Page 26
Story: The Boyfriend Zone
"Are you sure we're actually studying?" I asked, eyeing the takeout containers spread across my coffee table and the textbooks that remained resolutely closed beside them. "Because this looks suspiciously like two people deliberately avoiding their responsibilities."
Sean grinned from his position on my couch, chopsticks poised midair. "I'm studying you," he countered. "Very intensely. Might be my favorite subject."
"Smooth," I laughed, settling beside him. "But that line won't get either of us through finals."
"Speak for yourself. My classes are practically done." He popped a piece of orange chicken into his mouth, looking far too relaxed for someone technically still in the middle of a semester. "Post-season perks. Professors get weirdly lenient when you bring home a championship."
"Must be nice," I grumbled, though there was no real jealousy behind it. I was ahead on most of my assignments anyway, having learned early in the semester to work around Sean's game schedule. "Some of us still have two major papers and an exam to worry about."
"Poor baby," Sean teased, setting aside his takeout box to pull me against his side. "Want me to quiz you on something? I'm excellent at asking questions I don't know the answers to."
"Your specialty," I agreed, nestling into his embrace. The apartment was quiet save for the soft patter of rain against the windows and the distant sound of traffic. Nate was out with Zach, giving us a rare evening of privacy that we'd initially planned to use productively.
So much for that plan.
"Actually," Sean said after a comfortable silence, his tone shifting to something more thoughtful, "I wanted to talk to you about something."
"Should I be worried?" I asked, only half-joking. Serious conversations that began with that phrase could go multiple directions.
"No, no," he assured me, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips for a brief kiss. "Just... have you thought much about this summer? After my graduation?"
I had, of course. Extensively. The approaching summer represented the first major crossroads for our relationship—the end of our contained campus existence and the beginning of whatever came next.
"I've been looking at a couple of options," I said carefully. "There's that internship I mentioned, at the Tribune. It would be great experience, but it's competitive, and I won't hear back for another week or two."
"The one in Boston?" Sean asked, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand.
"Yeah. Three months, full immersion in the newsroom." I hesitated, then added the question I'd been turning over in my mind. "What about you? Will you be around here, or...?"
"That's what I wanted to talk about," Sean said, shifting slightly to face me better. "I got invited to a professional development camp for hockey prospects. It's a big opportunity—six weeks with coaches and scouts from several NHL teams."
My heart clenched at the thought of being separated for most of the summer, but I kept my expression supportive. "Sean, that's amazing. Where is it?"
"Boston," he said, watching my face carefully. "At the training facility for the Bruins."
It took a moment for the implication to register. "Wait—Boston? The same place as my potential internship?"
A slow smile spread across Sean's face, the relief in his eyes palpable. "Yeah. I wasn't sure if you'd made the connection when you mentioned the Tribune before."
"I hadn't," I admitted, my mind racing with possibilities. "I was just thinking about the journalism opportunity, not the location."
"So if you get the internship..."
"And you do the camp..."
"We could both be in Boston for the summer," Sean finished, his smile widening. "Different schedules, probably, but same city."
The coincidence seemed too perfect to be true.
"That would be..." I searched for a word adequate to describe the relief of not having to choose between my career aspirations and being near Sean. "Perfect. That would be perfect."
Sean's relief was evident in the way his shoulders relaxed. "I was worried you might be upset about me going away for most of the summer, especially right when you're finally free from classes."
"Upset?" I sat up straighter, looking at him incredulously. "Are you kidding? This is a huge opportunity for you. Why would I be upset?"
"I don't know," Sean admitted, rubbing the back of his neck in that endearing way he did when he was uncertain. "I actually considered not going at first. Thought maybe I'd stay around here, start looking into that graduate program as a backup plan. Be close to you for you final year."
I smacked his chest lightly, unable to believe what I was hearing. "Sean Mitchell, don't you dare hold yourself back because of me. We'll make it work, whatever happens. Six weeks is nothing—people do long distance for years."
