Page 17

"Got everything?" Nate asked, hoisting his camera bag higher on his shoulder as we approached the idling team bus. "Notebook, recorder, unhealthy obsession with a certain handsome defenseman?"

I elbowed him in the ribs, conscious of the hockey players milling around us, loading equipment and claiming seats for the three-hour drive to the away game.

"Shut up," I muttered, though there was no real annoyance behind it. "And yes, I've got everything I need."

"Including permission to cover the trip from Mia?" Nate pressed, ever the responsible one despite his teasing. "I know she's been pushing for more in-depth coverage, but chaperone might be stretching the definition."

"She practically shoved me out the door," I assured him. "Said it was a 'unique human interest angle' to document the team dynamic on road trips."

The truth was, I was nervous about this trip. It was my first time traveling with the team as more than just the reporter assigned to their beat. They’d been supportive of my relationship with Sean at the apartment gathering last week, but being the only non-athlete on the bus for hours felt intimidating in a different way.

"Well, have fun," Nate said, spotting Coach Barnett signaling for players to board. "Try not to let your objectivity slip too much. We're still journalists, even if you are sleeping with the subject."

"I'm not—" I spluttered, heat rising to my cheeks. "We haven't—"

"Relax," Nate laughed, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "I'm kidding. Mostly." He glanced over my shoulder and his expression shifted subtly. "Speaking of your not-sleeping-with subject..."

I turned to see Sean approaching, wearing his team jacket over casual clothes rather than the full gear the active players wore for travel. His sling was gone—a recent development he'd proudly shown me earlier that week—though he still moved carefully, mindful of his healing shoulder.

"Lucas," he greeted me with exaggerated formality, though his eyes were warm with private amusement. "Ready for the glamorous experience of collegiate hockey travel? Cramped bus seats, questionable gas station snacks, the unique aroma of twenty guys who think deodorant is optional?"

"You paint such an enticing picture," I replied dryly. "How could I resist?"

"You two are nauseating," Nate declared, though his smile belied his words. "I'm off to photograph the swim meet. Try not to scandalize the coaching staff too much."

As he walked away, Sean moved closer, his voice dropping. "Seriously, though, are you sure you want to come? These trips can be pretty boring."

"Are you kidding? Three hours of uninterrupted access to the team for my article? It's a journalist's dream." I kept my tone professional in case anyone was listening, though I couldn't resist adding, "Plus, certain company makes even boring bus rides appealing."

Sean's smile widened, and for a moment I thought he might kiss me right there in the parking lot. Instead, he glanced toward the bus, where Coach was making final checks on his roster.

"We should board," he said. "Coach hates stragglers, even injured ones."

The bus was already filling up as we climbed aboard, players spreading out in their usual configurations—freshmen toward the front, upperclassmen claiming the coveted back rows, pairs of close friends settling in together.

I hesitated, suddenly unsure where I fit in this established ecosystem. As the reporter, should I sit near the front, maintaining professional distance? Or was I expected to sit with Sean?

Sean solved my dilemma by sliding into a seat near the middle and patting the space beside him. "Best view," he explained as I joined him. "Not too close to Coach's running commentary, not too close to the bathroom."

"Practical and strategic," I noted, setting my bag in the storage space above. "No wonder you're such a good defenseman."

"I have my moments," he agreed with a grin.

As the bus pulled away from campus, I couldn't help noticing a few curious glances our way.

"You look like you're overthinking again," Sean observed, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "Want to share, or should I guess?"

"Just adjusting," I admitted. "This is new territory for me. Being here as both a reporter and..."

"My boyfriend?" Sean supplied when I trailed off.

The word still sent a small thrill through me every time he said it, casual and confident, as if it had always been true.

"Yeah," I smiled. "That."

"If it helps, I'm not exactly good at hiding how I feel about you."

"Really?" I raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Mr. 'I can play through a grade-two shoulder sprain without anyone noticing' isn't good at hiding things?"

"That was different," Sean protested. "That was physical pain. This is..."

