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I charged across the ice, tracking the opposing forward like a hawk. The guy had already slipped past two of our players, and I wasn't about to let him get a clean shot on our goalie. I timed my approach carefully, bracing for impact as I angled my body to cut off his path.

The collision was like hitting a brick wall. We crashed into the boards together, the sound of our bodies and equipment smacking against the plexiglass echoing through the arena. A sharp stab of pain shot through my already tender right shoulder, and I bit down hard on my mouthguard to keep from making a sound.

The crowd roared their approval as the puck skittered harmlessly away, retrieved by one of my teammates. I pushed off from the boards, ignoring the throbbing in my shoulder. No way was I showing weakness, not with scouts in the stands and my teammates counting on me.

"Nice hit, Sean!" Coach shouted from the bench as I skated past.

I nodded in acknowledgment, but my eyes were drawn to the press box above the stands. I couldn't see him clearly from this distance, but I knew Lucas was up there, watching the game, watching me. Probably taking notes on that beat-up notebook I'd seen him with earlier.

Lucas. The guy from the club. The guy I'd kissed like my life depended on it, only to pretend I didn't know him a few hours later. God, I was an asshole.

But what choice did I have? No one on the team knew I was bisexual. Hell, I'd barely acknowledged it to myself until recently. And with scouts at every game, my father breathing down my neck about my NHL prospects, and a shoulder injury I was desperately trying to hide, the last thing I needed was another complication.

Even if that complication had the most captivating eyes I'd ever seen and a smile that made my chest feel too tight.

"Sean! Line change!" Coach bellowed, snapping me back to reality.

I skated to the bench, sliding in beside Zach, who bumped my helmet with his glove in our usual greeting.

"Solid check, man," he said, passing me a water bottle. "Thought you were gonna put that guy through the glass."

I grunted in response, taking a long drink. The cold water was a welcome distraction from the pain radiating down my arm.

"You good?" Zach asked, his usual joking demeanor giving way to concern. "You're looking a little pale."

"I'm fine," I said automatically. "Just winded."

Zach didn't look convinced, but he let it drop, his attention shifting to the action on the ice. After a moment, he nudged me again. "So what's the deal with you and that reporter?"

I nearly choked on my water. "What?"

"Lucas, I think? You acted weird when Tristan introduced us."

"No idea what you're talking about," I said, keeping my eyes on the game. "Never met him before today."

"If you say so." Zach shrugged. "Cute, though. Not my type, but I could see why someone might be interested."

I remained silent, refusing to take the bait. Zach had been my best friend since freshman year, and while he was many things—cocky, loud, occasionally obnoxious—he wasn't stupid. He knew me better than anyone on the team, which meant he could probably tell something was off.

"Speaking of reporters," I said, desperate to change the subject, "what's with you and the photographer? Looked like you were about to throw down right there in the locker room."

Now it was Zach's turn to look uncomfortable. "Nothing. Just messing with him."

"Uh-huh."

"Seriously, it's nothing." But the flush creeping up his neck told a different story.

Before I could press further, Coach called my line back onto the ice. I stood, relieved to escape the conversation, and vaulted over the boards.

The rest of the game was a blur of adrenaline, pain, and hyperawareness of the press box. We pulled off a hard-fought victory, 3-1, with Zach scoring two of our goals. By the final buzzer, my shoulder felt like it was on fire, but I maintained my game face through the celebration and into the locker room.

I begged off from the press conference, claiming I needed to get treatment for a "minor bruise" from that last hit. The trainer, Dr. Shaw, gave me a skeptical look when I downplayed the pain, but he wrapped my shoulder and applied ice without too many questions.

"You should get this properly examined," he said quietly, so the other players couldn't hear. "That's twice in a week you've taken a hit on this side."

"It's nothing," I insisted. "Just a little sore. I'll ice it tonight and be fine tomorrow."

Dr. Shaw didn't look convinced, but he knew better than to push. He'd been around athletes long enough to understand our stubborn pride. "Your call, Sean. But if it gets worse, you come see me immediately, understand?"

I nodded, already planning to slip out before the reporters returned for individual interviews. But luck wasn't on my side. Just as I was gathering my gear, they filtered back in, Lucas among them.

I kept my head down, focusing on packing up my stuff, but I could feel his presence in the room like a physical weight. From the corner of my eye, I watched as he interviewed the goalie, then one of our forwards. He was good—asking intelligent questions, listening attentively, putting the guys at ease with his genuine interest.

It was the same quality that had drawn me to him at the club. The way he listened like whatever you were saying was the most fascinating thing he'd ever heard. I'd felt seen in a way I rarely did—not as a hockey player or a coach's son or an NHL prospect, but just as myself.

And then I'd gone and ruined it by pretending I didn't know him.

I was about to make my escape when I noticed Zach cornered by the photographer—Nate, I remembered. Their body language was bizarre, like two cats circling each other before a fight. Zach was smirking, leaning against his locker with practiced nonchalance, while Nate was all tight posture and narrowed eyes.

"—anyone can slam a puck into a net," Nate was saying, his voice dripping with disdain.

"Is that a challenge?" Zach asked, moving closer.

"Take it however you want."

Something clicked in my head. The way they were looking at each other, the charged atmosphere between them... it reminded me of something. Or someone.

