Page 16

"If you stare any harder at that laptop screen, you're going to burn a hole in it," I teased, watching Lucas's face scrunch in concentration as he reviewed his notes.

We were tucked into a quiet corner of the campus coffee shop, supposedly studying, though I'd spent more time watching Lucas work than looking at my own textbook. My arm was still in a sling, the mobility in my shoulder improving but far from normal. It had been three weeks since the injury, and while the pain had eased with rest and the minor surgery to repair the partial tear, the reality of my situation—benched for most of the season—was still sinking in.

Lucas looked up, a smile breaking across his face that never failed to make my heart stutter. "I'm not staring, I'm analyzing. There's a difference."

"Analyzing what, exactly? You've read that same paragraph at least five times."

"My brilliant prose," he retorted, turning the laptop toward me. "The article came out this morning, and I'm overthinking every word choice, as usual."

I scanned the screen, recognition dawning as I read the headline: "The Price of Perfection: The Pressure on College Athletes to Play Through Pain."

The piece was exactly what we'd discussed—a thoughtful examination of the culture surrounding college sports, the implicit and explicit pressure athletes faced to perform even when injured, and the potential long-term consequences of that culture. He'd used examples from multiple sports and schools, keeping any references to me or our team vague enough that no one could identify specific cases.

"It's perfect, Lucas," I said sincerely. "Honest without being sensationalist. Gets the point across without throwing anyone under the bus."

"You're sure?" He bit his lip, a nervous habit I found endearing. "I was worried it might seem like I was still using your situation, even indirectly."

"You're not," I assured him, reaching across the table to take his hand. "You're using your platform to address something important, something that affects a lot of athletes. That's what good journalists do, right?"

Lucas relaxed visibly, squeezing my hand before returning to his hot chocolate. He took a sip and emerged with a dollop of whipped cream on his nose, completely unaware of it.

I couldn't help but laugh. "You've got a little something..." I gestured to my own nose.

"What?" He crossed his eyes trying to see, which only made me laugh harder.

"Here, let me." I reached over and gently wiped the cream away with my thumb, letting my hand linger against his cheek a moment longer than necessary.

Lucas leaned into the touch, his eyes warm. "You're different now, you know that?"

"Different how?" I asked, though I had a pretty good idea what he meant.

"Relaxed. Less coiled, I guess? Like you're finally comfortable in your own skin."

He was right. Since the truth had come out—about my injury, about my feelings for Lucas, about everything I'd been hiding—it was as if a weight had been lifted. The secrets had been suffocating me, and now that they were in the open, I could breathe again.

"It turns out honesty is less exhausting than lying," I admitted. "Who knew?"

"I seem to recall suggesting something along those lines," Lucas teased.

"Yeah, you were right. Don't let it go to your head."

We fell into comfortable conversation, the easy back-and-forth that had developed between us in the weeks since my injury. Coach Barnett had been furious at first, of course—a blistering lecture about trust and team dynamics and responsibility that I'd deserved every word of. But once he'd gotten the anger out of his system, he'd shifted into making sure I followed the physical therapy plan to the letter.

The team had rallied around me in ways I hadn't expected. Tristan and Zach brought me updates from practice, treated me like I was still part of every drill, every strategy session.

And my father... well, that had been its own kind of confrontation. When he'd arrived at Grandma Rose's the day after my injury, he'd been predictably furious—not at the injury itself, but at my "lack of foresight" in hiding it until it became something serious.

"What were you thinking?" he'd demanded. "Playing through this kind of injury? You could have ended your career before it even started!"

"I was thinking I couldn't disappoint you," I'd fired back, the pain and medication making me braver than usual. "That anything less than perfect wasn't good enough."

That had stopped him cold. For perhaps the first time in my life, I'd seen something like regret in my father's eyes. We hadn't magically resolved years of complicated dynamics in one conversation, but it had been a start—an acknowledgment that the pressure he'd put on me had consequences neither of us had intended.

"Sean? Earth to Sean," Lucas waved his hand in front of my face, pulling me from my thoughts. "Where'd you go?"

"Sorry," I smiled sheepishly. "Just thinking about how much has changed in a few weeks."

"Speaking of which," Lucas gestured toward the door, "looks like some of those changes are headed our way."