"What?" I prompted when he hesitated.

"The opposite," he said simply, his eyes holding mine. "Very much the opposite of pain."

Before I could formulate a response, the bus hit a pothole, jostling everyone. Sean winced as the movement jarred his shoulder, and I instinctively reached out to steady him, my hand landing on his thigh.

"You okay?" I asked, concerned.

"Fine," he assured me, though his face was tight. "Just need to remember I'm not fully healed yet."

I started to withdraw my hand, suddenly aware of its placement, but Sean covered it with his own, keeping it there. The casual intimacy of the gesture made my heart skip.

Around us, the bus had settled into journey mode—some players with headphones on, others already napping, a card game starting up in the back row. No one seemed to notice or care about our quiet conversation or connected hands.

"So," Sean said after a moment, "tell me about your childhood dream of being a reporter. I bet you were one of those kids with the little notebook interviewing neighbors about their dogs."

I stared at him, startled by the accuracy of his guess. "How did you know that?"

"Seriously?" Sean laughed. "You actually did that?"

"Mrs. Greenberg next door had a poodle named Sir Fluffington," I confessed, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "I wrote a three-page exposé on his preference for chicken treats over beef ones. My mom still has it somewhere."

"That's adorable," Sean declared, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of my hand. "Little Lucas, investigative reporter."

"What about you?" I asked, eager to shift the focus from my embarrassing childhood endeavors. "What were your summers like growing up? All hockey camps and training?"

Something flickered in Sean's eyes—a shadow of old pain, quickly masked. "Pretty much," he said. "While other kids were at the beach or playing video games, I was doing dryland training and skating clinics."

"That sounds intense for a kid," I noted gently.

Sean shrugged his good shoulder. "It was normal for me. Dad was always convinced I had what it took to go pro, so every summer was another opportunity to get an edge on the competition."

There was no bitterness in his tone, just matter-of-fact acceptance, which somehow made it sadder.

"Did you ever resent it?" I asked, genuinely curious. "Missing out on normal kid stuff?"

"Sometimes," Sean admitted after a thoughtful pause. "But I loved hockey too—still do. And there were good parts. The friends I made at those camps, the feeling of mastering a new skill, the pure joy of being on the ice." A small smile played at his lips. "Grandma Rose always made sure I had at least a few weeks of normal summer too. She'd take me fishing or camping, no hockey talk allowed."

"She sounds amazing," I said, remembering the warm woman who had welcomed me into her home without hesitation.

"She is," Sean agreed. "The perfect counterbalance to my dad's intensity. After mom left when I was eight, Rose stepped in to make sure I had some semblance of a normal childhood."

This was new information—Sean rarely mentioned his mother. I wanted to ask more but hesitated, unsure if I was crossing into sensitive territory.

Sean seemed to read my thoughts. "It's okay," he said softly. "You can ask. About my mom, I mean. It's not a secret, just not something I talk about much."

"What happened?" I asked carefully.

"The simple version is she couldn't handle my dad's obsession with hockey," Sean explained. "The fighting got worse, and eventually she left. Said she needed to find herself or something." He shrugged again, but I could see the old hurt beneath the casual gesture. "She sends birthday cards sometimes, but we haven't seen each other in years."

"I'm sorry," I said, squeezing his hand. "That must have been hard."

"It was what it was," Sean replied, the phrase carrying the weight of years of practiced acceptance. "What about your family? You've mentioned your mom a few times, but not much else."

"It's just Mom and me," I said. "My dad's still in the picture but from a distance—he moved to California when I was twelve, got remarried, started a new family. We talk on holidays, but that's about it."

"Does that bother you?" Sean asked, his tone genuinely interested rather than pitying.

"Not as much as it probably should," I admitted. "Mom and I are close, and she's always been incredibly supportive. Proud of everything I do, even when I'm not sure it's worth being proud of."

"Like what?"

