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"And he just accepted it?" my grandmother asked, both eyebrows raised in disbelief. "Just like that?"

"Not exactly," I admitted, cradling my mug of hot chocolate between my hands. "There was definitely a moment where I thought he might actually short-circuit. But then he said if Lucas makes me happy, that's what matters."

"Well, I'll be," Grandma Rose chuckled, shaking her head. "Robert Mitchell, evolving. Wonders never cease."

It was Christmas Eve, and I was curled up on Rose's worn but comfortable couch, the small bungalow decorated with the same ornaments and lights she'd had since I was a child. Coming here had always felt like stepping into a warm embrace, the only place where I'd consistently felt I could just be myself.

"I was pretty shocked," I confessed. "I was prepared for disappointment and anger. The usual lecture about focus and priorities and the NHL."

"Your father has his flaws—lord knows I've spent enough years pointing them out to him—but he loves you, Sean," Rose said gently. "In his own stubborn, emotionally constipated way."

I laughed at her blunt assessment. "Guess I come by it honestly, then."

"The stubbornness, absolutely," she agreed with a wink. "Though you've been making progress on the emotional constipation, from what I can tell."

Heat rose to my cheeks. "Yeah, well... Lucas has helped with that. A lot."

"I like him already," Rose declared, though she'd never met him beyond that brief interaction the night of my injury. "When do I get to properly meet this young man who's finally gotten my grandson to use his words?"

"I don't know, maybe spring break?" I suggested. "If he wants to, I mean. We haven't really talked about it yet."

"Well, you make sure to invite him," Rose instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument. "I need to thank him personally for getting you to open up, and for writing that article that finally made your father rethink some things."

"I will," I promised, already imagining Lucas here, fitting seamlessly into this warm space, charming my grandmother as easily as he'd charmed me.

The thought of Lucas sent a familiar pang through my chest. It had only been five days since we'd parted for winter break, but I missed him with an intensity that caught me by surprise. We'd been texting constantly, of course, but it wasn't the same as having him beside me, seeing his smile in person, feeling the warmth of his hand in mine.

As if sensing my thoughts, my phone buzzed with a new message. I pulled it out to find a photo from Lucas—him in what was clearly his childhood bedroom, surrounded by books and wearing a Santa hat, making a comically sad face with the caption: Missing you. Mom says hi and wants to know if you're eating enough vegetables.

I smiled, quickly typing back: Tell her I am, though mostly because my grandmother force-feeds me salad. Missing you too. FaceTime tonight?

His response was immediate: Obviously. 10pm? Mom's dragging me to the neighbors' holiday gathering until then.

10 it is. Wear the Santa hat, it's cute.

I could almost see his eye-roll at that, but I knew he'd secretly be pleased. That was one of the things I loved about Lucas—the way he pretended to be annoyed by my compliments while simultaneously blushing and trying not to smile.

Loved. The word had slipped into my thoughts so naturally, so easily, that I almost missed its significance. Did I love Lucas? The idea should have terrified me, sent me running for the emotional hills. Instead, it felt like the most obvious truth in the world, settling into my chest with comfortable certainty.

"You've got that look again," Rose observed, pulling me from my thoughts. "The one that says you're thinking about him."

"Is it that obvious?" I asked, pocketing my phone.

"To someone who's known you your whole life? Yes." She reached over to pat my knee. "It's nice to see you like this, Sean. Happy. Real."

"I am," I realized, the simple truth of it washing over me. "Happier than I've been in... maybe ever."

Rose smiled, satisfied. "Good. That's all I've ever wanted for you, you know. Not trophies or scholarships or professional contracts. Just happiness."

I leaned over to hug her, inhaling the familiar scent of her lavender perfume. "I know, Grandma. And thank you for always seeing me. The real me."

"Always will," she promised, squeezing me tightly before releasing me. "Now, tell me more about this Lucas. What's he studying? What are his interests? Does he have any food allergies I should know about for when he visits?"

I laughed, settling in to tell her everything about Lucas—his passion for journalism, his terrible taste in movies, the way his face scrunched up when he was concentrating hard on writing. Rose listened attentively, asking questions and occasionally making notes, clearly filing away information for future use.

By the time I video called Lucas that night, curled up in my childhood bedroom with the string lights Rose had hung years ago still twinkling above me, I'd come to a decision. I wasn't going to say the L-word yet—that felt like something that should happen in person, when we were together again. But I could show him, in other ways, how deeply I cared.

"There's my favorite Santa," I grinned when his face appeared on my screen, the promised hat still perched jauntily on his head. "How was the neighbor party?"

"Endless," Lucas groaned, flopping back against his pillows. "Mrs. Henderson asked me three separate times what my plans are after graduation, as if I haven't told her the exact same thing every time I've seen her for the past ten years."

"Which is...?"

"Journalism, obviously," Lucas rolled his eyes. "Though according to her, 'newspapers are dying' and I should 'consider something in computers.'"

I laughed at his accurate impression of what was clearly a neighborhood busybody. "Computers, huh? Very specific career advice."

