Page 19

"Just relax," Ava instructed, adjusting her camera lens as Sean shifted awkwardly by the window. "Pretend I'm not even here."

"Easier said than done," Sean muttered, tugging at the sleeve of his sweater. "I feel like I'm posing for a school portrait."

I bit back a laugh from my position behind Ava, enjoying Sean's discomfort perhaps a bit too much. We were in the campus newspaper's lounge, a quirky space filled with mismatched furniture and framed front pages from significant moments in the university's history. It was the agreed-upon location for the formal interview I'd arranged as part of a profile piece focusing on Sean's recovery and leadership.

"Think of it as practice for when you're famous," I suggested helpfully. "All those NHL promotional photoshoots with you trying to look intimidating while holding a stick and staring into the distance."

Sean shot me a look that was half-amusement, half-warning. "Not helping, Lucas."

"You're both hopeless," Ava declared, though her tone was fond as she snapped a few more shots. "Sean, just look at Lucas for a minute. Talk to him, not me."

Sean's gaze shifted to me, and the transformation was immediate—his posture relaxed, his expression softened, and a small smile played at the corners of his mouth. Ava's camera clicked rapidly, capturing the change.

"Perfect," she announced after a moment. "Those are the money shots right there." She lowered her camera with a satisfied nod. "I'll leave you two to the actual interview portion. Try to maintain some professional distance, if that's even possible."

As she packed up her gear, she caught my eye and mouthed "He's cute when he looks at you" with an exaggerated wink. I felt heat rise to my cheeks but maintained my composure as I prepared my recorder and notes.

Once Ava had departed with a cheerful wave, I slipped into professional mode, setting up my recorder on the coffee table between us.

"Ready?" I asked, settling into the armchair across from where Sean sat on the couch.

"As I'll ever be," he replied, still looking vaguely uncomfortable. "It's weird being on this side of an interview with you. Feels like we've come full circle."

"We have, in a way," I acknowledged, thinking back to those early, tension-filled interviews in the locker room. "But this time you're not trying to hide a major injury from me, so that's progress."

Sean laughed, some of the stiffness leaving his shoulders. "Fair point. Ask away, then. I'm an open book."

I pressed record and began with the easy questions—his background in hockey, favorite memories with the team, the adjustment to college-level play. Sean answered thoughtfully, gradually relaxing into the conversation as we established a rhythm.

"You mentioned your first goal in peewee hockey," I prompted. "Tell me about that."

Sean's face lit up with the memory. "I was seven, this tiny kid with equipment too big for me because my dad insisted on buying room to grow. We were playing against this team from the next town over, and they were crushing us—like, 5-0 in the second period."

He leaned forward, caught up in the story now. "I was on defense, but during a line change, I ended up with the puck at center ice. Everyone expected me to pass it—I always passed it, always played it safe. But something just clicked, and I took off down the ice on a breakaway."

"All alone?" I asked, genuinely invested in the story despite it having no real relevance to my article.

"Completely," Sean confirmed, his eyes bright with the memory. "I could hear my dad yelling from the stands to pass it to our forward, but for once, I just didn't. I faked left, went right, and somehow managed to flip the puck over the goalie's pad. Complete fluke, honestly."

"But you scored."

"I scored," he nodded, a grin spreading across his face. "And the look on my dad's face—he was so surprised, then so proud. It was the first time I really felt like I could be good at this, you know? Not just following instructions, but making my own plays."

There was something poignant about the memory—the young boy seeking approval, finding a moment of agency on the ice. It spoke volumes about the dynamics that had shaped Sean into the person he was now.

"You mentioned moving away from home for college," I continued. "How did that adjustment go?"

"It was hard at first," Sean admitted. "I'd always had my dad's voice in my ear, telling me what to do, how to play, how to be. Suddenly I had to figure that out for myself."

"And did you? Figure it out, I mean."

Sean's expression turned reflective. "I'm still working on it. But the team helped a lot. They became a sort of second family—with all the annoying sibling dynamics included." His smile turned wry. "Zach, especially, has been like the irritating brother I never wanted but somehow can't live without."

I laughed, knowing exactly what he meant from watching their interactions. "The team's support has been important during your recovery too, from what I've observed."

"Crucial," Sean agreed. "They've kept me in the loop, made me feel like I'm still contributing even when I can't play. Coach, too, has been surprisingly understanding."

"What would you say you've learned from this experience?" I asked, moving into the meatier part of the interview. "The injury, I mean."

Sean was quiet for a moment, genuinely considering the question. "That isolation is poison," he said finally, his voice softer than before. "Keeping things to yourself—pain, fear, doubt—it only makes them grow. I thought I was protecting everyone by handling it alone, but really, I was just making it worse."

"For yourself and the team," I observed.

"Exactly. If I'd been honest from the beginning, maybe I'd have missed a few games, but I wouldn't be out for most of the season," Sean ruefully touched his healing shoulder. "The irony is, I was so afraid of letting people down that I ended up letting them down more in the long run."

"And now?" I prompted. "How are you approaching things differently?"

"I'm trying to be more honest," Sean said simply. "About what I'm feeling, what I need, what I want. It's... not easy, after so many years of just pushing through and keeping things inside. But it's worth it."

The interview naturally shifted into discussion of his future plans. This was territory we hadn't explored much in our personal conversations, and I found myself genuinely curious about his answer.

"If the pro opportunity comes, I'll take it," Sean said, his tone measured. "But this injury has been a wake-up call. Hockey careers are short, and injuries are part of the game. I'm considering graduate school for sports management, maybe even coaching. Having options feels freeing."