"Like the time I wrote an impassioned letter to the editor about the school cafeteria removing chocolate milk from the lunch menu," I laughed at the memory. "I was fourteen and treated it like I was exposing Watergate. Mom framed it when they published it."

Sean's laugh was warm, free from the tension that had often shadowed it before his injury. "I can picture that perfectly."

The conversation flowed easily after that, moving from childhood memories to favorite books to dream vacations. At some point, the bus hit another bump, more jarring than the first, and I found myself pitching forward. Sean steadied me with his good arm, and when I straightened, it felt natural to lean against him slightly, our shoulders touching.

As the miles passed, our voices grew quieter, the conversation more intimate. Sean told me about his fear that the injury might have permanently altered his future plans, and I confided my own doubts about whether I was cut out for the competitive world of journalism.

"You're an amazing writer," Sean said with conviction. "And more importantly, you have integrity. The world needs journalists like you."

Gradually, the conversation on the bus died down as players drifted off to sleep or lost themselves in music or books. Sean had been mid-sentence, telling me about a prank Zach had played on a freshman, when I felt my eyelids growing heavy.

"Sorry," I murmured, fighting a yawn. "Didn't get much sleep last night. Article deadline."

"It's a long ride," Sean said softly. "You can nap if you want. I'll wake you when we get close."

I meant to protest that I needed to stay awake, to observe the team dynamics for my article, but my body had other ideas. As the gentle rocking of the bus lulled me toward sleep, I felt my head beginning to bob.

Before it could slump uncomfortably, Sean's arm came around me, guiding my head to rest against his uninjured shoulder. "There you go," he murmured, his voice a rumble I could feel as much as hear. "Better?"

"Hmm," I managed, already drifting. "Thanks."

His lips brushed the top of my head briefly, and I smiled into the fabric of his jacket, too tired to worry about who might see the gesture of affection.

The next thing I knew, Sean was gently shaking me awake. "Lucas," he said softly, "we're almost there."

I blinked, disoriented, and realized I was still curled against his side, his arm around me. Judging by the stiffness in my neck, I'd been asleep for quite a while.

"Oh god," I groaned, straightening up and stretching. "Please tell me I didn't snore."

"Like a chainsaw," Sean teased, his eyes dancing with amusement. "The whole bus was talking about it."

"What?" I looked around in horror, only to find most of the team still in their own worlds, paying us no attention at all.

"Relax," Sean laughed. "You barely made a sound. Though you did drool a little on my jacket."

I swatted his arm, cheeks burning. "I did not!"

"How would you know? You were asleep."

I was about to argue further when the bus began to slow, turning into the parking lot of our hotel. Through the windows, I could see the away team's arena in the distance, its distinctive shape unmistakable against the afternoon sky.

"Welcome to enemy territory," Sean announced as the bus came to a stop. "Hope you brought your armor, Lucas."

"My pen is my sword," I replied loftily. "And speaking of, I should probably get some actual work done on this trip, beyond using you as a pillow."

"I happen to think I make an excellent pillow," Sean protested as we gathered our things. "A very underrated aspect of my skill set."

We filed off the bus behind the rest of the team, the cold air a shock after the warmth of the cabin. Coach Barnett stood at the hotel entrance, reading off room assignments.

"Sean, you're with Zach and Petersen," he called when Sean approached. "Lucas, you've got a single down the hall from the team. School policy for non-athletes."

I nodded, oddly disappointed despite knowing this was standard procedure. It wasn't like Sean and I would have been assigned to share a room anyway, but being reminded of my outsider status stung a little.

Sean seemed to sense my thoughts. "Meet me after dinner?" he suggested quietly as we entered the lobby. "We could take a walk, check out the arena from the outside. I'll show you the best spots to watch the game from."

"I'd like that," I agreed, already looking forward to having him to myself again.

The team dinner was a lively affair in a private room at the hotel restaurant, filled with pre-game chatter and good-natured ribbing. I sat at a table with Sean, Zach, and a few of the upperclassmen, taking mental notes on their interactions for my article while enjoying the easy camaraderie.