"Oh, it gets better," Lucas continued, warming to his rant. "She then proceeded to tell me about her nephew who 'does computers' and makes 'very good money.' When I asked what specifically he does, she had no idea. Just 'computers.'"

"Sounds lucrative," I teased. "Maybe you should reconsider your life choices."

"Absolutely," Lucas agreed solemnly. "I'll switch my major to 'computers' first thing in January."

Our conversation meandered from there, touching on our respective family holiday traditions, plans for New Year's, and the ongoing saga of Zach and Nate's courtship, which had apparently progressed to daily video calls despite being in different states.

"They spent two hours discussing the merits of different camera lenses yesterday," Lucas reported, shaking his head in disbelief. "Nate said it was purely professional advice, but he was blushing the entire time."

"Zach's been texting me hockey drill videos," I countered. "With extremely detailed analysis of why certain techniques would help Nate's core stability for 'holding heavy cameras during long shoots.'"

"They're ridiculous," Lucas declared, though his tone was fond.

"Says the guy wearing a Santa hat in bed," I pointed out.

"Only because you asked me to!" Lucas protested, reaching up to adjust said hat. "And don't pretend you don't think it's adorable."

"I never said it wasn't," I replied, my voice softening. "I think everything about you is adorable. Even when you're grumpy and stressed about deadlines, or when you get that little crease between your eyebrows while you're editing."

Lucas's expression shifted from playful to something warmer, more vulnerable. "You notice the crease?"

"I notice everything about you," I admitted, the honesty easier through a screen, somehow. "The way you tap your pen when you're thinking. How you always save the best bite of food for last. The little humming noise you make when you're happy but trying not to show it."

"I do not hum," Lucas objected, but his cheeks had flushed pink.

"You absolutely do," I insisted. "It's like this little sound in the back of your throat. You did it when I brought you coffee during your late-night study session last week. And when I kissed that spot behind your ear the day before."

"Sean, professional Lucas observer," he murmured, but he was smiling, his eyes soft in the dim light of his room.

"Someone has to do it," I replied lightly, though my heart felt anything but light. "Given how oblivious you are to your own adorableness."

"Stop saying 'adorable,'" Lucas groaned. "You're making me sound like a puppy or something."

"Fine. Captivating. Magnetic. Irresistible. Better?"

"Much worse, actually," Lucas laughed, covering his face with his hands. "God, you're going to be even more insufferable when we're back on campus, aren't you?"

"Count on it," I promised. "I've got all these compliments saved up with nowhere to direct them."

"You could try writing them down," Lucas suggested. "Like a list. 'Reasons Lucas Is the Greatest Person Sean Has Ever Met.'"

"Bold of you to assume I haven't already started one," I teased, though the idea wasn't entirely without merit. "Maybe I'll give it to you for Valentine's Day. Extremely detailed, with citations."

Lucas's laugh was everything—warm and genuine and slightly sleepy, the sound making my chest ache with how much I missed him. We talked for another hour, until his responses grew slower, his eyes drooping despite his efforts to stay awake.

"You should sleep," I said gently. "It's late, and I know your mom has that big breakfast thing planned tomorrow."

"Don't wanna say goodbye yet," Lucas murmured, fighting a yawn. "Miss you too much."

"Miss you too," I replied, the simple words carrying the weight of everything I wasn't quite ready to say. "But I'll see you in nine days."

"Too long," he complained, but relented. "Fine. Sleep. But text me tomorrow?"

"First thing," I promised. "Sweet dreams, Lucas."

"Sweet dreams, Sean."

The screen went dark, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the lingering warmth of our conversation. Nine days. It simultaneously felt like forever and not nearly enough time to process the revelation that had been growing steadily within me.

I was in love with Lucas. Completely, hopelessly in love. And when we got back to campus, I was going to tell him.

January brought freezing temperatures, a fresh blanket of snow across campus, and the return to routine. I'd been back for two days, methodically following my rehab exercises and preparing for the new semester, when Dr. Shaw delivered the news I'd been hoping for.

"You're cleared for limited play," he announced after examining my shoulder thoroughly. "No more than fifteen minutes of ice time to start, and absolutely no unnecessary contact. But you can suit up for the Dartmouth game if you feel ready."

"I'm ready," I said immediately, already anticipating the feel of the ice beneath my skates, the familiar weight of full gear, the rush of competition I'd been missing for months.

"Easy there," Dr. Shaw cautioned, though he was smiling. "Remember, this is a test run. Any pain, any instability in the joint, and you're right back on the bench. Clear?"

"Crystal," I agreed, willing to accept any conditions if it meant playing again.

The locker room before the game was a familiar chaos of equipment being adjusted, tape being applied, music blasting to get everyone in the zone. My presence in full gear caused a stir of excitement, teammates clapping me on my good shoulder and expressing their enthusiasm for my return.

"The prodigal defenseman returns," Tristan grinned, bumping his fist against mine. "How's it feel?"