I turned to see Zach entering the coffee shop, followed by Nate. They hadn't noticed us yet, too absorbed in whatever Zach was saying that had Nate rolling his eyes dramatically.

"Should we rescue Nate?" I suggested, amused by the familiar dynamic between them.

"I'm not sure who needs rescuing from whom," Lucas replied with a grin. "But let's find out."

I raised my good arm, waving to catch their attention. Zach spotted us first, his face lighting up with a mischievous grin that usually meant trouble.

"Well, well," he drawled as they approached our table. "If it isn't the campus power couple, caught in the wild."

I felt my cheeks warm. "Shut up, Zach."

"What?" He clutched his chest in mock innocence. "I'm just stating facts. You two are all anyone talks about in the locker room these days."

"Great," I groaned, though there was no real annoyance behind it.

"Pull up chairs," Lucas invited, seemingly unfazed by Zach's teasing. "We were just discussing the hard-hitting journalistic masterpiece I published this morning."

"Oh, the one about athletes being stubborn idiots who don't know when to admit they're hurt?" Nate asked innocently. "I can't imagine where you got inspiration for that."

"Ha ha," I deadpanned. "You're hilarious."

"I try," Nate winked, dragging over a chair from a nearby table.

As they settled in, I noticed the careful distance Nate maintained from Zach, despite the obvious tension crackling between them whenever their eyes met.

"So," Lucas asked casually, "are you two on a date, or...?"

Nate choked on the sip of coffee he'd just taken. "What? No! We just keep running into each other. The campus is only so big."

"Right," Zach smirked. "Pure coincidence that we end up at the same coffee shop at the same time three days in a row."

"It's the closest one to the journalism building," Nate pointed out, a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the hot drink.

"And the furthest from the athletic complex," Zach countered. "Face it, press boy, you secretly wish we were dating."

"In your dreams, hockey goon," Nate fired back, though there was a spark in his eyes that belied the harshness of his words. "Some of us have standards."

"Standards, huh?" Zach leaned forward, his smile predatory. "Is that why you've saved every text I've sent you? Tristan saw you scrolling through them before practice yesterday."

"I was looking for a specific reference you made about the team schedule," Nate insisted, though his blush deepened. "For the paper. Purely professional."

"Sure," Zach drawled. "Just like how you professionally stare at me during warmups."

"I'm photographing the team, you egomaniac! It's literally my job to look at you."

Lucas caught my eye across the table, amusement dancing in his expression. Watching Zach and Nate was like watching a tennis match—volleys of sarcasm and barbed compliments flying back and forth with dizzying speed.

"What do you think?" I murmured to Lucas as Nate launched into a scathing critique of Zach's "prehistoric" taste in movies, which Zach countered by citing Nate's "pretentious" preference for foreign films. "Two weeks before they finally admit they're into each other?"

"I give it one," Lucas whispered back. "Zach looks about ready to shut him up with a kiss right now."

He wasn't wrong. Despite the verbal sparring, there was an undeniable chemistry between them, an attraction they both seemed determined to disguise as animosity.

"So, Sean," Zach turned his attention to me, apparently tired of being verbally eviscerated by Nate, "when's the doc clear you for light practice? Team's not the same without you yelling at the freshmen about their sloppy defensive positioning."

"Two more weeks of PT, then reassessment," I reported. "If all goes well, I might be back on skates by January, though no contact until February at the earliest."

"Just in time for the tournament push," Nate nodded. "That's the angle I'm taking for next week's update, by the way. 'Star Defenseman's Recovery On Track, Return Could Boost Team's Tournament Hopes.'"

"Star defenseman," Zach repeated with a grin. "Your boyfriend's good for your ego, Sean."

"He's not—" I started automatically, then caught myself. Lucas and I hadn't exactly put official labels on what we were, but 'boyfriend' felt right. I glanced at Lucas, who was watching me with a mixture of amusement and something warmer. "Actually, yeah. He is good for my ego. Among other things."

Lucas's smile was worth any amount of teasing from Zach.

The four of us ended up pushing our tables together and spending the next hour in animated conversation. Nate regaled us with the story of his failed attempt to photograph a campus squirrel that ended up stealing his muffin, while Zach countered with tales of the ongoing prank war in the locker room.

It was easy, natural, the four of us together—a bridge between my world and Lucas's that I hadn't realized I needed until it existed. As Nate and Zach launched into a heated debate about which campus party had the worst music last semester, I caught Lucas's eye again, sharing a private smile at our friends' thinly-veiled flirtation.