"I know, I know," he placated, catching my hand and bringing it to his lips again. "I just don't want to lose what we have. This. Us."
The vulnerability in his voice made my heart squeeze. This was the Sean few people got to see—not the confident defenseman or the hockey star’s son, but the thoughtful, sometimes uncertain man who worried about the same things anyone would.
"You won't lose me," I assured him. "Not over something like distance. Not over anything, if I have any say in it."
Sean's smile was soft, a little shy even. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," I confirmed. "Besides, we're getting ahead of ourselves. I don't even know if I got the internship yet."
"Let's check," Sean suggested suddenly, reaching for my laptop on the coffee table. "The posting is probably still up, right? We can compare dates with the camp schedule, see how they'd overlap."
We spent the next half hour huddled over my computer, pulling up information about both opportunities, laughing at the serendipity of it all. If everything worked out—if I got the internship, if Sean attended the camp—we'd be in Boston at almost exactly the same time, with only a week or two difference on either end.
"It's like it was meant to be," I mused, closing the laptop once we'd confirmed the dates.
"Very cosmic," Sean agreed with a grin. "The hockey gods and the journalism gods conspiring together."
The conversation shifted naturally into deeper waters—what came after summer, what our plans might look like beyond these immediate opportunities.
"I'm probably going to take over as Editor-in-Chief at the paper my final semester," I confessed, a goal I'd been quietly working toward but hadn't discussed much with Sean. "Mia's recommended me to the faculty advisor, and it would be huge for my resume."
Sean's face lit up with genuine pride. "Lucas, that's amazing!" He pulled me into a bear hug, nearly crushing the air from my lungs. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? This calls for a celebration!"
"It's not official yet," I laughed, touched by his enthusiasm. "And with everything going on—the championship, finals, graduation planning—it didn't seem like the right time."
"It's always the right time for good news," Sean insisted.
His unabashed pride in my achievements was one of the countless things I'd come to love about him—the way he treated my successes as if they were his own, never competitive, always supportive.
"I've been thinking about something else too," I said, feeling suddenly shy about sharing the idea that had been taking shape in my mind. "Something career-wise, I mean."
Sean looked at me expectantly, his full attention focused on my words in that way that always made me feel valued.
"I'm thinking about focusing on sports journalism long-term," I explained. "But not just game recaps or player profiles. I want to write about the human side—the pressures athletes face, the way the system sometimes fails them, the reforms that could make sports healthier for everyone involved."
"Because of me?" Sean asked, his expression unreadable.
"Partly," I admitted. "Seeing what you went through with your injury, how the culture pushed you to hide it... it made me realize there are important stories that aren't being told the right way. But it's also because I genuinely love sports—the drama of it, the community, the way it brings people together. I want to write about it in a way that matters."
Sean was quiet for a moment, processing this. Then he nodded slowly, a smile spreading across his face. "You'd be amazing at that. Athletes need voices like yours—people who understand both the game and the person playing it."
"What about you?" I asked. "The camp is a big step toward going pro. Is that still the dream?"
It was Sean's turn to look contemplative. "Yes," he said finally. "I want to take hockey as far as I can. But this year has shown me that there are other things I'm interested in too. Coaching, maybe. Sports management. If the pro thing doesn't pan out, or even after a short stint... I think I'd be okay."
He met my eyes directly, a depth of emotion in his gaze. "I have other things that fulfill me now," he said softly. "Especially you."
The simple declaration hit me like a physical force. For someone like Sean, who had built his entire identity around hockey for as long as he could remember, to acknowledge that there was more to his life, more to his happiness than the sport—it was monumental.
"I love you," I said, the words slipping out before I could overthink them. We'd been dancing around this declaration for weeks, saying it in every way except explicitly, but suddenly it seemed absurd to hold back any longer.
Sean's eyes widened briefly before his face softened into the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen. "I love you too," he replied, pulling me closer. "So much."
