Page 5

The college gym was nearly deserted at 5:30 in the morning, exactly how I preferred it. No curious eyes watching as I moved through my workout routine, no questions about why I was focusing so much on my left side, no teammates to notice how I grimaced with certain movements.

I had staked out my usual spot in the far corner, where I could see anyone entering before they saw me. My resistance band was looped around a support pole, and I was carefully performing the exercises Dr. Shaw had recommended for my shoulder—the ones he thought I was doing under supervision, not alone at the crack of dawn.

"Shit," I hissed as a particularly sharp pain shot down my arm. The bruising had deepened overnight, spreading across my shoulder and down toward my bicep. I'd popped a couple of painkillers before leaving my apartment, but they hadn't kicked in yet.

I switched to a lighter resistance band, adjusting my form to minimize the strain. The truth was, I shouldn't be doing this at all. I should be resting, icing, seeing a specialist. But that would mean admitting the injury, sitting out games, potentially missing the attention of scouts—and disappointing my father in a way I wasn't prepared to face.

So here I was instead, stubbornly pushing through pain, hoping that I could rehab the shoulder enough to get through the season without anyone noticing.

I was midway through a set of external rotations when a noise at the door made me freeze. Someone was coming in. I quickly grabbed my sweatshirt from the bench, wincing as I pulled it over my head to hide the ice pack I'd strapped to my shoulder.

When I looked up, Lucas was standing in the doorway, a gym bag slung over one shoulder and a surprised expression on his face.

"Sean," he said, recovering quickly. "I didn't expect to see anyone here this early."

"I could say the same," I replied, trying to sound casual despite the panic rising in my chest. "What brings you to the gym at this hour?"

Lucas stepped further into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him. "Actually, I'm working on a piece about the team's training routines. Figured I'd find the early birds here."

His explanation made sense, but I couldn't help feeling suspicious. Had he somehow known I would be here? Was he following up on his observation about my shoulder?

"Well, you found one," I said, moving toward the free weights to put some distance between us. "Though fair warning—I'm not much of a talker before my second cup of coffee."

"I'll stay out of your way," Lucas promised, setting his bag down on a bench. "Just pretend I'm not here."

Easier said than done. Even as I went through the motions of a normal workout, carefully avoiding anything that would stress my shoulder, I was hyperaware of his presence. He moved around the gym with quiet efficiency, jotting notes about the facility, occasionally glancing in my direction.

Up close, in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the gym, he looked even better than I remembered. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run his fingers through it on the walk over. Without the dim club lighting or the distance of the press box, I could see the warmth of his eyes, the way his brow furrowed slightly as he concentrated on his notes.

I found myself watching him when I thought he wasn't looking, remembering the feel of his lips against mine, the way he'd smiled against my mouth when I'd pulled him closer.

"So," Lucas's voice startled me out of my thoughts, "is this your usual morning routine?"

I realized I'd been staring at the same dumbbell for far too long. "More or less," I hedged, selecting a lighter weight than I normally would. "Gets busy later in the day."

Lucas nodded, leaning against the wall nearby. "I'm the same way about the library. Can't stand trying to find a quiet corner once the crowds arrive."

There was something about his easy manner that made it hard to maintain my guard. Despite my best intentions, I found myself responding to his questions, drawn into conversation as I moved through a modified version of my usual routine.

"What got you into journalism?" I asked during a rest period between sets, genuinely curious.

Lucas smiled, and something warm unfurled in my chest. "I've always been nosy," he admitted. "Even as a kid, I was the one asking 'why' about everything. Drove my parents crazy."

"And now you get paid to be nosy," I observed, returning his smile despite myself.

"Exactly. Though I prefer to call it 'having a natural curiosity about people and their stories.'" He made air quotes around the phrase, his eyes crinkling with humor.

"Sounds better on a resume."

"Much better."

We fell into a rhythm after that, trading questions and observations as I worked out and he took notes. There was a careful distance between us, both physically and in the topics we discussed, but I felt the pull of something more every time our eyes met.

"What about you?" Lucas asked as I was wiping down a bench. "Was hockey always the plan?"

I considered deflecting, giving the stock answer I usually provided to similar questions. But something about Lucas's attentive expression made me want to be honest.

"Not exactly," I admitted. "I mean, I've always loved playing. But the whole 'NHL or bust' thing? That was more my dad's vision than mine."

Lucas's eyebrows rose slightly, but he didn't interrupt.

"Don't get me wrong," I continued, suddenly feeling the need to clarify. "I'm grateful for everything he's done. The early morning practices, the summer camps, the private coaches. He invested everything in my career."

"That sounds like a lot of pressure," Lucas observed, his tone neutral.

I shrugged, then immediately regretted it as pain flared in my shoulder. "It's just how it is in my family. Hockey is everything."

"And what happens if hockey isn't everything for you?"

The question caught me off guard. No one had ever asked me that before—not directly, not in a way that acknowledged there might be a "Sean" separate from "Sean the hockey player."

"I don't know," I answered honestly. "I've never really let myself think about it."

Lucas nodded, his expression thoughtful. For a moment, I thought he might press further, but he seemed to sense my discomfort and changed the subject.

"So, what's your least favorite workout?" he asked, gesturing to the gym around us.

"Easy. Burpees." I made a face. "Whoever invented those was a sadist."

Lucas laughed, the sound echoing in the empty gym. "I knew there was a reason I avoided them. I always feel like a dying fish flopping around."

"Exactly! And trainers always act like they're so essential. 'Great full-body exercise, Sean. Really builds explosive power.'" I mimicked our strength coach's enthusiastic tone.