After dinner, true to his word, Sean found me in the lobby. "Ready for that walk?" he asked, offering his hand with a confidence that still surprised me sometimes—this new Sean who didn't look around first to see who might be watching.

"Lead the way," I said, lacing my fingers with his.

Outside, the evening was crisp but not unpleasantly cold. The arena glowed in the distance, its lights reflecting off the small lake beside it.

"It's beautiful," I said as we walked along a path that circled the water.

"One of the nicer away venues," Sean agreed. "Though the ice is always too soft, and their locker rooms smell like fifty years of hockey gear."

I laughed. "Such a romantic, painting these vivid pictures."

"Hey, I'm just giving you the insider scoop," Sean grinned. "Isn't that what you reporters are always after?"

"Among other things," I admitted, squeezing his hand.

We walked in comfortable silence for a while, enjoying the relative solitude after the chaos of team dinner.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Sean asked as we paused by the lake's edge.

"I was just thinking about how nervous I was to come on this trip," I confessed. "Wondering if I'd be seen as just the reporter tagging along, or worse, the reporter who's dating one of the players."

"And now?"

I turned to face him, taking in the way the moonlight caught his eyes. "Now I'm just glad to be here with you. It feels right, somehow."

"It does," Sean agreed softly, his free hand coming up to cup my cheek. "I was worried too, you know. About coming on this trip when I can't play. Thought I'd be a distraction or feel left out. But being here, supporting the guys, having you with me... it's good."

I leaned into his touch, savoring the warmth of his palm against my skin in the cool night air. Then his lips were on mine, soft and searching, his arm sliding around my waist to pull me closer. I responded eagerly, my own arms circling his neck, careful to avoid his right shoulder even as I pressed against him.

The kiss deepened, and I lost myself in the sensation of being held by him, of the slight peppermint taste from his after-dinner candy, of the solid strength of his body against mine. It was still new enough to be thrilling, familiar enough to feel right.

"Hey lovebirds!" a voice called, startling us apart. "Coach says lights out in thirty for anyone playing tomorrow!"

Zach stood at the top of the path, hands cupped around his mouth like a megaphone, grinning wickedly at us.

"We're coming!" Sean called back, not sounding particularly rushed. "And you're not my mother, Zach!"

"Thank god for that," Zach retorted. "I'd have disowned you years ago."

As he disappeared back toward the hotel, Sean turned to me with a rueful smile. "We should probably head back."

"Probably," I agreed, though I made no move to step away from him.

"Early game tomorrow," he continued, his arms still around me. "You need to prepare your notes, I need to review game footage with the coaches..."

"All very important tasks," I nodded solemnly.

"So responsible," Sean murmured, leaning in to kiss me once more, a lingering touch that promised more to come.

"The most responsible," I agreed when we finally broke apart. "An absolute model of journalistic professionalism."

Sean laughed, taking my hand again as we began walking back toward the hotel. "Somehow I doubt Mia would agree if she could see you now."

"Mia would understand," I insisted. "She's always saying journalists need to fully immerse themselves in their stories."

"Is that what you're doing?" Sean asked, his tone playful. "Immersing yourself in your story?"

"Oh, absolutely," I responded with exaggerated seriousness. "Deep, thorough immersion. Might take months, even years of... close observation."

"Years, huh?" Sean's voice was lighter, but I could hear the genuine question beneath the teasing.

"Maybe," I said more softly. "If the story warranted it."

His hand tightened around mine, and though he didn't respond verbally, the gesture said enough.

Back at the hotel, we shared the elevator with Zach and a couple of freshmen, the enclosed space filled with their animated discussion of tomorrow's opponent. Sean stood beside me, his arm casually around my waist, thumb hooked through my belt loop as if it belonged there.

I noticed Zach noticing, a small smile playing at his lips as he bumped Sean's foot with his own. Sean just grinned back, unapologetic and content in a way that made my chest feel warm and full.

