Page 32

I couldn't stop fidgeting. Standing rink-side at an NHL arena—even for a preseason game—was thrilling enough, but knowing Sean was about to skate out for his first game at this level made my heart race with a mixture of pride, excitement, and vicarious nerves.

The past year had been a whirlwind, to put it mildly. After graduating, Sean had thrown himself into training, impressing enough in the minor leagues to earn this call-up to the main team for the preseason. It wasn't a guaranteed spot on the roster, but it was a foot in the door, a chance to show what he could do at the highest level.

I adjusted the press badge hanging around my neck, still slightly amazed that I was here in a dual capacity—both as Sean's supportive partner and as a credentialed sports journalist covering the game for a major outlet. The editor had been clear: I wasn't to cover Sean's performance specifically, to avoid any appearance of bias. Another writer would handle the player evaluations, while I focused on the broader human interest aspects of preseason hockey.

It was a fair arrangement, one that respected both my personal connection and my professional ethics. Besides, tonight I was more interested in being a supportive boyfriend than an objective reporter.

Players began filing onto the ice for warm-ups, and my heart leapt when I spotted number 28 skating out with the second group. Sean looked different in his new team's colors, but his skating was unmistakable—powerful, fluid, with that slight forward lean that always made him look like he was hunting something on the ice.

He circled with his teammates, loosening up with practiced movements, occasionally exchanging quick passes or words with the other players. I knew he was nervous—he'd barely touched his pregame meal at home, pushing food around his plate while insisting he was just focusing. He looked like he belonged, like he'd been skating on this ice his entire career.

As the players zoomed by, spraying ice with sharp turns and sudden stops, I couldn't help reflecting on how far we'd come from our small first apartment. We'd upgraded a few months ago to a slightly bigger place to accommodate Sean's team relocation, still modest by professional athlete standards but a definite step up from our starter home.

The arena lights began to dim, signaling it was nearly time for the national anthem. The players skated to their respective benches, and the crowd's excited murmur dropped to an anticipatory hush.

My mind wandered as the singer began the familiar melody. So much had happened in a year. Our first apartment had been a cramped but cherished space where we'd learned to navigate living together outside the college bubble. There had been adjustments, of course—road trips where we missed each other desperately, times when our schedules refused to align, the occasional argument about dishes left in the sink or alarms set too early.

But we'd always communicated, always found our way back to each other. It helped that we weren't navigating this new world entirely alone.

Zach and Nate, still madly in love despite—or perhaps because of—their constant bickering, had road-tripped to visit us last summer. What was supposed to be a weekend stay had stretched into a week, and by the end of it, they were apartment hunting in our neighborhood. Zach had enrolled in a coaching certification program while Nate landed a photographer position at a local paper, and just like that, our college friendship circle had reconstituted itself in a new city.

Tristan, who had signed with a team on the west coast, still crashed on our couch whenever his squad came to town for games. Even Coach Barnett had visited once, attending a minor league game as a proud spectator, though he'd tried to mask his sentiment with gruff comments about Sean's defensive positioning.

Holidays had been a rotating celebration—Grandma Rose commanding Thanksgiving with military precision, Sean's father more relaxed than I'd ever seen him as he helped us decorate for Christmas. My mom had joined us for New Year's, fitting seamlessly into our found family with her easy laugh and genuine interest in everyone's lives.

The anthem concluded, drawing me back to the present as the crowd applauded and the starting lineups took the ice. Sean wasn't in the first rotation—as a new call-up, he'd likely see limited minutes tonight—but before the puck dropped, he skated near the boards where I stood. As he stretched against the wall in a seemingly routine movement, he turned slightly and tapped the glass twice with his stick while meeting my eyes briefly—our little signal, private and meaningful amid the spectacle.

I smiled and gave a small nod, our relationship condensed into that tiny moment of connection amid the chaos.

The game itself was exhilarating. Sean played several shifts in each period, not the most ice time but enough to showcase his abilities. He was the same player I'd fallen in love with at college—smart, physical without being reckless, positionally sound. He even registered an assist on a second-period goal, sending a perfect breakout pass that eventually found its way into the net.

By the time the final horn sounded, Sean's team had secured a narrow victory. I finished my immediate post-game work duties quickly.

Then I made my way to the family lounge, an area I'd become familiar with during his time in the minors. The space was comfortable but understated, designed for players' loved ones to wait during the sometimes-lengthy post-game routines.

When Sean finally emerged from the locker room, he'd already showered and changed into a sharp charcoal suit that I'd helped him pick out for his NHL debut. His hair was still damp, his face flushed with a combination of exertion and excitement.

"Hey, you," I greeted him, moving immediately into his open arms.

"Hey yourself," he replied, pulling me into a quick hug and kiss—the kind appropriate for a semi-public space, but with a promise of more later. "What did you think?"

"I think you looked like you belonged out there," I answered honestly. "That assist was beautiful. Perfect tape-to-tape pass."

Sean's smile widened, clearly pleased by both the compliment and the fact that I'd learned enough hockey terminology to use it correctly. "Thanks. Felt good. Weird to be wearing different colors, but good."

"The team's traveling early tomorrow, right?" I asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to confirm.

"Yeah, bus leaves at 7 AM," Sean nodded, a flicker of something I couldn't quite read passing across his face. "But I have something I want to show you first, if you're up for a slight detour before heading home?"

"Of course," I agreed easily. "Lead the way."

To my surprise, he guided me not toward the exit but back toward the arena proper. By now, most fans had departed, and the cleanup crew was beginning their work in the stands.

"Where are we going?" I asked as we walked down a quiet corridor.