Eventually, Nate glanced at his watch and groaned. "I've got to go. Mia wants the layout for tomorrow's edition by five, and I haven't even started the sports section."

"I'll walk with you," Lucas offered, gathering his things. "I promised Ava I'd help her edit some photos for her portfolio."

As they prepared to leave, Zach's phone buzzed. "Tristan," he explained after checking the message. "Team meeting in twenty. Want me to take notes for you, Sean?"

"Would you?" I asked gratefully. "I've got PT in half an hour anyway."

We parted ways outside the coffee shop, Nate dragging Lucas toward the journalism building while Zach headed in the opposite direction toward the athletic complex.

"Text you later?" Lucas asked, lingering as our friends walked ahead.

"You better," I smiled, feeling ridiculously happy at such a simple exchange. "Movie at my place tonight?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

After a quick glance to ensure no one was watching—a habit I was trying to break, this reflexive caution about public displays—I leaned in and pressed a brief kiss to his lips.

"See you tonight."

As I walked to my physical therapy appointment, I couldn't wipe the smile from my face. My shoulder still ached, my hockey season was still mostly lost, and I still had a long road of recovery ahead of me. But I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be, living a life that was authentically mine rather than one designed to meet others' expectations.

I pulled out my phone to find a text already waiting for me: Can't wait for tonight. Feel free to supply snacks. I'll bring the sparkling wit and dazzling conversation. - L

Laughing, I typed back: Modest as always. I'll have popcorn and my sparkling personality ready by 8. - S

I pocketed my phone, still smiling, and continued across campus with a lightness in my step that had nothing to do with physical therapy and everything to do with the life I was finally allowing myself to live.

"Truth or dare?" Jensen asked, a mischievous glint in his eye that made me instantly regret agreeing to this game.

The hockey team had descended on my apartment for what was supposed to be a casual hangout—pizza, and catching up on everyone's lives outside the rink. But somewhere around the third pizza, the freshmen had suggested truth or dare, and the rest of the team had enthusiastically agreed.

Lucas, seated beside me on the couch, looked as apprehensive as I felt. It was his first time socializing with the entire team at once, and I could tell he was nervous about how they'd receive him—not just as the reporter covering their season, but as the guy their injured defenseman was dating.

"Truth," I decided, figuring it was the safer option given my limited mobility.

Jensen looked disappointed, clearly having had a physical challenge in mind. Then Zach leaned over and whispered something in his ear that made the freshman's eyes light up.

"Okay, Sean," Zach said, straightening up with that dangerous smirk I knew too well. "Here's your truth: What's your biggest secret? Something none of us know."

I felt my body tense automatically, old defenses kicking in. But then Lucas's hand found mine between us on the couch, a gentle, supportive pressure that grounded me.

I glanced at him, and he gave me a small nod—not pushing, just encouraging.

Looking around the room at my friends, I made a decision. It was time to stop hiding, to stop compartmentalizing my life into safe, separate boxes.

"Actually," I said, my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart, "there's something I've been wanting to tell you all anyway."

I stood up, feeling the weight of every eye in the room. Lucas remained seated, but I could feel his support radiating toward me like warmth.

"I'm bisexual," I stated simply. "And Lucas is here tonight not just as the guy covering our team, but as my boyfriend."

The silence that followed felt eternal, though it probably lasted only seconds. I braced myself for shock, confusion, discomfort—anything but what actually happened.

Tristan raised his beer bottle in a toast. "About damn time you made it official," he declared. "We were getting tired of pretending not to notice those heart eyes during practice."

The room erupted in laughter and supportive cheers, as if I'd announced something completely mundane rather than a truth I'd been hiding for years.

"Wait," I said, genuinely stunned by the casual acceptance. "You knew?"

"Dude," one of the sophomores chuckled, "you two aren't exactly subtle."

"Yeah," another player chimed in. "Plus, you've been happier the past few weeks than I've seen you in three years, Sean. Even with the bum shoulder."

"And Jensen might have mentioned walking in on a certain 'interview' in the locker room," Zach added with air quotes, earning him a shove from the freshman in question.

"I didn't say anything specific!" Jensen protested. "Just that there seemed to be some, uh, tension between you two."