"Like coming home," I admitted, the simple truth of it evident in my voice.

As we lined up to take the ice, I scanned the crowd until I found Lucas near the bench, his face alight with anticipation. We locked eyes briefly, and I tapped my stick on the ice in a subtle salute. He responded with a thumbs-up and a grin that made my heart skip despite the pre-game adrenaline already coursing through me.

The game itself was intense, each shift a test of my rehabilitated shoulder. I played cautiously at first, testing the limits of my mobility, bracing myself for pain that largely didn't materialize. By the second period, confidence growing, I delivered a solid check that sent an opposing forward skittering off course. As I skated back to the bench, I couldn't suppress my grin of satisfaction.

"Looking good out there, Sean," Coach nodded approvingly. "How's the shoulder holding up?"

"Fine, Coach," I reported honestly. "Better than I expected."

"Good. Keep it simple, focus on positioning. No heroics tonight."

We secured a decisive win, though I didn't score or even assist. But my defensive plays had been solid, my presence clearly boosting team morale after months of my absence. As we celebrated on the ice post-game, Lucas was allowed out with the other media for interviews. Instead of heading for the star forwards who had scored, he made a beeline for me.

"Sean," he began, his professional facade firmly in place despite the warmth in his eyes. "How does it feel to be back on the ice after your injury?"

I matched his formal tone, aware of the other reporters nearby. "It feels great. The shoulder's responding well to the rehab, and it's good to be contributing to the team again."

"Any concerns about re-injury as you return to full play?"

"Not really," I answered truthfully. "The medical staff has been excellent, and I've got a good support system in place." I couldn't resist adding that last part, watching as Lucas fought to maintain his serious expression.

"Well, we're all glad to see you back," he concluded, professional mask slipping just slightly as our eyes met. "The team clearly benefits from your presence."

Later, in the quiet of the locker room after most of the team had cleared out, I sat on a bench untying my skates when Lucas slipped in. He carried two cups of the team's post-game protein shake concoction, handing one to me with a grimace.

"Your teammate Jonah's recipe is still awful," he commented, watching as I downed the chalky mixture without hesitation.

"Tradition," I shrugged, setting the empty cup aside. "Can't mess with what works."

Lucas moved closer, his expression softening as he looked at me. "I'm proud of you," he said quietly. "You were amazing out there."

"Hardly," I laughed. "I played maybe twelve minutes total. But thanks. It felt good to be back."

Lucas leaned into me, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I missed you. The two weeks, I mean. But also seeing you play. You look... right, on the ice. Like that's where you belong."

The locker room door banged open as Zach and a couple of teammates burst in, singing a ridiculous made-up victory song.

They froze comically at the sight of us, clearly recognizing they'd interrupted a moment. One teammate dramatically shielded his eyes, asking in an exaggerated tone if they were interrupting a rom-com moment. Zach just laughed, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help grinning as I stood, pulling Lucas up with me. "Shut up, you dorks," I said without heat. "Let's go celebrate. First team win with me back on ice deserves at least midnight pancakes at the diner."

The group spilled out of the locker room, making plans and continuing their off-key singing. As we walked down the hallway, I turned to Lucas, our hands brushing between us.

"I owe you a proper date," I said quietly. "After all those video calls over break."

"Hmm, I don't know," Lucas pretended to consider. "I've gotten used to seeing you only from the shoulders up. The full three-dimensional experience might be overwhelming."

"I'll risk it if you will," I replied, linking my fingers with his briefly before we stepped outside into the brisk night air.

Ahead of us, Zach and Nate had already fallen into their familiar pattern of bickering, though now it was underlaid with a warmth and fondness that was impossible to miss.

"—can't believe you wore that hideous scarf," Nate was saying, gesturing to the bright orange monstrosity wrapped around Zach's neck. "It looks like a traffic cone threw up on you."

"Says the guy whose entire wardrobe is various shades of pretentious black," Zach retorted, tugging the scarf higher. "Some of us aren't afraid of a little color in our lives."

"There's color, and then there's visual assault," Nate sniffed. "That thing should come with a warning label."

"You love it," Zach insisted. "Admit it. You find my bold fashion choices charming and endearing."

"I find them concerning and possibly indicative of undiagnosed color blindness," Nate countered, though his lips twitched with suppressed amusement. "Have you considered getting your eyes checked? I know a good optometrist."

"My eyes are perfect," Zach declared. "How else would I appreciate the full glory of your eye-rolling? It's truly Olympic-level, you know. I've never seen anyone put so much whole-body commitment into expressing disdain."

"I have a lot of disdain to express," Nate replied dryly. "Living in a world where people voluntarily purchase and wear traffic cone scarves requires it."

Lucas and I exchanged amused glances as their banter continued, the familiar rhythm of it now a comfortable backdrop to our own quiet contentment. His hand found mine again in the darkness between streetlights, a brief, warm pressure that conveyed everything words couldn't.

Being back on the ice had felt like coming home, it was true. But this—walking beside Lucas, surrounded by friends, the future opening before us—this felt even better.