Page 24

"There's no story here, Lucas," Mia insisted, peering at me over the rims of her reading glasses. "A vague implication from a rival school's paper hardly warrants a full response."

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, the printout of the offending article sitting between us on her desk. The piece, published in Dartmouth's student newspaper, had caused a minor stir on social media with its thinly-veiled suggestion that at least one athlete at our university had played while seriously injured earlier in the season.

While it didn't name Sean specifically, anyone who'd followed our hockey season could connect the dots. The article questioned both the ethics of the athletic department and, indirectly, my own reporting on the situation.

"It's not about whether there's a story," I argued. "It's about journalistic integrity. This guy is basically accusing me of covering up something newsworthy to protect the athletic department."

"And you want to... what? Defend yourself?" Mia raised an eyebrow. "You know better than that, Lucas. Let bad journalism die its natural death. Engaging only gives it oxygen."

She wasn't wrong. The rational part of my brain knew that responding would only draw more attention to accusations that were already fading from the news cycle. But the personal part of me—the part that had agonized over how to cover Sean's injury ethically without exploiting him—bristled at the implication that I'd failed journalistically.

"I'm not suggesting a direct rebuttal," I clarified. "But maybe an editorial on the complexities of reporting on student athletes? The balance between public interest and personal privacy?"

Mia considered this, tapping her pen against her desk. "That could work," she conceded. "A thoughtful piece on journalistic ethics rather than a defensive reaction. But remember, this isn't just about clearing your conscience, Lucas. It's about serving our readers."

"I understand that," I assured her. "I just think there's value in addressing the broader issues this raises."

"Alright," she nodded. "Draft something up and we'll see. But Lucas?" Her expression softened slightly. "Make sure you're doing this for the right reasons. Not just because someone took a cheap shot at your boyfriend."

Heat rose to my cheeks. "That's not—"

"It's at least partly that," Mia interrupted, though her tone was kind rather than accusatory. "Which is human and understandable. Just make sure the journalist in you is driving, not just the boyfriend."

I left her office with mixed emotions, the article still clutched in my hand. Was I overreacting? Making a professional issue out of something that was really personal? I was still mulling it over when I reached my apartment, finding Sean already waiting outside my door.

"Hey," he greeted me with a quick kiss. "Everything okay? You look stressed."

I hesitated, then handed him the article. "This came out in Dartmouth's paper yesterday. It's been making the rounds online."

Sean scanned it quickly, his expression darkening as he reached the key paragraphs. "Well, this is subtle," he commented dryly. "Just vague enough to avoid a libel suit, but specific enough that everyone knows who they're talking about."

"Yeah," I sighed, unlocking my door and leading him inside. "Mia thinks we should ignore it, let it blow over. And rationally, I know she's right, but..."

"But it pisses you off," Sean finished for me, settling onto my couch. "Because you were careful and ethical in how you covered it, and this guy is implying otherwise."

"Exactly." I dropped beside him, gratified by his immediate understanding. "I'm thinking about writing an op-ed. Not directly responding to this, but addressing the broader ethical questions around reporting on student athletes and injuries."

Sean nodded thoughtfully. "That seems reasonable. You'd be contributing something valuable to the conversation without getting dragged into a petty back-and-forth."

"That's what I told Mia," I agreed. "But she wanted to make sure I'm not just doing it because I'm personally involved. Because of us."

"Are you?" Sean asked, his tone curious rather than accusatory.

I considered the question honestly. "Partly," I admitted. "I'd be lying if I said it doesn't bother me that someone's taking shots at you, even indirectly. But I also genuinely think there's an important discussion to be had about the ethics of this kind of reporting."

Sean was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of my hand. "I trust you," he said finally. "Whatever you decide to write—or not write—I know you'll do it for the right reasons. And I'm okay with it either way."

The simple declaration of trust meant more than I could express. "Thank you."

"I'm just stating facts," Sean shrugged, though his eyes were warm. "You've always tried to do the right thing, even when it wasn't clear what that was. It's one of the things I admire most about you."

I leaned into him, the stress of the day finally catching up with me. "When did you get so wise and supportive?"

