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I woke to the sound of gunfire and shouting—which turned out to be just Nate playing one of his video games at full volume. The sunlight streaming through our half-open blinds told me it was late morning, and the dull throb behind my eyes reminded me why I didn't go clubbing often.

I shuffled out of my bedroom into our shared living space, squinting against the light.

"Well, well," Nate drawled from his spot on the couch, not looking away from his game. "Look who's finally rejoined the land of the living."

"What time is it?" I croaked, making a beeline for the coffee pot. Thank God Nate had already made a fresh batch.

"Almost noon, Sleeping Beauty." He paused his game and turned to face me, his expression gleeful. "You rolled in pretty late last night."

I poured myself a cup of coffee, buying time before facing what I knew would be a thorough interrogation. Nate and I had been flat mates since freshman year, and he'd appointed himself chief officer of my nonexistent love life. Any deviation from my usual routine was cause for celebration in his book.

"It wasn't that late," I protested weakly.

"2 AM is definitely 'that late' when you're usually in bed by eleven like an elderly librarian." Nate's eyes sparkled with mischief. "So, who was he?"

I nearly choked on my coffee. "What makes you think there was a 'he'?"

"Oh, please." Nate rolled his eyes dramatically. "You hate clubs. If you stayed until two, there had to be a reason, and since you came home alone but looking like the cat who got the cream, I'm guessing you met someone."

I sighed, knowing resistance was futile. Nate could extract information from a rock. It was what made him such a good reporter—and occasionally, an annoying roommate.

"Fine. I met someone. We talked. We danced a little. End of story."

Nate clutched his chest, falling back against the couch cushions. "Is that all I get? 'We talked'? Come on, Lucas, throw me a bone here. Was he hot? Tall? Funny? A good kisser?"

I felt heat creep up my neck at the last question, and Nate sat bolt upright, pointing an accusing finger at me.

"You kissed him! I knew it! Tell me everything right now or I swear I'll follow you around campus singing 'Kiss the Girl' until you do."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me." The gleam in his eye told me he absolutely would.

I collapsed into our threadbare armchair, giving in. "Fine. Yes, I kissed someone. His name is Sean. He's tall, plays sports, and yes, he's hot. And a good kisser. Satisfied?"

"Not even close." Nate set his controller aside, giving me his full attention. "Details, Lucas. I need details. How did you meet him? What did you talk about? And most importantly, when are you seeing him again?"

"We're not," I admitted, trying to ignore the twinge of disappointment. "I didn't get his number."

Nate stared at me in disbelief. "You're joking. You meet a hot athlete who can apparently kiss well enough to make you blush twelve hours later, and you don't get his number? What is wrong with you?"

"I don't know!" I threw my hands up. "It was loud, my friends were waiting, and it just... didn't happen."

"Unbelievable." Nate shook his head. "Well, at least tell me what you talked about before the kissing commenced."

I found myself smiling as I recalled our conversation. "Movies, mostly. And how we both hate clubs but got dragged out by friends."

"Ah, bonding over mutual annoyance. Classic." Nate grinned. "Sounds like the start of a beautiful romance."

"It's not a romance," I corrected him. "It was just a fun night."

"A fun night you're obviously still thinking about." Nate's voice softened slightly. "You should have gotten his number, Lucas."

"I know." I sighed, sipping my coffee. "But it's fine. I mean, what are the chances I'll run into him again anyway?"

"At this university? Slim to none." Nate glanced at his watch. "Speaking of which, we should probably get ready if we're going to make it to the rink by two."

I groaned, suddenly remembering our assignment. After three semesters of hoping for something better than campus events or dining hall reviews, Nate and I had finally landed a decent beat for the university newspaper: covering the hockey team throughout their season.

The only problem? Neither of us knew anything about hockey.

"Remind me again why we agreed to this?" I asked, already heading back to my room to find something suitable to wear.

"Because Mia said it would be good experience, and we both know she's right." Nate called after me. "Besides, maybe you'll see some guys as hot as your mystery kisser!"

I flipped him off without turning around, his laughter following me down the hall.

An hour later, we were walking across campus toward the athletic complex, armed with notebooks, voice recorders, and a hastily googled list of hockey terminology.

"Okay, so a hat trick is three goals in one game by the same player," Nate recited from his notes. "A power play is when one team has more players on the ice because the other team has someone in the penalty box."