The elevator stopped at our floor, and the group spilled out into the hallway. Sean walked me to my room, lingering outside the door.

"I should let you get some rest," he said, though his eyes said something different. "Big game tomorrow."

"Right," I nodded. "And you need sleep too. For team morale and stuff."

Down the hall, Tristan passed by, headed to his own room. "No all-nighters, you two," he called, though his tone was more amused than admonishing. "Some of us need our beauty sleep."

We both laughed, the moment of tension broken. "Goodnight, Lucas," Sean said, leaning in for one last brief kiss.

"Goodnight," I replied, watching him walk toward the room he shared with Zach and Petersen.

Inside my single room, I flopped onto the bed, feeling like a lovestruck teenager. I pulled out my phone to set an alarm for the morning, and found I already had a text: Missing you already. Sweet dreams.

My heart did that ridiculous flip again as I typed back: It's been two minutes! But also... same. See you at breakfast?

His response was immediate: It's a date.

I was just settling in, mentally preparing myself to actually get some work done before sleep, when a soft knock at my door startled me.

When I opened it, Sean stood there, looking equal parts sheepish and determined.

"I just realized," he said without preamble, "that I really wanted to kiss you goodnight properly. Without an audience."

"Is that so?" I couldn't help the smile spreading across my face.

He stepped closer, and I instinctively backed up, allowing him into the room. "I know we should both get some sleep, and I have to be up early for the coaches' meeting, but..."

I closed the door behind him, then reached up to curl my fingers in the front of his jacket, pulling him closer. "But?"

Instead of answering, Sean kissed me—a proper kiss, deep and thorough, his good arm wrapping around me to hold me against him. I responded eagerly, weeks of built-up tension finding release in the way our bodies fit together, the way his mouth moved against mine with increasing urgency.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Sean rested his forehead against mine. "That's a much better goodnight," he murmured.

"Definitely an improvement," I agreed, not quite ready to let him go. "Though I'm not sure it's helping either of us get to sleep faster."

Sean laughed softly. "Probably not. But worth it."

Neither of us moved to separate, the warmth between us too pleasant to break. After a moment, I found myself saying, "Stay? Just for a while. We could talk more, or..."

"Or?" Sean raised an eyebrow, a half-smile playing at his lips.

"Or just... be," I finished, feeling suddenly shy. "Together. Until you need to go back to your room."

Sean's expression softened. "I'd like that."

We moved to the bed, careful of Sean's shoulder as we settled against the headboard, my head on his chest, his arm around me. It was innocent, really—just physical closeness, the comfort of being held and holding someone who mattered. But it felt more intimate, somehow, than the heated kisses we'd shared.

"I could get used to this," Sean murmured, his fingers playing with my hair. "Having you close."

"Me too," I admitted, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath my ear. "Though I should probably mention that as a journalist, cuddling with my interview subjects is generally frowned upon."

"I won't tell if you won't," Sean chuckled, the sound reverberating through his chest where my head rested.

The room was bland – beige walls, generic art – but the space between us increasingly felt charged. His good hand found mine, fingers lacing through easily. I leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw, then trailing lower, down the column of his neck. My lips brushed the rough fabric of the sling. He sighed, a soft sound in the quiet room, tilting his head slightly, granting me better access. His good hand came up, cupping my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin gently. That touch, that silent permission, sent a wave of warmth through me.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low.

“Always,” I promised, my lips moving against his skin.

Mindful of his restricted movement, I helped him ease back against the propped-up hotel pillows. He shifted slightly, adjusting the sling until he seemed comfortable. Then, holding his gaze, I lowered my head. I started at his chest, tasting the faint saltiness of his skin, my tongue tracing the hard lines of muscle. He watched me, his eyes darkening. I moved lower, my fingers going to the button of his jeans. He didn’t help, didn’t need to, just watched me with a focused intensity. I unzipped him slowly, carefully drawing the denim down, revealing his throbbing cock.

