Page 4

I'd seen the moment during the game. Second period, around the twelve-minute mark. An opposing player had slammed Sean into the boards—a legal check, but brutal—and for just a split second, Sean's face had contorted in pain. He'd recovered quickly, rejoining play with the same intensity, but there had been a slight hesitation whenever he raised his right arm after that.

"You okay?" Nate appeared at my side, camera in hand. "You look like you're plotting someone's murder."

"I'm fine," I said, echoing Sean's obvious lie. "Just thinking about the article."

We split up to cover more ground. I headed toward the captain, Tristan, who offered thoughtful insights about team dynamics and their defensive strategy. A freshman forward talked enthusiastically about the energy of his first college-level game.

I glanced over to check on Nate and found him still talking to Zach, their earlier confrontational energy somehow having morphed into something that looked almost like flirtation. Zach was gesturing animatedly while Nate nodded, his expression a mixture of skepticism and amusement.

"And then Coach said we should try this new defensive formation, right?" Zach was saying. "And I'm thinking, that'll never work against their offense. But do I say anything? No, because unlike some people, I don't feel the need to voice every opinion that crosses my mind."

"That's rich coming from you," Nate retorted. "Considering you haven't stopped talking since I turned on my recorder."

"You could always shut me up," Zach suggested with a smirk.

"Is that what you said to everyone you ghosted after kissing them at parties?" Nate asked sweetly. "Because I hear that's a pattern with you."

I nearly choked. So much for professional journalism.

Zach's confident demeanor faltered for the first time. "Who told you—"

"A little bird," Nate cut him off. "So, are you going to answer my actual questions about the game, or should I just make up some quotes? I'm thinking something like, 'I got lucky with those goals because I closed my eyes and swung wildly, which is apparently how I approach everything in life.'"

To my surprise, Zach laughed. "Damn, press boy, you've got a mouth on you."

"So I've been told. Now, about that second goal..."

I'd never seen Nate like this. My usually confident but relatively professional best friend was in full sass mode, and even stranger, Zach seemed to be enjoying it. The hockey player was actually blushing, something I wouldn't have thought possible based on his cocky locker room persona.

I approached slowly. "I think we have enough material for now," I said, trying not to laugh at their startled expressions. "Thanks for the interview, Zach."

"Right, the interview," Nate muttered, turning off his recorder. "For the article."

"Anytime." Zach's eyes never left Nate's face.

As we gathered our things and prepared to leave, Nate was uncharacteristically quiet. I waited until we were walking back across campus before broaching the subject.

"So," I began, "you and Zach..."

"Don't start," he warned.

"I'm just saying, that was quite an interview technique."

"Oh, shut up." But there was no real heat in his words. "He's the most annoying person I've ever met."

"And yet..."

"And yet nothing. He kissed me at that party because he was drunk and bored, then didn't bother to call or text. End of story."

"Except it's clearly not the end, judging by whatever that was back there."

Nate stopped walking, turning to face me with an exasperated expression. "Look, he's a player, in every sense of the word. The kind of guy who thinks he's God's gift to everyone. Exactly the type I avoid."

"He seemed pretty into you," I pointed out.

"He's into the chase. The novelty of someone who doesn't fall at his feet." Nate started walking again, his pace faster now. "Trust me, I know the type."

"If you say so." I matched his stride. "But for what it's worth, I've never seen you blush like that around someone you claim to hate."

"I wasn't blushing! It was hot in there."

"Sure, that's why it only affected your face when Zach was talking to you."

Nate shoved me lightly. "Like you're one to talk. At least I didn't make out with my hockey player in a club and then get ghosted."

"Touché." I winced at the reminder. "Though technically, Sean didn't ghost me. We just... didn't exchange information."

We reached our apartment building, a slightly run-down complex that housed mostly students. As we climbed the stairs to our third-floor unit, I mulled over the bizarre situation we found ourselves in.