Lucas. Moving toward us with an amused expression, clearly about to intervene in whatever was happening between his colleague and my best friend.

I turned away quickly, grabbing my bag and heading for the exit. I needed to ice my shoulder properly, away from curious eyes and probing questions. But more than that, I needed to get away from Lucas.

I slipped into the empty training room, locking the door behind me. Sinking onto a bench, I carefully removed my jersey and the protective padding underneath, wincing as the movement pulled at my injured shoulder.

The bruising had spread, angry purple splotches extending down my upper arm. I rotated my shoulder carefully, assessing the damage. The pain was worse than before, but I could still move it through most of its range of motion. Not ideal, but manageable. I'd played through worse.

As I applied a fresh ice pack, I thought about Lucas's perceptive gaze, the way he'd immediately zeroed in on my weakness. It should have made me angry, this invasion of privacy, this threat to my carefully constructed facade. But instead, I felt a grudging admiration. He was good at his job, observant in a way that went beyond simple note-taking.

I closed my eyes, letting the cold seep into my muscles. Images from last night flooded my mind—Lucas laughing at something I'd said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The way he'd leaned in when I talked, like each word mattered. The feel of his lips against mine, soft at first, then more insistent.

God, I was in trouble. One night, one kiss, and I couldn't get him out of my head. And now he'd be around all season, watching me, analyzing me, perhaps even exposing my secrets.

My phone buzzed in my bag, jolting me out of my thoughts. I knew without looking who it would be. My father always called after games—win or lose, without fail.

I briefly considered not answering, but that would only lead to more calls, more questions. With a sigh, I dug out my phone with my good arm and swiped to accept the call.

"Hey, Dad."

"There's my star defenseman!" His booming voice filled the quiet room. "Caught the livestream. That hit in the third period was textbook perfect, son."

"Thanks." I adjusted the ice pack, biting back a groan. "We played well."

"The team did, sure. But I'm more interested in your performance. Coach Barnett says there were two scouts there tonight. NHL scouts." There was no missing the excitement in his voice.

"Yeah, I saw them." Hard to miss, the way they sat together with their clipboards, eyes tracking every move on the ice.

"And? How do you think you looked?"

I closed my eyes. "Fine, Dad. Solid game. No major mistakes."

"That's not good enough, Sean. 'Fine' doesn't get you drafted. 'Solid' doesn't earn you a spot on a professional roster." His voice took on the familiar lecturing tone. "You need to be exceptional. Memorable. The kind of player they can't stop talking about."

"I know, Dad." I'd heard this speech a thousand times before. "I'm working on it."

"Work harder. This is your year, son. Everything we've been building toward."

Everything he'd been building toward, he meant. My father's own hockey career had been cut short by a knee injury his senior year of college. He'd never quite gotten over the loss of his dream, and from the moment I'd shown any athletic ability, he'd transferred those ambitions to me.

Sometimes I wondered if he'd love me as much if I'd been born without any talent for the sport.

"Sean? You listening?"

"Yeah, sorry. Just tired." I sat up straighter, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. "You're right. I'll step it up next game."

"That's my boy." His tone softened slightly. "How's the shoulder?"

I froze. "What?"

"Your shoulder. You were favoring it a bit in the second period. Nothing serious, I hope?"

If he had noticed from a livestream, was it really that obvious? Or did he just know my body language that well after all these years of scrutinizing my play?

"It's nothing," I said, the lie coming easily after so much practice. "Just a stinger. I'm icing it now, standard procedure."

"Good, good. Can't be too careful." He paused. "You know, when I was your age, I played through a separated shoulder for three games before I told anyone. Cost me six weeks of the season once they found out how bad it was."

"I remember the story, Dad." All too well. It was one of his favorites, a testament to his toughness and dedication. "But this is different. Just a bruise."

"Well, get it looked at anyway. Can't afford any setbacks, not with the Frozen Four in our sights and scouts watching."

"I will," I promised, with no intention of doing any such thing.

"And Sean?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember what I always say—"

"Hockey first, everything else second," I finished for him. It was practically our family motto.

"Exactly. I'm proud of you, son. Keep your eye on the prize."

After we hung up, I sat for a long time in the empty training room, the ice pack slowly melting against my shoulder, dripping cold water down my chest. My father's words echoed in my head, mixing with the memory of Lucas's question asking me if I was injured.

Two people who'd seen through the facade I'd worked so hard to maintain. One who'd raised me to believe that nothing—not pain, not personal feelings, not even my own identity—should interfere with hockey. And one who'd looked at me for a single night and somehow seen me more clearly than most people who'd known me for years.

I suddenly felt exhausted. I carefully rewrapped my shoulder, cleaned up the melted ice, and gathered my things. I needed sleep, needed to shut off my brain before these thoughts spiraled any further.

But as I walked back to my apartment, I couldn't help glancing at my phone, at the new contact I'd added earlier in the day.

Lucas. Press.

My finger hovered over the message icon. I could text him, explain more fully, try to make him understand. Maybe he'd even keep my secret—both of my secrets.

But then what? We'd become friends? More than friends? And I'd have to hide that too, lie to my teammates, my coach, my father.

No. Better to keep my distance. Hockey first, everything else second.