"You'll see," Sean replied, a hint of nervousness in his voice that intrigued me. "I just thought... this place is special. First NHL game and all. Wanted to show you something."

We emerged into the arena bowl, now eerily quiet compared to the deafening noise during the game. The ice gleamed under the dimmed lighting, pristine again after being resurfaced.

"Look who made it!" a familiar voice called, and I turned to see Zach and Nate approaching from the opposite entrance, wide grins on their faces.

"What are you guys doing here?" I asked, genuinely confused. "I thought you were in Hartford for that photography exhibition?"

"We were," Nate confirmed, exchanging a look with Sean that sent my reporter's instincts into high alert. "Drove back early for... reasons."

"Mysterious," I commented, glancing between the three of them. "Anyone want to fill me in?"

Sean took a deep breath, stepping slightly away from me. "Actually," he said, his voice steady despite the nervous energy I could feel radiating from him, "there's something I've been wanting to do, and it felt right to do it here. Tonight."

My heart began racing as he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. The world seemed to narrow down to just the two of us as he dropped to one knee on the arena floor, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Lucas," he began, his voice thick with emotion as he opened the box to reveal a simple but elegant ring. "You changed my life from the day we met. You saw past all my defenses, all my walls, to who I really was—even when I was trying my hardest to hide from you. You made me braver, more honest, more myself than I ever thought possible."

I couldn't speak, could barely breathe as he continued.

"I can't imagine any future worth having if you're not in it," Sean said, his eyes shining in the dim arena light. "Will you marry me?"

Words were supposed to be my forte—my entire career was built on finding the right ones for any situation—but in that moment, language failed me completely. All I could do was nod frantically, tears blurring my vision as I managed to croak out, "Yes. God, yes."

The world rushed back in as Sean stood and pulled me into his arms, our lips meeting in a kiss that tasted of salt and joy and promise. Behind us, I vaguely registered Zach and Nate cheering and whistling, but their presence felt distant compared to the immediate reality of Sean's arms around me, his heartbeat against mine.

When we finally broke apart, I gave a watery laugh. "You know, if you'd given me some warning, I would have written you a killer acceptance speech. Pulitzer-worthy stuff."

Sean chuckled as he slipped the ring onto my finger, his own hands not entirely steady. "I think we've written our story just fine together," he said softly. "No script needed."

"About damn time!" Zach called, breaking the moment with his typical perfect timing. "We've been carrying this secret for weeks! Do you know how hard it is for me not to spill something this juicy?"

"Probably about as hard as it was for you to admit you had feelings for me," Nate retorted, but the adoration in his eyes belied his sarcastic tone. "Which is to say, unnecessarily difficult but we got there eventually."

The four of us moved to sit in the front row seats, Zach immediately launching into the dramatic retelling of how Sean had sworn them to secrecy, how Nate had nearly spoiled the surprise twice, how they'd been "emotional support" during the ring shopping expedition.

"I can't believe you guys kept this from me," I said, still slightly dazed as I looked down at the ring on my finger—a perfect fit, of course, because Sean had sneakily measured my finger while I was sleeping. "I'm a journalist. I'm supposed to be good at uncovering secrets."

"You're good at respecting the important ones," Sean replied, his arm around my shoulders a comforting weight. "It's one of the many reasons I love you."

The conversation flowed easily after that, drifting from wedding possibilities to who would be in the wedding party and honeymoon destinations.

"I vote Vegas. We can be married by Elvis!" Zach suggested, earning simultaneous eye-rolls from both Nate and me.

"Dibs on best man," Nate declared, leading to an immediate protest from Zach.

As the night grew late and the janitor's distant cleaning sounds reminded us we shouldn't linger much longer, I found myself taking one last look at the empty ice where, just hours ago, Sean had realized one dream. Now, on the same night, we'd embarked on another.

"One more thing before we go," I said suddenly, pulling out my phone. "I want to remember this." I set the device on a timer against the boards, then hurried back to Sean's side.

"What are you doing?" he asked, amused.

"Documenting," I replied simply. "Journalist, remember?"

The four of us posed together first, capturing the moment with our closest friends. Then Zach and Nate stepped aside, leaving just Sean and me for a final photo.

As the timer counted down, Sean turned to me, his expression soft in the dim arena lighting. We shared a gentle kiss just as the camera clicked, capturing the moment perfectly—two silhouettes against the backdrop of an empty hockey rink, connected in the most fundamental way.

Later, I knew, that photo would join our growing wall of memories at home: Sean with his championship trophy, me receiving my journalism award, the four of us at various adventures throughout the past year. Visual reminders of a journey that had begun with a chance assignment and a reluctant interview subject.

"You know," I said as we finally walked out of the arena, hand in hand, "on my first day at the ice rink, I was just hoping to find a good story."

"And instead?" Sean prompted, though I knew he already knew the answer.

"Instead, I found so much more," I replied, squeezing his hand. "I found you. Us. This whole life I never expected."

Sean stopped in the corridor, drawing me close despite the late hour and the distant sound of a janitor's vacuum. "I was so afraid of losing everything," he said quietly, his forehead resting against mine. "And instead, I gained everything that matters."

Our lips met again in a deep, lingering kiss that still held the same spark as our first, yet was somehow richer now—layered with shared history, inside jokes, overcame challenges, and promises kept.

When we finally broke apart, we were both smiling—the kind of smile that comes from deepest contentment, from knowing exactly where you belong and who you belong with.

Arm in arm, we stepped into the night, ready to face whatever came next—together, as we had been since that first reluctant interview, as we would be through all the chapters still to come. Whatever the future held, we would always have this: a home, a found family, and a love that stood steady, on and off the ice.