The kiss that followed was different from our others—deeper somehow, infused with the promise of futures intertwined no matter what paths we took individually.
When we finally broke apart, I couldn't help the slightly giddy laugh that escaped me. "Well, that makes the whole potential long-distance thing a lot less scary."
"Definitely improves the odds," Sean agreed, his expression a mixture of happiness and mild disbelief, as if he couldn't quite process that this was real. "Though I still vote for the cosmic coincidence option where we both end up in Boston."
"From your lips to the hockey gods' ears," I grinned.
We spent the rest of the evening curled together on the couch, talking about increasingly ridiculous hypothetical scenarios for our future. Like me following Sean to some remote Canadian town if he got drafted there. "Hope you like moose and maple syrup for every meal" In another scenario, Sean attending press conferences where I was the reporter. "I'll only answer questions from the cute journalist in the third row".
"You'd make a terrible hockey wife," Sean teased, running his fingers through my hair. "You can barely boil water without setting off the smoke alarm."
"Excuse you," I retorted with mock indignation. "I would be an excellent hockey wife. I'd learn to cook, I'd cheer appropriately at games, I'd join all the right charity committees."
"You'd critique the coach's defensive strategy in the middle of team dinners," Sean countered. "And analyze the power play statistics when other partners are talking about vacation plans."
"Like that wouldn't be more interesting," I scoffed, though he wasn't entirely wrong. "Besides, who says I'd be the wife in this scenario? Maybe you'd be the journalist husband, following me to prestigious newspaper assignments around the country."
Sean's laugh was warm against my hair. "I'd be terrible at that. 'Yes, my partner writes the words. No, I don't understand most of them. Yes, I'm very proud.'"
The lighthearted banter continued until our conversation gradually shifted into a more playful mood.
"I need to practice interview questions for my final," I announced, sitting up with sudden inspiration. "You can be my subject."
"Fine," Sean agreed easily. "But only if you ask the real hard-hitting questions. None of this softball 'how does it feel to win' nonsense."
"Oh, I'll hit hard," I promised, grabbing a notebook and pen from the coffee table to complete the performance. "Prepare yourself, Mitchell. This is going to get intense."
Sean straightened, affecting a serious press-conference pose. "I'm ready."
"First question," I said, adopting my most professional tone. "Boxers or briefs?"
Sean's startled laugh was exactly the reaction I'd been hoping for. "No comment," he replied, struggling to maintain his serious expression. "Next question."
"Sources say you're dating the most devastatingly handsome journalist on campus. Can you confirm or deny?"
"Confirm," Sean nodded solemnly. "Though 'devastatingly handsome' doesn't quite cover it. I'd add 'brilliant,' 'slightly neurotic in an endearing way,' and 'makes the world's worst coffee but I drink it anyway because I love him.'"
"Hey!" I protested. "My coffee is perfectly adequate."
"It's brown water that makes my teeth hurt," Sean corrected. "But like I said, I drink it anyway because I love you."
"Smooth recovery," I conceded. "Final question: Where do you see yourself in five years, Mr. Mitchell?"
Sean's expression softened, the teasing atmosphere shifting into something more sincere. "Hopefully still playing hockey at some level," he said thoughtfully. "But definitely still with you, wherever that might be."
The simple certainty in his voice made my heart swell. I set aside the notebook, the playful interview forgotten as I moved closer to him on the couch.
"Stay with me tonight?" Sean asked quietly, his fingers intertwining with mine.
It wasn't the first time we'd spent the night together, but each invitation still felt significant somehow, a deliberate choice to share our most vulnerable selves.
I didn't answer verbally, just reached over to switch off the lamp, leaving the room in soft darkness lit only by the streetlight glow filtering through the curtains. "I always will," I whispered, settling back into his arms.
