Page 20

"He wants to meet for dinner," I announced, staring at my phone like it might bite me. "Tomorrow night."

"Who does?" Zach asked, barely looking up from the video game he was playing.

"My dad." I sank onto the couch beside Lucas, who immediately reached for my hand. "He's in town for business and thought we could catch up."

"Ah," Zach grimaced, setting down his controller. "The Robert Mitchell experience. Better stock up on antacids and practice your 'yes, sir, thank you for the constructive criticism' face."

"It might not be that bad," Lucas suggested, his thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of my hand. "Maybe he just wants to see how you're doing."

Zach chuckled. "Yeah, and maybe Coach will cancel practice tomorrow to give us time for self-care and journaling."

"You don't think there's a chance he's just being, I don't know, fatherly?" Lucas persisted.

It was a nice thought, but not one supported by my experience. My father's rare campus visits typically involved critiquing my form, questioning my training regimen, and reminding me of all the scouts I needed to impress. Phone calls were easier—I could hold the device away from my ear during the lecture portions—but face-to-face meant nowhere to hide.

"I'm just saying people can surprise you," Lucas continued, squeezing my hand. "He might be making an effort."

"Lucas, eternal optimist," Zach declared, shaking his head.

"It's called looking on the bright side," Lucas protested. "Some of us prefer not to assume the worst of people."

"And some of us have met Sean's father and know exactly what we're talking about," Zach countered.

"I'm with Lucas," Nate chimed in, appearing from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn. "Maybe it'll be fine."

Zach raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? You're siding with the optimism squad? I thought sarcastic pessimism was your default setting."

"I contain multitudes," Nate sniffed, settling into an armchair. "Besides, not everyone's parental relationships are as dysfunctional as yours, Hockey Boy."

"Oh, please," Zach rolled his eyes. "Your dad sends you a birthday text with the wrong date every year and your mom still introduces you as her 'artsy one,' like you're a collectible set."

"At least she remembers I exist between major holidays," Nate fired back. "When was the last time your parents called that wasn't about your grades or to ask if you've met a nice girl yet?"

"Last Tuesday, actually," Zach replied smugly. "Mom wanted my opinion on what to get Dad for their anniversary."

"Probably because you're so gifted at selecting thoughtful presents," Nate said with exaggerated sweetness. "Like that time you got me that photography book I already owned."

"You said you liked it!"

"I said I already had it, which you would have known if you'd listened instead of just trying to impress me with your supposed attention to my interests."

"I wasn't trying to impress you," Zach protested, a flush creeping up his neck. "I was being a considerate friend, something you wouldn't recognize if it hit you in your pretentious, filter-obsessed face."

"They're doing it again," I murmured to Lucas, momentarily distracted from my own problems by the verbal tennis match unfolding before us.

"Always," Lucas agreed with a small smile. "It's their love language."

"For the love of God," Tristan groaned from the doorway, startling all of us—I hadn't even noticed him arrive. "Would you two just kiss already instead of whatever this clear denial of your feelings is?"

A brief, stunned silence fell over the room. Zach and Nate stared at each other, then at Tristan, then back at each other before simultaneously bursting into awkward laughter.

"Me? And him?" Nate gestured between them, his voice slightly higher than normal. "That's hilarious. We're just friends."

"Yeah, can you imagine?" Zach added, his laugh sounding forced. "We'd kill each other within a week."

"Day three: Found dead after argument about proper coffee brewing temperature," Nate supplied, getting into the bit.

"Day five: Homicide by hockey stick after victim rearranged suspect's equipment bag for better aesthetic composition in Instagram photo," Zach countered.

They continued, building increasingly ridiculous scenarios of domestic discord, each more outlandish than the last. But I couldn't help noticing how Nate's eyes lingered on Zach when he thought no one was looking, or how Zach's laughter seemed to catch whenever Nate made a particularly clever retort.