"So we're both hung up on hockey players who are various degrees of emotionally unavailable," I summarized. "Great start to the assignment."

"I am not hung up on Zach," Nate insisted, unlocking our door. "I just enjoy putting him in his place."

Our apartment was small but comfortable, with mismatched furniture collected over our two years of living together. Nate headed straight for the kitchen, pulling out a frozen pizza and turning on the oven.

"Comfort food," he explained. "I need it after dealing with that egomaniac."

I settled onto our lumpy couch, opening my laptop to start drafting the article while the game was still fresh in my mind. But as I stared at the blank document, my thoughts kept circling back to Sean.

If he was injured but playing through it, that was a story. Maybe not front-page news, but certainly relevant to our coverage of the team. A star defenseman hiding an injury could affect the entire season. But reporting on it without concrete evidence would be unethical.

"You're thinking too hard again," Nate said, flopping down beside me with two beers. He handed me one. "I can practically hear the gears grinding."

I accepted the beer gratefully. "Just trying to figure out how to approach the article."

"Game recap, few quotes from the coach, praise for the goalie, mention Zach's goals..." Nate ticked off the points on his fingers. "Standard sports reporting."

"What about injuries?" I asked carefully. "If we suspect a player is hurt but hiding it?"

Nate's eyes narrowed. "Sean."

I nodded.

"You really think he's injured?"

"I know he is." I set my beer down, opening my notebook to the page where I'd sketched a rough diagram of the hit. "He took a check in the second period that targeted his right shoulder. He flinched, then compensated for the rest of the game. And afterwards, the trainer was examining the same shoulder."

"That doesn't mean it's serious," Nate pointed out. "Hockey's a contact sport. Guys get banged up all the time."

"It's the way he denied it when I asked," I insisted. "Too quick, too dismissive. And he looked... scared, almost. What if it's serious? What if he's risking permanent damage by playing through it?"

"That's his choice, Lucas." Nate's voice was gentler now. "And medically speaking, not your business. You're a reporter, not his doctor."

"But—"

"But nothing. Unless you have concrete proof, or he admits it on the record, you can't write about it. That's basic journalistic ethics."

He was right, of course. But if Sean was putting himself at risk, someone should be looking out for him—even if he didn't want them to.

"Fine," I conceded. "I'll stick to the facts for the article."

"Good. And maybe try to be a little objective about the defenseman with the dreamy eyes while you're at it."

I threw a cushion at him, which he dodged easily.

"I am objective! Professionally, at least." I took a swig of beer. "But personally? I don't know what to think about him. One minute he's kissing me like I'm the best thing that's ever happened to him, the next he's acting like I don't exist, then he's apologizing and saying it meant something, but we still have to pretend it never happened."

"Sounds exhausting."

"It is. And now I have to cover his games all season." I groaned, letting my head fall back against the couch. "Why couldn't I have kissed a nice English major with no complications?"

"Because you're attracted to brooding men with secrets," Nate said matter-of-factly. "Always have been."

"I am not!"

"Junior year of high school: Ryan Martinez, who ended up having a secret girlfriend at another school. Freshman year: Professor Andrews' TA, who turned out to be married. Last summer: that bartender who 'couldn't date while focusing on his music career.'" Nate ticked them off on his fingers. "Face it, Lucas. You have a type, and it's 'emotionally unavailable with a side of mysterious past.'"

I wanted to argue, but he wasn't entirely wrong. I did tend to fall for complicated men, drawn to the challenge of understanding them, of being the one they opened up to.

"Well, at least Sean was honest about why he can't be seen with me," I said finally. "That's something."

"I guess." Nate didn't sound convinced. "Just be careful, okay? I don't want to see you get hurt chasing another guy who can't give you what you deserve."

The oven timer beeped, saving me from having to respond. As Nate went to retrieve our pizza, I turned back to my laptop, determined to write a factual, objective article about the game.