"Must be all that physical therapy," Sean joked. "They're rebuilding me, better than before. Stronger, faster, more emotionally intelligent."

I laughed, the tension easing from my shoulders. "The Six Million Dollar Hockey Player."

"Inflation," Sean corrected soberly. "At least twelve million these days."

We spent the evening brainstorming approaches for the potential op-ed, Sean offering insights from an athlete's perspective while I considered the journalistic angles. By the time we ordered takeout for dinner, I had a solid outline that felt both personal and professional—addressing the reality of sports culture without compromising my integrity or Sean's privacy.

Over the next few days, I carefully crafted the piece, running drafts by both Mia and Sean to ensure it struck the right balance. The final version called out the pressure athletes face to play through pain, the system that often prioritizes performance over health, and the responsibility of journalists to report with both accuracy and empathy.

The campus reaction was largely positive. The evening after publication, Sean surprised me at the newspaper office with takeout dinner, a proud smile on his face.

"Delivery for my favorite journalist," he announced, holding up a bag from my favorite Thai place. "Figured you could use brain food after conquering the ethical dilemmas of modern sports reporting."

I grinned, clearing space on my desk. "Perfect timing. I was just finishing up here."

We spread out the containers between us, falling into easy conversation as we ate. Sean updated me on his shoulder rehabilitation progress, while I shared anecdotes from my feature writing class. It was comfortable, domestic almost—this sharing of mundane details, finding joy in each other's ordinary triumphs and frustrations.

As we were finishing, our conversation drifted toward the future. With graduation approaching for Sean and my final year of college looming, it was becoming a more frequent topic between us.

"My advisor mentioned there might be a spot in that minor league team in Providence," Sean said, trying to sound casual though I could hear the undercurrent of excitement in his voice. "The scout was impressed with my comeback, apparently. Said it showed character."

"Sean, that's amazing!" I exclaimed, genuinely thrilled for him. "When would that start? After graduation?"

"Late summer training camp, yeah," he nodded. "It's not NHL or anything, but it's a foot in the door. And Providence isn't that far from here."

The implication hung between us—that if I stayed for my senior year, as planned, we'd be separated by only a couple of hours' drive rather than half the country.

"That's perfect," I said, reaching for his hand across the desk. "Close enough for weekend visits, but far enough that we don't get sick of each other."

Sean laughed, but I could see the relief in his eyes at my positive reaction. "You wouldn't be... I don't know, stuck here while I move on? I don't want you to feel held back."

"Are you kidding? This is your dream," I reminded him. "And there are internships and papers everywhere. It's not like I'd be stuck here if I wanted to be closer to where you end up."

The words came out more significant than I'd intended, laying bare the assumption that we'd be factoring each other into our future plans. Sean's eyes widened slightly, but then his expression softened into something that made my heart skip.

"Are you saying you'd follow me around the country, Lucas?" he teased, though there was genuine question beneath the lightness.

"I'm saying," I replied carefully, "that I care about you enough to consider all options. Which includes the possibility of me getting a kickass internship somewhere that you'd have to follow me to."

"Touché," Sean grinned. "I guess we've got options, then."

"Always good to have options," I agreed, starting to gather the empty containers. "But for now, we still have months before any decisions need to be made."

As we cleaned up, I noticed a stray fortune cookie that had fallen beneath a stack of papers. I cracked it open, pulling out the small strip of paper inside.

"An unexpected road will lead to lasting friendships," I read aloud. "Well, that's surprisingly accurate."

Sean wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. "I'd say it led to something more than friendship," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.

I leaned back into his embrace, closing my eyes to commit this moment to memory—the solid strength of his chest against my back, the gentle pressure of his arms around my waist, the absolute rightness of being held by him.

"Definitely more," I agreed softly.

We stood like that for a long moment, neither of us needing to fill the silence with words. Outside the window, campus life continued its usual rhythm—students hurrying to evening classes, friends gathering for dinner, couples walking hand in hand across the quad. But here in this small corner of the newspaper office, time seemed suspended, holding us in a perfect bubble of contentment.

Eventually, we gathered our things and headed out, Sean's hand finding mine as we walked across campus.