Page 28

Story: The Boyfriend Zone

The locker room during intermission was a strange mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline. We'd fought so hard for sixty minutes, pushed ourselves to the absolute limit, and now faced the prospect of sudden-death overtime where a single mistake could end our championship hopes.

"Just one more period," Tristan reminded us, his captain's voice steady despite his obvious fatigue. "One goal. That's all we need."

Coach Barnett's instructions were brief but focused, emphasizing positioning and smart risk assessment. We couldn't afford to be reckless, but neither could we play too conservatively. Finding that balance would be the key to victory.

As we prepared to return to the ice, I slipped out into the corridor for a moment of quiet, needing to center myself before the final push. To my surprise, Lucas was there, apparently having found a way past the security separating the press area from the team spaces.

"Hey," he said softly, his professional demeanor slipping as he reached out to gently squeeze my uninjured shoulder. "You okay?"

"Just one more period," I echoed Tristan's words, trying to project more confidence than I felt. My shoulder throbbed dully, but the pain was manageable—nothing compared to the weight of expectations pressing down on me.

Lucas studied my face, seeing past the bravado to the mix of determination and fear beneath. "You've got this," he said simply. "I believe in you."

Those four words, spoken with such utter conviction, hit me with unexpected force. Throughout my hockey career, I'd heard countless variations of "you can do it" or "we're counting on you" from coaches, teammates, my father. But Lucas's belief was different—not tied to performance or outcome, but to me as a person. He believed in me, win or lose.

"I love you," I said.

Lucas's expression softened into a smile. "I love you too," he replied, the simplicity of the declaration belying its significance.

We'd said these words before, in the privacy of quiet evenings and shared beds, but never like this—on the precipice of something important, with so much hanging in the balance. It felt like a talisman, a protection against whatever came next.

Our kiss was brief but fierce, a promise and encouragement wrapped into one. Then Lucas stepped back, his expression shifting back toward professionalism though his eyes still held that personal warmth.

"Now go win a championship," he said with a confidence that made it sound inevitable.

I rejoined my team with renewed focus, Lucas's words echoing in my mind as we took the ice for overtime. The crowd's roar was deafening, the tension palpable as the referee prepared to drop the puck for what could be the final faceoff of the game—and of my college career.

Overtime hockey has a particular intensity, each possession fraught with possibilities, each mistake potentially fatal. We played cautiously at first, both teams probing for weaknesses while trying to avoid the catastrophic turnover that could end everything.

Five minutes in, I found myself in a defensive position as an opposing forward broke free, charging toward our net with only me to beat. Time seemed to slow as I gauged his approach, calculating angles and options in the split-second available.

He deked right, preparing to cut left around me for a clean shot. In that moment, instinct took over. Despite my injured shoulder screaming in protest, I stretched out my stick in a desperate poke check, just managing to knock the puck off his blade before he could shoot.

The crowd's collective gasp turned to cheers as the danger passed, my teammates tapping their sticks on the boards in appreciation. But I had no time to acknowledge them, already transitioning from defense to offense as we pushed the puck up ice.

What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion, though it couldn't have taken more than seconds. Our forwards entered the offensive zone, a quick cycle of passes opening up a shooting lane. The initial shot rebounded off the goalie's pad, the puck skittering into the slot where, by some miracle of positioning or fate, I found myself alone with it on my stick.

Without thinking—without time to think—I wound up and fired, putting everything I had behind the shot. The puck flew true, finding the small opening between the goalie's blocker and the post, nestling into the back of the net with a sound that I swear I could hear even above the sudden explosion of noise from the crowd.

Game over. Championship won.

For a moment, I couldn't move, couldn't process what had just happened. Then my teammates were on me, a pile of ecstatic bodies crashing together at center ice, everyone shouting and laughing and crying all at once. Through the tangle of arms and sticks and helmets, I caught a glimpse of the press area where Lucas and Nate had leapt to their feet, professional decorum forgotten as they celebrated our victory.