I was speechless, overwhelmed by the easy acceptance from the people I'd been so afraid to disappoint. Lucas stood, slipping his arm around my waist in a gesture of support and solidarity.

"So you're all okay with this?" I asked, still finding it hard to believe.

"Why wouldn't we be?" Tristan shrugged. "You're still the same annoying defenseman who yells at us for sloppy passes. Who you date doesn't change that."

"My cousin's gay," one of the juniors offered. "Plays D1 soccer at UCLA. It's really not a big deal these days, man."

"Unless you start making out during practice," Zach interjected. "Then it's a problem, but only because some of us are tragically single and don't need the reminder."

"Tragically single?" Nate, who had arrived with Lucas, raised an eyebrow from his spot across the room. "That's not what you told that girl at the bar last weekend."

"Jealous, press boy?" Zach fired back, and they were off again, their unique form of flirtation disguised as verbal warfare.

As the attention shifted away from us, Lucas leaned closer. "You okay?" he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.

"Yeah," I said, realizing with surprise that it was true. "Better than okay, actually."

We rejoined the game, the moment of revelation already assimilated into the team's collective consciousness as if it had always been known. As the night progressed, I found myself watching Lucas interact with my teammates—laughing at their jokes, sharing stories from the journalism department, fitting seamlessly into this part of my life I'd been so afraid to share with him.

When the party finally wound down and people began to leave, Lucas helped me clean up despite my protests that he was a guest.

"Your place is going to smell like beer and pizza for a week," he teased, gathering empty bottles.

"Worth it," I declared, leaning against the kitchen counter to watch him work. "Thank you for being here tonight. It meant a lot."

"I wouldn't have missed it," Lucas said, setting down the trash bag to move closer to me. "I'm proud of you, you know. For telling them."

"It was easier than I thought it would be," I admitted. "Turns out I was the only one who thought it was a big deal."

"That's often the case with the things we hide," Lucas said wisely. "They loom larger in our minds than they ever would in reality."

I pulled him closer with my good arm, marveling at how natural it felt to have him in my space, in my life. "When did you get so smart?"

"I've always been smart," he retorted with a grin. "You were just too busy being stubborn to notice."

"Well, I'm noticing now," I murmured, leaning in to kiss him.

Unlike our earlier kisses—stolen moments, tentative explorations—this one was unhurried, deepening naturally as Lucas's arms slid around my neck and my hand settled at his waist. There was no fear of discovery, no need to rush or hide. Just us, finding our rhythm together, the way we had been since that first night at the club, even through all the missteps and complications that followed.

When we finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, Lucas rested his forehead against mine. "I should probably go," he said reluctantly. "Early class tomorrow."

"Stay," I suggested impulsively. "Just to sleep," I clarified, not wanting to pressure him. "It's late, and I..." I hesitated, then decided to be honest. "I sleep better when you're here."

The smile that spread across Lucas's face was worth any residual vulnerability I felt at the admission. "In that case, how can I refuse? Your recovery requires adequate rest, after all."

As we settled into bed later, Lucas careful of my injured shoulder, I found myself reflecting on the strange, winding path that had led us here.

"What are you thinking about?" Lucas asked, his voice soft in the darkness. "I can practically hear the gears turning."

"Just how bizarre it is that going to the club that day might have been the best thing to happen to me," I replied, pulling him closer with my good arm. "If I hadn't been dragged to that club, if you hadn't been there that night..."

"We'd have met anyway," Lucas said with quiet certainty. "At that first interview in the locker room. The circumstances would have been different, but I'd still have noticed you."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely. Grumpy, guarded defenseman with secrets and cheekbones that could cut glass? Classic journalist catnip."

I laughed, the sound warm in the quiet room. "So it was my cheekbones that drew you in?"

"Among other qualities," Lucas conceded, his fingers tracing patterns on my chest. "But mostly it was the way you tried so hard to seem tough when your eyes gave away how much you cared. About the team, about the game... eventually, about me."

"I did try to hide that," I admitted. "Not very successfully, apparently."

"Terrible at it," Lucas confirmed. "But I'm glad. I'm not sure I'd have had the courage to keep trying if I hadn't seen those glimpses of the real you beneath all that hockey player armor."

I pressed a kiss to the top of his head, overwhelmed by gratitude for his persistence, his willingness to see past my defenses when I'd given him every reason to walk away.