We moved together then, finding our way to my bedroom with the practiced ease of people who knew each other's bodies well. There was comfort in our familiarity now, but also a persistent wonder that hadn't diminished with time—the miracle of being known, being wanted, being loved.
Sean’s fingers traced patterns on the back of my hand where it rested on his chest. I leaned into him, head pillowed on his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent. It felt so easy, so comfortable, yet charged with a quiet intensity. This was us now – settled, secure, weaving our futures together.
He shifted slightly, turning more towards me on the couch. His eyes, dark in the low light, searched mine. "You know," he began, his voice low and soft, "hockey used to be everything. My whole world."
I nodded, understanding the weight of his words. "I know."
"But it’s not, anymore. Not the only thing." He lifted his hand, his thumb brushing gently across my cheekbone. "I’ve got other things. Better things." He looked down at me, his gaze unwavering. "Got you."
My chest tightened, emotion lodging itself in my throat. Knowing how much he’d struggled, how tied his identity had been to the sport, hearing him say that was monumental. "Sean," I whispered, unable to find the right words.
I kissed him then, pouring all my love, all my pride, all my relief into it. He responded instantly, his lips parting, deepening the kiss. It wasn’t frantic like our first encounters, nor tenderly cautious like when he was injured. This was sure, steady, full of quiet confidence and shared history. We knew each other now, inside and out.
His hands slid under my shirt, fingers tracing the lines of my back, warm against my skin. A shiver traced its way down my spine. I pushed his shirt up too, needing that skin-on-skin contact, the reassurance of his solid warmth beneath my palms. My fingers brushed against something – the faint, slightly raised line of the scar on his shoulder. A tangible map of our journey, of the secrets and fears we’d overcome.
Without conscious thought, I leaned in and pressed my lips softly to the scar. He drew in a sharp breath, his body tensing for a microsecond before relaxing completely into the touch. It wasn't about pity or reminder; it was about acceptance. This scar was part of him, part of our story. He met my eyes when I pulled back, his own gaze filled with a depth of emotion. He didn’t need to say anything; I saw it all there.
We shed our clothes slowly, leisurely, tossing them onto the already cluttered floor. I straddled his lap, settling against him, feeling his immediate response, the hard length of his cock pressing against mine.
We sank into the mattress. I ended up on my back, Sean leaning over me, supporting his weight on his elbows. He kissed me slowly, deeply, as his dick pushed against my hole. It was a smooth, familiar joining, warm and full. No rush, no urgency, just a profound sense of rightness. He began to move inside me, a slow, steady rhythm that felt like breathing, like heartbeats syncing.
“Love you, Lucas,” he whispered against my lips between thrusts.
“Love you too, Sean,” I replied. My hands roamed his back, fingers tangling in his hair.
He shifted slightly, changing the angle, pushing his cock deeper inside me. A soft gasp escaped me. He watched my face intently, reading my reactions, adjusting his rhythm accordingly. This wasn’t just physical; it was a conversation spoken in touch and sensation, each movement an affirmation. We whispered quiet encouragements, praising touches, murmuring each other's names.
The pleasure built gradually, a deep, warm tide rising within me. Sean’s breathing grew heavier, matching mine. He lowered his forehead to rest against mine, our eyes locking in the dimness. I could feel the tension coiling in his muscles, mirroring the tightening in my own body. He thrust his dick deeper into my hole, a final, possessive movement, and the wave crested. Orgasm washed over me, warm and encompassing, making me cry out his name softly. My cumming triggered his own, a low groan rumbling through his chest as he pulsed inside me, spilling rope after rope of his cum.
Afterward, I lay with my head on Sean's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as his fingers combed soothingly through my hair. The rain outside had slowed to a gentle drizzle, a peaceful backdrop to the warmth of our shared space.
"I trust you," Sean whispered into the darkness, his voice so soft I almost thought I'd imagined it. "With everything."
He might have thought I was already asleep, might not have expected a response. But I nestled closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before whispering back, "I feel the same way. With everything."