"And the penalty box is where players go when they break the rules," I added. "Like for tripping, or checking from behind, or—"

"Fighting," Nate finished with a grin. "Which is somehow actually allowed, but with rules. God, this sport is weird."

"Tell me about it." I pushed open the door to the complex, the blast of cold air a stark contrast to the warm September day outside. "Mia said we need to talk to the coach first, then do some player interviews."

"And I'm supposed to get locker room shots for the feature." Nate patted the camera bag slung over his shoulder. "Pre-game preparations, team bonding, that kind of thing."

We found our way to the hockey rink, the chill intensifying as we got closer. The team's PR assistant met us at the entrance, a harried-looking grad student named Emma who seemed relieved to see us.

"The coach is expecting you," she said, leading us through a maze of corridors. "The players are getting ready, but you'll have about fifteen minutes for interviews before they need to focus on the game."

She pushed open a door marked 'Home Team', and the noise hit us immediately—music playing from speakers, guys laughing and shouting to each other, the clatter of equipment being arranged.

"Hey everyone," Emma called out over the din. "These are the student reporters from The Daily. They'll be covering you guys this season, so try not to terrify them on day one, okay?"

A chorus of greetings and a few good-natured jeers came our way as we stepped into the locker room. I tried not to stare too obviously as muscular guys in various states of undress moved around the space, focusing instead on finding the coach for our initial interview.

A tall player with 'Captain' stitched under the 'C' on his jersey approached us, hand extended. "Tristan," he introduced himself. "Welcome to the madhouse."

I shook his hand, appreciating his firm grip and friendly smile. "Lucas. This is my colleague, Nate. Thanks for letting us invade your space."

"No problem. We've been trying to get more campus coverage. The team deserves it." Tristan gestured around the room. "Feel free to talk to anyone. Most of these guys love attention, so you shouldn't have any trouble getting quotes."

As Tristan moved away to continue his preparations, another player sauntered over, a confident smirk on his face. "So you're the press, huh? Don't worry, we'll give you a good show tonight." He winked at Nate. "I'm Zach, by the way. Forward. First line ."

"Nate, the photographer. Don't worry, I know how to make even the worst players look good."

Instead of being offended, Zach's smirk widened. "Feisty. I like it."

"And I like getting good shots, so try not to fall on your face too much out there," Nate retorted, though I noticed a slight flush on his cheeks.

"Oh, I never fall unless I want to." Zach's tone was playful, but there was something simmering beneath the surface. "And I'm very... deliberate about what I want."

I raised my eyebrows, looking between them. The tension was palpable, but it wasn't the friendly kind Zach had displayed with us initially.

Nate rolled his eyes. "Save the charm for someone who's buying it, Zach. I'm here to work."

"Sure thing, sweetheart." Zach's grin didn't falter. "But if you want any... exclusive content, you just let me know."

"I need to check my camera settings," Nate said abruptly, turning to me. "Where should I set up?"

Before I could answer, a voice from across the room made my heart stop.

"Zach, Coach wants us on the ice in five."

I knew that voice. I'd been replaying it in my head all morning.

I turned slowly, and there he was—Sean, from the club. He was pulling a jersey over his head, his face partly obscured, but there was no mistaking that build, that tousled hair.

When his face emerged, his eyes immediately locked with mine, and I saw the moment of recognition, followed quickly by something that looked like panic. He froze for a split second before his expression smoothed over into polite neutrality.

My stomach dropped. He was going to pretend he didn't know me.

"Thanks, man," Zach called back, oblivious to the silent exchange happening between us. "Hey, Sean, come meet the press. They're covering us this season."

Sean approached slowly, his face a careful mask. "Sean," he said formally, extending his hand to me like we were meeting for the first time. "Defense."

I stared at his outstretched hand for a moment before taking it, feeling none of the warmth from last night. "Lucas. The Daily."

If Zach noticed the tension, he didn't show it. "And this is Nate, the photographer with the smart mouth."

Sean nodded curtly at Nate, who was looking between Sean and me with narrowed eyes. My best friend missed nothing.

"We should get ready," Sean said to Zach, already backing away. "Nice meeting you both."

As they walked away, I heard Zach ask, "What's up with you? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I couldn't hear Sean's reply, but the set of his shoulders was rigid, nothing like the relaxed posture of the man I'd danced with last night.