"And don't even get me started on how we'd handle Valentine's Day," Zach was saying, his voice dropping into a surprisingly tender register. "Me planning something stupidly romantic like renting out the whole campus greenhouse for a private dinner surrounded by flowers, with string lights everywhere and that soft jazz you pretend to hate but actually love playing in the background."

Nate's sarcastic expression faltered, a genuine blush rising to his cheeks. "That's oddly specific," he managed, clearing his throat. "And completely ridiculous."

"Totally," Zach agreed quickly, though his eyes never left Nate's. "Ridiculous."

Another charged silence fell, this one crackling with unspoken tension.

"So," Zach said abruptly, his voice overly casual. "Game tonight? That match-up we talked about is on. I've got beer and those pretzel things you like."

"Sure," Nate nodded, equally casual. "Why not? Nothing better to do."

The conversation mercifully shifted then, Tristan asking about practice schedules and Zach launching into a story about a prank gone wrong in the locker room. But Lucas's knowing glance told me he'd noticed the same thing I had—whatever Zach and Nate claimed, there was definitely something simmering beneath their constant bickering.

It was a welcome distraction from my own anxiety, but as the evening wore on and my friends departed one by one, the reality of tomorrow's dinner with my father loomed larger. Lucas stayed behind, sensing my unease even as I tried to mask it.

"What are you most worried about?" he asked, leaning into my side on the couch.

I considered deflecting, then remembered my promise to be more honest, especially with Lucas. "Everything," I admitted. "That he'll be disappointed in my progress. That he'll question my choices. That he'll somehow sense there's something different about me and push until I either lie or come out to him before I'm ready."

Lucas's hand found mine again, a constant anchor I'd come to rely on. "Whatever happens," he said quietly, "I'm here. Before, during, after—whatever you need."

"Thanks. Just knowing that helps."

Later that night, after Lucas had gone home with promises to check in tomorrow, I lay awake staring at the ceiling. My relationship with my father had always been complex—equal parts admiration, fear, and desperate desire for approval. He'd been my hero, my coach, my harshest critic, and occasionally, my biggest supporter. But never really just my dad.

And now I had to face him with my injury, my changed perspective, and the biggest revelation of all—Lucas. I wasn't sure which terrified me more: the idea of telling him about my boyfriend, or the possibility that he'd guess without me saying a word.

The restaurant my father chose was exactly what I expected—upscale enough to signal success, but not so fancy that they'd frown on his preferred uniform of polo shirt and khakis. I arrived five minutes early to find him already seated, scanning the menu with the same intensity he used to review game tapes.

"Sean," he said, standing as I approached. He offered a firm handshake rather than a hug—also expected. "You look well."

"Thanks, Dad," I replied, taking the seat across from him. "How was your flight?"

"Bit of turbulence over the mountains, but nothing major."

Small talk was never our strong suit. We ordered drinks and appetizers, commenting on the menu selections and restaurant décor until the preliminary social requirements had been fulfilled. Then, predictably, he shifted gears.

"Team's doing well," he observed, taking a sip of his water. "That win against Northeastern was impressive. Defense really stepped up in the third period."

"Yeah, Tristan's been solid as captain," I agreed, relieved to be on familiar territory. "And Jensen's developing faster than we expected as a freshman."

"Your replacement," my father noted, watching my reaction carefully.

I managed not to flinch. "Temporary replacement," I corrected. "But yeah, he's got potential."

"How's the shoulder?"

Here it was, the question I'd been dreading. "Better," I said, rotating it slightly as demonstration. "Dr. Shaw says I'm healing well, right on schedule. Should be back on ice in the new year, maybe even for the Dartmouth game."

My father grunted, a sound I'd spent years trying to decode. This particular grunt seemed to indicate cautious approval rather than outright disappointment, which was about the best I could hope for.

"Good, good. If you want a shot at the draft, you need to show them you can bounce back from setbacks. Mental toughness is what separates the pros from the college stars."