I took his dick into my mouth, starting slow. He tasted familiar, yet the circumstances made it feel new. I was deliberately gentle, using my tongue and lips to build the pleasure gradually, mindful not to jostle him or cause any strain. His breath hitched. His good hand threaded into my hair, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly as the pleasure mounted. He arched slightly against the pillows, a soft groan escaping him. "Lucas," he breathed. Hearing my name like that, soft and needy, sent a thrill through me.

I continued my slow worship of his cock until I felt the tension coiling in him, the subtle signs he was getting close. Then I eased back, looking up at him. His eyes were heavy-lidded, glazed with pleasure. A faint flush colored his cheekbones. He met my gaze, and then, with a determined look, he shifted.

“My turn,” he rasped, his voice slightly rough.

“Sean, your shoulder…” I started, concerned.

“It’s fine. Come here.”

Hesitantly, I let him guide me. It was awkward for him, maneuvering with the sling restricting one arm, but he managed, kneeling naked before me on the bed. The determination in his eyes was touching. He took my dick into his mouth, his movements slightly less fluid than usual, but no less effective for it. His focus was absolute. I watched him, feeling a profound sense of tenderness mixed with the building heat in my own body. He was putting effort into this, wanting to please me despite his physical limitation. The thought alone was incredibly arousing.

When I felt I couldn’t take much more, I urged him back. “Easy,” I whispered, helping him lie back against the pillows again. I positioned myself carefully between his legs, pausing to look down at him. His trust was laid bare in his expression. Leaning down, I captured his lips in a slow, deep kiss before lowering my ass onto his twitching cock.

His entry into my hole was slick and easy, a perfect fit. He gasped softly as I took his dick fully, our naked bodies joining. He let out a loud groan and grabbed onto my ass. Then for a moment, I just stayed still, savoring the feeling of having his cock inside me. Then, supporting myself on my hands, careful not to put weight on him, I began to ride. Slowly at first, rising and falling, letting him get used to the angle, the pressure. His good hand began groping my ass, guiding, encouraging.

I looked down at the sling. An impulse, strong and clear, moved through me. Leaning forward again, I lowered my head and pressed a series of soft, lingering kisses against the sling itself, right over where his injured shoulder lay beneath. It was a gesture of acknowledgment, of acceptance. I liked all of him, the athlete and the man, the strength and the vulnerability.

Sean’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t speak, but his hand tightened fractionally on my ass, pulling me closer. I continued to move, riding him with a steady, fluid rhythm, my gaze holding his. The pace quickened naturally, driven by mutual need. The connection between us felt electric, deeper than just the physical act. He met my thrusts from below, his hips lifting slightly off the bed to match my pace.

My name fell from his lips, a broken prayer. The tension coiled tighter and tighter until it snapped. A shared cry echoed in the room as orgasm washed over us, hot and intense, leaving us trembling and tangled together.

We lay like that for a long time, my head pillowed on his uninjured shoulder, his good arm wrapped around me. My breathing slowly returned to normal, matching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

We then talked quietly for a while, about nothing important—favorite movies, the worst cafeteria food we'd encountered at college. Simple, ordinary topics that somehow felt significant in the darkness of the hotel room, in the circle of each other's arms.

At some point, I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, Sean was gently extricating himself from our embrace.

"I should go," he whispered, seeing I was awake. "It's late, and Zach will give me hell if I wake him up coming in."

"What time is it?" I asked groggily, reaching for my phone.

"A little after midnight," Sean replied. "But don't worry—I'll sneak back to my room and be the perfect gentleman teammate."

I sat up, trying to clear the sleep from my head. "Will anyone notice you were gone?"

"Petersen sleeps like the dead, and Zach's probably still texting Nate while pretending he's not into him," Sean assured me. "It'll be fine."

He leaned down to press a soft kiss to my forehead. "Go back to sleep. I'll see you at breakfast."

"Goodnight," I mumbled, already drifting off again. "Be careful."

The last thing I remembered before falling fully asleep was the soft click of the door closing behind him, and the lingering warmth where his body had been pressed against mine.