"Lucas," Nate hissed, pulling me aside. "That's him, isn't it? Club guy?"

I nodded, still stunned. "Yeah."

"And he just pretended not to know you? What an asshole!"

"Keep your voice down," I whispered, though no one was paying attention to us. "Maybe he has his reasons."

"Like what? Being a closeted jerk?" Nate's protective instincts were in full swing. "Want me to get unflattering action shots of him? I can make him look like he's picking his nose mid-game."

Despite everything, I laughed. "No, don't do that. Let's just... do our job."

"Fine." Nate didn't look happy about it. "But if he hurts you, all bets are off."

The coach called the team together then, and we stepped back to observe. I watched as Sean integrated seamlessly with his teammates, nothing in his demeanor suggesting the passionate man who'd kissed me senseless just hours ago.

I tried to focus on the pre-game rituals, jotting notes about team dynamics and the coach's strategy talk, but my eyes kept drifting to Sean. What had changed between last night and now? Was he really going to act like nothing had happened?

As the team filed out to the ice, Sean glanced back once, his eyes meeting mine for just a moment. Something flickered there—regret? Apology? But then it was gone, and he was out the door with the rest of the team.

"Come on," Nate said, clapping me on the shoulder. "Let's go watch some hockey."

We made our way to the press box, a small elevated area with a perfect view of the ice. A few local sports reporters were already set up, but they barely glanced our way as we found seats.

"So that's why you didn't get his number," Nate mused as we settled in. "He was too busy being a coward."

"We don't know what's going on with him," I said, though the hurt was still fresh. "Maybe he's not out."

"That doesn't give him the right to treat you like a stranger." Nate was fuming on my behalf. "You deserve better, Lucas."

"It was just one night," I reminded him, and myself. "Let's focus on the game."

The teams took the ice to the roar of the crowd, and I tried to concentrate on the fast-paced action. I noted the rowdy student section with their chants and signs, the precision of the skaters as they ran through warm-up drills, the palpable excitement in the arena.

But my eyes kept finding Sean.

He was impossible to miss on the ice—number 28, his name emblazoned across his broad shoulders. He moved with power and control, his earlier stiffness gone as he blocked shots and made precise passes to teammates.

"He's actually pretty good," Nate admitted grudgingly, snapping photos of the action.

I just nodded, watching as Sean bodychecked an opposing player, sending him sprawling across the ice. The crowd roared its approval, and Sean's teammates thumped him on the back as they skated past.

This was a different side of the man I'd met last night. On the ice, he was all calculated aggression and focused intensity. I found myself wondering which version was the real Sean—the gentle, attentive man who'd kissed me so carefully, or this fierce competitor who seemed to thrive on physical confrontation.

Or maybe they were both real, different facets of a person I clearly didn't know at all.

By the time the final buzzer sounded, signaling a 3-1 victory for our team, I had pages of notes but no better understanding of Sean. I'd watched him play through what looked like a painful hit in the second period, noticed how he'd briefly favored his right shoulder before jumping right back into the action.

"Press conference in five," Emma announced, poking her head into the box. "Coach and select players will be available for questions."

"Let's go," Nate said, standing and gathering his gear. "Time to face the music."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, following him toward the exit.

Nate gave me a pointed look. "It means your hockey hottie will have to acknowledge your existence if you ask him a direct question, won't he?"

"I'm not going to abuse my position to make him uncomfortable," I said firmly. "Whatever his reasons, that's not how I operate."

Nate sighed. "You're too nice, Lucas."

The press conference was standard fare—the coach praised the team's effort, the captain spoke about their defensive strategy, and a forward who'd scored two goals answered questions about his technique. Sean wasn't among the players selected for the conference, which was both a relief and a disappointment.

Afterwards, we were allowed back into the locker room for individual interviews. The atmosphere was jubilant, players still riding the high of their victory. I interviewed the goalie first, getting quotes about his spectacular saves, then moved on to speaking with the team's top scorer.

I was deliberately avoiding Sean, but I couldn't help noticing him across the room, speaking quietly with a man who looked like a trainer, occasionally wincing as the man examined his shoulder.

Nate, meanwhile, had somehow ended up interviewing Zach, their body language suggesting they were seconds away from either fighting or something else entirely.