The draft. Always the end goal, the final destination that justified any sacrifice along the way. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak without revealing my increasingly complicated feelings about that particular dream.

"I read that article," he continued, surprising me. "The one your reporter friend wrote. About playing through injuries."

My pulse quickened. "Lucas's piece? What did you think?"

"Well-written," my father allowed, a high compliment from a man who rarely praised anything. "Made you sound like a good kid with a hard head."

There was a teasing note in his voice, but beneath it lay that familiar undercurrent of critique—the subtle suggestion that I should have managed the situation better, been smarter, stronger, more strategic.

"He is a good writer," I said carefully, unsure where this conversation was headed.

My father's gaze was uncomfortably perceptive as he studied me across the table. "He seems to be around you quite a bit," he observed. "This reporter."

My mouth went dry. Was I that transparent? Or had he been doing his research, asking around campus, piecing together clues I hadn't realized I was leaving?

"Is there something you want to tell me, Sean?"

The question hung between us, heavy with implication. I could deflect, change the subject, manufacture some safer topic of conversation. But as I sat there, looking at the man who had shaped so much of my life and identity, I realized I was tired of hiding, tired of compartmentalizing, tired of being less than my whole self to protect his vision of who I should be.

"Yes," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "Lucas is my boyfriend."

I held my breath, watching his face for the reaction I'd been dreading—disappointment, anger, rejection. His expression remained unreadable as he set down his fork and folded his hands on the table.

"I see," he said finally. When he spoke again, his question caught me completely off guard. "Was he the reason you hid your injury? Or was he the one who convinced you to come clean about it?"

I blinked, thrown by the unexpected direction. "Neither, really," I answered honestly. "I hid the injury because I was scared of letting everyone down. The team, Coach, you... mostly you," I admitted. "Lucas actually tried to get me to speak up sooner. He saw what was happening before anyone else did and kept pushing me to get help before it got worse."

My father nodded slowly. "The old me would have called that weakness," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "Admitting pain, stepping back from play. But after reading that article, I did some thinking."

He paused, as if struggling to find the right words—another rarity for Robert Mitchell, who typically had opinions as readily available as hockey statistics.

"I saw a lot of myself in what you did," he continued. "And not in a good way."

"What do you mean?"

He sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to carry decades of regret. "I never told you the whole story about my injury. Senior year, the one that ended my career."

"You separated your shoulder," I supplied, familiar with the bare outline. "Three games before the championship."

"What I never told you was that it started as a sprain. Six weeks earlier." He met my eyes directly. "I hid it, played through it, made it worse with every practice, every game. By the time I couldn't hide it anymore, the damage was done. Not just to my shoulder, but to my chances of going pro."

The revelation landed like a body check I hadn't braced for. All these years, I'd been following in his footsteps more closely than either of us had realized.

"I pushed you so hard because I didn't want you to make the same mistakes I did," he continued, irony coloring his voice. "And somehow, I pushed you right into one."

We sat in silence for a moment. Finally, he spoke again, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

"This Lucas. Does he care about you? Not just as a story, but as a person?"

The question was so unexpected, so unlike him, that I answered without hesitation. "Yes. More than I probably deserve, given how I treated him at first."

My father nodded, seeming to accept this at face value. "And you... I thought you liked women." It wasn't quite a question, more a statement of confusion.

"I do," I said simply. "And men. Some men. Lucas, specifically." Saying it aloud, to my father of all people, felt simultaneously terrifying and freeing. "I'm bisexual, Dad."

He processed this for a moment, his expression thoughtful rather than angry. "Your happiness is what matters, Sean," he said finally. "I haven't always been good at showing that, I know. But if this Lucas makes you happy, if he keeps you honest—about injuries or anything else—then that's a good thing."

It wasn't a Hallmark-worthy declaration of unconditional acceptance. But from my father, it was monumental—an acknowledgment of my autonomy, my right to make choices he might not have made, to be someone he might not have expected.

