied, the cold a blessed relief against the fire in my joint. Zach disappeared again, returning with a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers.

"Take these," he ordered. "And before you object, I'm not leaving until you do, so save us both the time."

Too exhausted to argue, I swallowed the pills, then leaned back against the couch cushions with a sigh. For a while, we sat in silence, the only sound the distant murmur of Tristan talking on the phone in his room.

"Is it that obvious?" I asked finally.

Zach nodded, no joking now. "To me? Yeah. I've known you too long not to notice. To others?" He shrugged. "They see what they expect to see. The star defenseman, pushing through, being tough."

I closed my eyes, the weight of the admission settling over me. "It's a sprain," I said quietly. "Grade two, probably. Been getting worse for weeks now."

"Jesus, Sean." Zach's voice was a mixture of concern and exasperation. "Why the hell didn't you say something sooner? To me, at least?"

It was a fair question, one I'd been asking myself more and more lately.

"I don't know," I confessed. "Pride, maybe. Fear. Not wanting to let anyone down."

"Let anyone down," Zach repeated. "You mean your dad."

I didn't deny it. "He's sacrificed everything for my career. Mortgaged the house to pay for elite camps, private coaching, better equipment. Worked double shifts so I could play at the highest level. How do I tell him I might have messed it all up with one stupid injury?"

"By remembering that he's your father, not your owner," Zach said bluntly. "He invested in you because he loves you, not because he expected a return."

I wished I could believe that. But years of conditional approval, of praise tied exclusively to my performance on the ice, had taught me otherwise.

"It's not just him," I said, adjusting the ice pack. "It's the team, too. Coach. The guys counting on me. We're having our best season in years."

"The team would survive without you for a few weeks," Zach pointed out. "And they'd rather have you at 100% for the tournaments than at 50% all season."

He was right, of course. But there was more to it, complications I wasn't sure how to articulate.

"Lucas knows," I said abruptly. "About the shoulder. He's been noticing things. Asking questions."

Zach raised an eyebrow. "The reporter knows you're playing injured and hasn't written about it? That's interesting."

"He says he won't," I confirmed. "That he cares more about my well-being than any story."

"And you believe him?"

I thought about Lucas's earnest expression in the locker room, the genuine concern in his eyes. "Yeah," I said softly. "I do."

"Huh." Zach studied me intently. "For someone trying to keep a secret, you sure spend a lot of time exchanging intense looks with the guy who writes the news."

I felt heat creep up my neck. "It's not like that."

"No?" Zach's grin was knowing. "Then explain why you two were practically undressing each other with your eyes at Hat Trick's. Or why freshman Jensen is telling everyone he walked in on you 'interviewing' with your faces two inches apart."

My stomach dropped. "He's telling everyone? Who's everyone?"

"Relax," Zach soothed. "He mentioned it to Tristan, who shut it down. Said Jensen was exaggerating and to mind his own business. But seriously, Sean. What's going on with you and Press Boy?"

I sighed, too tired to maintain the pretense. "I don't know. It's complicated."

"No shit." Zach laughed. "The straight hockey star and the cute reporter. Tale as old as time."

"I'm not straight," I corrected automatically, then froze, realizing what I'd just admitted out loud.

Zach's expression softened. "I know, man."

"You know?" I stared at him. "How?"

"Because I'm not blind?" He shrugged. "And because I've seen the way you look at him. Same way I look at..." He trailed off, suddenly interested in the pattern of our worn couch cushions.

"At Nate?" I supplied, grateful for the shift in focus.

"Shut up," Zach muttered, but there was no heat in it. "We're talking about your disaster, not mine."

"Is it a disaster?" I asked, genuinely uncertain. "Me and Lucas, I mean."

Zach considered this seriously. "Depends. Is he making you happy? When you're not pushing him away because you're a stubborn ass, I mean."

The question caught me off guard. When was the last time anyone had asked if something made me happy, rather than if I was working hard enough, performing well enough, being tough enough?

"Yeah," I admitted quietly. "He does."

"Then I'd say disaster is too strong a word," Zach concluded. "Complicated mess, sure. But potentially a worthwhile one."

"But there's the team to consider," I said, voicing one of my biggest concerns. "If people find out I'm bi, if it becomes a whole thing..."

"Fuck 'em," Zach said bluntly. "Anyone who has a problem can answer to me. Besides, it's not the dark ages. Half the guys probably wouldn't care, and the other half would get over it if they saw it wasn't affecting your game."

"My game," I echoed hollowly. "Which currently is affected, because I can barely raise my arm without wanting to scream."

"And that," Zach pointed his finger at me, "is the actual problem here. Not your sexuality, not Lucas, but the fact that you're risking permanent damage to avoid disappointing people who love you and would want you to take care of yourself."

Put that way, it did sound ridiculous. But fears aren't always rational, especially when they've been reinforced your entire life.

"What should I do?" I asked.

"About Lucas or about your shoulder?" Zach raised an eyebrow.

"Both, I guess."

Zach thought for a moment. "For the shoulder, you need to tell Coach or Dr. Shaw how bad it really is. Let them bench you for a couple of weeks to heal. It'll suck, but it's better than blowing it out completely and never playing again."

"And the scouts?" I couldn't keep the worry from my voice.

"Will still be there when you're healthy," Zach assured me. "Hell, they might be impressed by your maturity in handling an injury the right way instead of being a stereotypical hockey meathead who plays until something breaks."

I hadn't considered that angle before. "And Lucas?"

"That's trickier," Zach admitted. "But if he means something to you—which, based on that dopey look you get when his name comes up, he clearly does—then maybe stop pushing him away every time he gets close."

"I kissed him," I blurted out. "In the locker room. Right before Jensen and Martinez walked in."

Zach's eyes widened. "Damn. No wonder Jensen was running his mouth. Did they see?"

"I don't think so," I said, tension coiling in my gut at the memory. "But it was close. Too close."

"And how was it? The kiss, I mean."

Despite everything, I felt a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "Good. Really good."

"And after?"

"I froze up," I admitted. "Pushed him away again. Told him I'd text him later."

"Have you?"

I shook my head.

"Classic Sean," Zach sighed dramatically. "Always making things harder than they need to be. Look, just text the guy. Tell him you're sorry for being weird, that you like him, and that you're figuring things out. Communication, bro. It's this amazing invention where you use words to express feelings."

"Says the guy who ghosted Nate for weeks after one kiss," I retorted.

"And I'm trying to make up for that now, aren't I?" Zach's cheeks colored slightly. "I'm learning from my mistakes. You should try it sometime."

"I'll think about it," I promised, adjusting the ice pack again. "All of it."

"Good." Zach stood, stretching. "Because no offense, but watching you pine while also being in pain is getting old. I prefer you brooding and healthy, not brooding and self-destructive."

I laughed despite myself. "Thanks for the ice. And for whatever this was."

"Tough love," Zach supplied. "With emphasis on the love part, you idiot."

After he left to shower, I sat alone with my thoughts, the ice numbing more than just my shoulder. Zach was right—I'd been making everything harder than it needed to be, letting fear dictate my actions instead of being honest with myself and others.

I pulled out my phone, staring at the blank message screen. What could I possibly say to Lucas that would make up for how I'd been treating him?

In the end, I settled for simplicity: I'm sorry about earlier. You deserved better. Can we talk tomorrow? Somewhere private?

I hit send before I could overthink it, then set my phone aside, not expecting an immediate response. To my surprise, it buzzed less than a minute later: I'd like that. My place? Nate's got a shoot all afternoon, so we'd have privacy.

The thought of being alone with Lucas, away from the rink and the team and all the complications they represented, made my heart rate pick up. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.