"So, do you think your goal was luck or actual skill?" Nate was asking, voice dripping with false sweetness.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Zach leaned against his locker, smirking. "Maybe if you'd been watching me instead of taking a hundred pictures of the goalie, you'd have your answer."

"I was documenting the game comprehensively," Nate replied primly. "Not my fault if you weren't doing anything worth photographing."

"Really? Because I scored twice, sweetheart. That seems pretty photo-worthy to me."

"Quality over quantity, honey. Anyone can slam a puck into a net."

Zach's eyebrow shot up. "Is that a challenge?"

"Take it however you want."

I watched their exchange with growing amusement and confusion. There was clearly something going on that I wasn't privy to. I moved closer, wondering if I should intervene before they caused a scene.

"Have you ever even been on the ice, press boy?" Zach asked, stepping into Nate's personal space. "Or do you just criticize from the sidelines?"

"I've been on the ice," Nate retorted, not backing down. "And unlike some people, I don't need to show off to get attention."

"No? What do you need, then?"

"Certainly not whatever you're offering."

I cleared my throat, finally deciding to step in. "I think we have enough material for now," I said, trying not to laugh at their startled expressions. "Thanks for the interview, Zach."

Nate shot me a look that promised retribution, but stepped back from Zach with a final glare. "Yes, thanks. It was illuminating."

"Anytime." Zach's smirk returned. "I'm always available for in-depth interviews."

As we walked away, I nudged Nate. "What was that about?"

"Nothing," he said too quickly. "Just getting quotes for the article."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

Nate sighed, pulling me further away from the players. "Fine. Remember that guy I told you about? The one who kissed me at that party a few weeks ago and then ghosted me?"

I stared at him. "No way."

"Yes way. Small world, huh?" Nate glanced back at Zach, who was now talking with Sean. "We've been running into each other all semester, and it's always like that—verbal sparring that goes nowhere."

"Sounds like it's going somewhere to me," I teased.

"Please. We hate each other."

"If you say so." I wasn't convinced, but I let it drop as I noticed Sean heading for the exit, still in his gear. "I'll be right back. Need to check something for the article."

Before Nate could stop me, I followed Sean out of the locker room, catching up to him in the empty hallway leading to the training rooms.

"Sean," I called, my voice echoing slightly in the concrete passage.

He froze, then slowly turned to face me. The mask of indifference slipped, revealing a mixture of emotions I couldn't quite decipher.

"Lucas," he said quietly. "I can explain."

I crossed my arms, waiting. "I'm listening."

He glanced around nervously, as if checking for witnesses to our conversation. "Not here. Please."

"Then where? Because in case you missed it, I'm covering your team this season. We're going to be seeing a lot of each other."

Sean ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, a gesture so familiar from last night that it made my chest ache. "I didn't know you were a reporter."

"And that matters because...?"

"It's complicated."

"Try me."

He took a deep breath. "Last night was real, okay? But no one here knows that I'm..." He lowered his voice. "Bisexual. No one."

The admission took some of the wind out of my sails. "Oh."

"Yeah." Sean's expression was pained. "I'm not ashamed of it, but my life is complicated right now. There's a lot riding on this season, scouts watching, and I just can't afford any distractions or complications."

"And I'm a complication," I stated flatly.

"That's not what I meant." He stepped closer, then seemed to think better of it. "God, Lucas, you have no idea how hard it was to pretend I didn't know you in there. To act like I hadn't been thinking about last night all day."

My heart skipped at that, but I kept my expression neutral. "So what now? We pretend we're strangers all season?"

"I think that would be best," he said, though he didn't sound convinced. "For both of us."

"Both of us," I repeated. "Right."

Sean looked miserable. "I'm sorry. If things were different..."

"But they're not." I took a step back. "Fine. As far as anyone knows, we met for the first time today. Professional relationship only."

Relief and something like disappointment flickered across his face. "Thank you."

I turned to go, then paused. "Just one more thing."

"What's that?"

"Your shoulder. You flinched when that player checked you in the second period. Are you injured?"

Sean's expression instantly shuttered. "I just lost my balance. It's nothing."

I could tell he was lying, but I didn't push it. "If you say so. See you around, Sean."

I walked away, feeling his eyes on my back but refusing to turn around. Something told me there was more to Sean than he was letting on.