I jotted this down, hiding a smile at the thoughtful way he spoke about his future. The Sean I'd first met would never have admitted to a plan B, let alone considered that hockey might not be his entire identity.

"You'd make a great coach," I observed, unable to keep the warmth from my voice despite my professional demeanor. "You already have that natural ability to see patterns and explain them clearly."

A slight flush colored Sean's cheeks. "Yeah? You think so?"

"Definitely. I've seen how the younger players respond to you, even from the bench. You have that perfect balance of demanding excellence without being a jerk about it."

The formal portion of our interview concluded, and I switched off the recorder, setting it aside. We both relaxed, the invisible barrier of journalist and subject dissolving as I moved to join him on the couch.

"So," I said, settling beside him. "How did that feel? Being on the other side of the questioning for once?"

"Less invasive than I expected," Sean admitted with a small laugh. "Though I'm pretty sure I revealed more to you in the last hour than I have to anyone else in months."

"That's my superpower," I teased. "Getting stubborn hockey players to open up about their feelings."

"I'd argue it's more your persistence than a superpower," Sean countered, taking my hand and lacing our fingers together. "You just refuse to give up until you get your story."

There was admiration in his voice rather than criticism, and I squeezed his hand in acknowledgment. "Speaking of not giving up..." I hesitated, uncertain if I should venture into more personal territory. "Were you ever worried? About what people would think about us, I mean. About you liking a guy."

Sean's thumb traced circles on the back of my hand as he considered the question. "Earlier in the semester, I didn't know what I was allowed to feel," he said finally. "I'd been so focused on hockey that I rarely dated seriously, period. Let alone contemplated a relationship with a guy, even if I'd had private inklings about my bisexuality."

"Your father's expectations," I supplied, recalling our previous conversations.

"Partly that," Sean nodded. "There was this unspoken image of what a star athlete son should be, and being openly bisexual didn't fit that picture. But then I met you, and none of those old fears mattered as much."

"I was terrified too, you know," I admitted. "Not about being out—I've been comfortable with my sexuality since high school—but about getting involved with someone I was supposed to be covering objectively. About falling for someone who had every reason not to trust journalists prying into his life."

"We made quite a pair," Sean laughed softly. "Both fighting what we wanted for different reasons."

"And look at us now," I gestured between us. "The scandalous reporter-athlete relationship that turned out to be the least dramatic thing about the season."

"Nate's reaction when you told him we were official was pretty dramatic," Sean pointed out with a grin. "Didn't he threaten to prank-call Coach Barnett to announce it?"

"Oh god," I groaned, remembering my best friend’s enthusiastic response. "He wanted every romantic detail, like we were characters in some CW drama he was following. Then he started plotting this elaborate scheme to accidentally reveal us to the team, as if they didn't already know."

"To be fair, Zach was just as bad," Sean admitted. "He kept offering to be my relationship coach, which is rich coming from a guy who can't admit he's into your best friend despite staring at him like he's the last slice of pizza after a three-day fast."

We both dissolved into laughter. The door to the lounge opened suddenly, and we sprang apart as Mia poked her head in.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said, not looking particularly sorry. "But I need the lounge for a staff meeting in ten minutes."

"Of course," I nodded, glancing at my watch in surprise. "I didn't realize how long we've been talking."

Sean stood, gathering his things. "I should let you get back to work. Wouldn't want to be the cause of you missing a deadline."

"Too late for that," I joked, rising to walk him to the door. "You've been disrupting my professional focus since day one."

"Worth it, though?" Sean asked, a flicker of genuine uncertainty beneath his playful tone.

Instead of answering, I reached up and pulled him down for a quick kiss. "Absolutely worth it."

Sean's smile was brilliant as he straightened. "I'll see you tonight for that movie?"

"Eight o'clock, my place," I confirmed. "I'll even let you pick the film if you bring snacks."

"Deal." He leaned down for one more brief kiss before turning to leave. "See you then."

I watched him walk away, exchanging a high-five with Nate who had just arrived, apparently to drag me to a late lunch. Nate's eyes darted between Sean's retreating form and my undoubtedly besotted expression.

"Please tell me you at least maintained some professional distance during the interview," he said, pushing through the door. "Or did you just stare lovingly into each other's eyes for an hour and call it journalism?"

"I'll have you know it was a very insightful interview," I retorted, gathering my recorder and notes. "The fact that my boyfriend happens to be thoughtful and articulate is just a bonus."

Nate nodded skeptically. "And the fact that said boyfriend looks like he should be modeling hockey gear instead of wearing it is completely irrelevant to your journalistic interest."

"Completely," I agreed solemnly, unable to hold back a grin. "Pure coincidence."

"You're disgusting," Nate declared, though his tone was fond. "Both of you. With your lingering glances and secret smiles and—did you make out in our newsroom? Tell me you did not desecrate this sacred space of journalism with hockey player hormones."

"Nate!"

"What? It's a legitimate question," he insisted as we headed out. "I need to know if I should disinfect the couch before the staff meeting."

I shoved him lightly, laughing despite myself. "We did not desecrate anything. It was just a couple of very professional goodbye kisses."

"Professional kissing," Nate repeated, eyebrows raised. "Is that what they're teaching in Journalism Ethics these days? Because I must have missed that lecture."

As Nate continued his good-natured ribbing all the way to lunch, I couldn't wipe the smile from my face. For all his teasing, Nate understood better than most what finding Sean meant to me.