Relief flooded through me. I hadn't realized until that moment just how badly I'd wanted some form of acceptance from him, how much his opinion still mattered despite all my efforts to become my own person.

The rest of dinner passed with lighter conversation. He asked about my classes, my plans for after graduation. I told him about the graduate program in sports management I was considering, and to my surprise, he seemed genuinely interested. He even asked me to thank Lucas for the article, saying it had given him perspective he hadn't expected.

When we parted outside the restaurant, there was an awkward moment where neither of us seemed to know how to say goodbye. Then, to my complete shock, he stepped forward and gave me a one-armed hug—something he hadn't done since I was a child.

"Take care of that shoulder," he muttered gruffly as he stepped back. In our family language, it was as good as saying he cared about me, not just my athletic potential.

"I will," I promised. "Thanks, Dad. For listening. For understanding."

He nodded once, his expression softening just slightly. "We'll talk soon. Keep me updated on your recovery. And Sean?" he added as he turned to go. "I'm proud of the man you're becoming. Different from what I expected, maybe, but good."

With that, he headed toward his rental car, leaving me standing on the sidewalk feeling like the ground had shifted beneath my feet—not in the destabilizing way I'd feared, but like pieces that had been out of alignment were finally settling into place.

I pulled out my phone, typing a quick message to Lucas: Dinner over. Need to see you. Meet me at the fountain in 20?

His reply was almost immediate: On my way. Everything okay?

Better than okay. I'll explain when I see you. -S

The walk back to campus gave me time to process everything that had happened. By the time I reached the fountain—our unofficial meeting spot near the center of campus—Lucas was already waiting, his face a mixture of concern and curiosity.

"How did it go?" he asked as soon as I was within earshot.

Instead of answering immediately, I pulled him into a hug, holding him tightly for a long moment before stepping back to meet his gaze.

"I told him about us," I said simply. "And he was okay with it. More than okay, actually."

Lucas's eyes widened. "Really? Wow, Sean, that's amazing!"

"I know," I laughed, still hardly believing it myself. "He even asked me to thank you for your article. Said it gave him perspective."

"Me?" Lucas looked stunned. "What did I do?"

"Made him think, apparently," I shrugged, taking his hand as we began walking. "And he shared something I never knew—that his own career ended because he did exactly what I did, hiding an injury until it was too late."

I recounted the entire conversation as we strolled around campus, still processing the unexpected turn the evening had taken. Lucas listened intently, squeezing my hand at the right moments, asking questions that helped me make sense of the shifting relationship with my father.

"I was prepared to choose my own path even without his blessing," I admitted as we stopped again by the fountain, its lights illuminating the water in the darkness. "But having it, or something close to it... it's a relief I didn't know I needed."

"I guess this means I'll have to be on my best behavior when I meet your dad in person," Lucas joked, though I could see genuine happiness for me in his eyes.

"You already won him over with your writing," I assured him. "Just talk about hockey and you'll be fine. But thank you. For being stubborn enough not to give up on me. For teaching me to trust. For being with me even when I was at my worst."

"You've done the same for me," Lucas replied, his hand coming up to rest against my cheek. "Shown me that doing the right thing isn't always what's easiest or most obvious. That integrity sometimes means putting someone else's well-being above a story."

No further words were necessary as I leaned down to kiss him. Lucas responded in kind, his arms circling my neck as he pressed closer, the warmth of his body a counterpoint to the cool evening air.

When we finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, Lucas smiled up at me with that particular expression that never failed to make my heart skip.

"So," he said lightly, "I have a journalism ethics paper to write tonight. Want to come over and distract me from being productive?"

"How could I possibly refuse such a romantic invitation?" I laughed, taking his hand again as we turned toward his apartment. "Lead the way, Lucas. I'll try to keep the distractions to a minimum."

"Don't you dare," he retorted, bumping his shoulder against mine playfully. "I've earned some high-quality distractions after that article draft."