"You beautiful bastard!" Zach shouted in my ear, his face wet with what might have been sweat or tears or both. "I knew you could do it!"

"We did it," I corrected, my own voice rough with emotion. "All of us. Together."

The celebration seemed to last forever and no time at all—a blur of hugs and high-fives, the presentation of the championship trophy, the medals placed around our necks one by one. When my name was called as Tournament MVP, the honor seemed almost secondary to the team achievement, though the pride in my teammates' faces as I accepted the plaque was something I'll never forget.

In that moment of recognition, I found myself skating toward the glass where Lucas stood, holding up the MVP plaque and pointing first at him, then at my heart—a silent dedication to the person who had seen me at my worst and still believed in my best. Lucas's face flushed with happiness, his professional composure momentarily abandoned as he gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

After the formal ceremonies, as we made our way back toward the locker rooms for a more private team celebration, I spotted Lucas waiting in the corridor. I had just enough time to set down my trophy before he launched himself at me, wrapping me in a hug that might have hurt if I hadn't been riding such an adrenaline high.

"You did it!" he exclaimed, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Sean, you were—I don't even have words, and I'm a journalist!"

I laughed, holding him close despite the various aches making themselves known now that the game was over. "I had a pretty good feeling about it when you said you believed in me."

Lucas pulled back slightly, his expression shifting from excitement to concern as he noticed my wince. "Your shoulder—how bad is it? Should we find Dr. Shaw?"

"Hurts like hell," I admitted, the honesty coming easily now. "But I'd do it all again in a heartbeat."

Despite my assurance, Lucas flagged down Dr. Shaw as he passed, his protective instincts in full force. The doctor led me to the training room for a quick examination, confirming what I'd suspected—a minor strain, painful but not serious, nothing that rest and proper care wouldn't heal.

"Ice for twenty minutes, alternating with heat," Dr. Shaw instructed, fashioning a temporary sling to immobilize the joint. "And actual rest this time, Mitchell. No 'light workouts' or 'just keeping limber' nonsense."

"Scout's honor," I promised, enduring his skeptical look with a sheepish smile. "I've learned my lesson, I swear."

Lucas, who had refused to leave my side during the examination, nodded firmly. "I'll make sure he follows instructions."

"See that you do," Dr. Shaw replied, his stern expression softening slightly. "Congratulations on the win. That was one hell of a shot, injury and all."

As we prepared to rejoin the team celebration, I pulled Lucas aside into a quiet alcove, taking his face in my hands with a tenderness that belied the adrenaline still coursing through me.

"Thank you," I said simply, trying to infuse the words with the depth of what I was feeling.

Lucas chuckled, his hands coming to rest lightly on my waist. "For what this time? The list is getting pretty long."

"For everything," I replied seriously.

The kiss we shared was gentle. When we broke apart, Lucas's eyes were soft.

"So, MVP," he said lightly, though his gaze remained tender. "Where are you taking me to celebrate?"

I laughed, glancing down at my sling. "Anywhere you want. But you might have to help me carry this trophy around since I'm down an arm."

"Deal," Lucas agreed, picking up the heavy championship trophy with exaggerated effort. "Though I might need to add weight training to my journalism curriculum if this is a regular occurrence."

"Planning to date a lot of championship winners, are you?" I teased.

"Just the one," Lucas replied, his smile softening. "He's more than enough for me."

We rejoined our friends—Zach in the process of dumping a cooler of sports drink over a laughing, protesting Nate, Ava capturing it all with her camera—and I was struck by how perfectly everything had aligned. The championship was the culmination of years of work, yes, but the real victory was this: finding my place in a circle of people who loved me not just for what I could do on the ice, but for who I was off it.

As Lucas passed the trophy to Tristan and returned to my side, slipping his arm carefully around my waist, I knew with absolute certainty that whatever came next—pro hockey, graduate school, some combination of both—the most important part was already secured. We had built something together that transcended sport or school or career, something that would endure long after the shine on the championship trophy had dulled.

And that was the greatest win of all.