"While you're lying there contemplating why you ever left your bed."

We were both chuckling now, the earlier tension dissipating. It felt good, this easy back-and-forth, reminiscent of our conversation at the club but without the pressure of performance or expectation.

Lucas shifted, closing his notebook. "Listen, about what you said before—"

"We don't have to talk about that," I interrupted quickly.

"Actually, I think we do." He met my eyes directly. "I was disappointed when you asked me to pretend nothing happened between us, but I didn't fully understand why it was necessary. That was unfair of me."

I blinked, surprised by his apology. "Oh."

"I get that coming out is personal, and no one should be pressured into it," he continued. "Especially when there are career implications. So I wanted to say I respect your decision, and I'll honor our agreement to keep things professional."

The sincerity in his voice made my chest ache. Most guys would have been angry, resentful of being asked to stay in the shadows. But here was Lucas, apologizing to me for not being understanding enough.

"I appreciate that," I said, suddenly feeling ashamed of my behavior. "And I'm sorry for how I handled things. You deserved better than being treated like a stranger."

"Thank you." A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. "I actually wasn't sure you'd be speaking to me at all after I asked about your shoulder."

I tensed involuntarily. "About that—"

"You don't have to explain," Lucas cut in. "Your health is your business. I shouldn't have pried."

But he had pried, and he'd been right to notice something was off. The lie stuck in my throat as I mumbled, "It's nothing serious."

Lucas's expression told me he didn't believe me, but he didn't challenge the statement. Instead, he changed the subject again.

"Can I ask you something else? Something personal?"

I should have said no. Should have maintained the boundaries I'd established for a reason. But something in his earnest expression made me nod instead.

"How long have you known? That you're bisexual, I mean."

The question was asked gently, with genuine curiosity rather than judgment. Still, I glanced around reflexively, confirming we were still alone.

"I've known for a while," I admitted. "Since high school, probably. But I've been... ignoring it, I guess. Dating girls exclusively, convincing myself it was just a phase."

"What changed?"

I met his eyes. "I met you."

The words hung between us, more honest than I'd intended to be. Lucas's eyes widened slightly, a flush creeping up his neck.

"That's why I feel so bad about how I acted," I continued, the confession pouring out of me now. "That night at the club was the first time I'd ever... followed through on that part of myself. And it felt right, you know? Like finally exhaling after holding my breath for years."

"And then I turned up at your locker room the next day," Lucas said, understanding dawning. "Just when you'd taken this huge personal step."

"Exactly." The relief of being understood was almost overwhelming. "But that doesn't excuse how I treated you. I panicked, and I hurt you, and I'm sorry."

Lucas took a small step closer. "You know, I've been having a hard time forgetting about that kiss."

My heart rate kicked up several notches. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." His voice was softer now. "Which is a problem, since I've promised to pretend it never happened."

Maybe it was the way he was looking at me, but I found myself moving closer to him, drawn by an irresistible pull.

"Maybe..." I swallowed hard. "Maybe I could kiss you one more time. To help us both get it out of our systems."

Lucas's breath hitched, his eyes darkening. "That's your solution?"

"Unless you have a better one."

"I don't," he whispered, and that was all the invitation I needed.

I closed the distance between us, cupping his face with my good hand, and brought our lips together. The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, both of us aware that we were breaking the agreement we'd just reaffirmed. But then Lucas's hands came up to rest on my chest, and something inside me ignited.

I deepened the kiss, backing him up against the wall, losing myself in the taste and feel of him. His hands slid up to my shoulders, and I barely noticed the twinge of pain as his fingers brushed against my injury. All I could focus on was the soft sound he made when I nipped at his lower lip, the way his body fit perfectly against mine.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, I rested my forehead against his, eyes closed.

"Did that help?" I asked, my voice rougher than normal.

"Not even a little," Lucas replied, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "I think I'm going to need several more of those before I can forget the first one."

I chuckled, opening my eyes to find him looking at me with a mix of desire and tenderness that made my chest constrict. "Me too."

The sound of the gym door opening jerked us apart. I stepped back hastily, nearly tripping over a weight bench in my panic.

"Good morning, early birds!" Dr. Shaw's cheerful voice echoed through the gym as he strolled in, a coffee cup in one hand and a clipboard in the other. "Fancy seeing you here, Sean. And...?"

"Lucas, sir. From the university paper." Lucas recovered more quickly than I did, extending his hand to the trainer. "I'm doing a piece on the team's training regimen."

"Ah, the press. Excellent." Dr. Shaw shook his hand enthusiastically. "Always good to see some coverage of the unsung aspects of athletic performance. Diet, sleep, proper form—all crucial elements that often get overlooked in favor of the flashy game-winning goals."

While they chatted, I gathered my things, shoving my resistance bands and the ice pack I'd discarded earlier into my gym bag. The last thing I needed was Dr. Shaw noticing me doing rehab exercises alone, without supervision.

"I should head out," I interrupted, slinging my bag over my uninjured shoulder. "Early class."

Dr. Shaw gave me a curious look. "How's that shoulder feeling today?"

My stomach dropped. "Fine. Just a little sore. Nothing some ice won't fix."

"Hmm." He didn't look convinced. "Stop by the training room later. I want to take another look."

"Will do," I lied, edging toward the door. "See you at practice, Doc. Nice seeing you, Lucas."

Lucas nodded, his expression carefully neutral. "You too, Sean."

I fled before either of them could ask any more questions, berating myself for my carelessness. Not only had I risked being caught doing unauthorized rehab, but I'd broken my own rule about keeping my distance from Lucas.

And the worst part? I couldn't bring myself to regret the kiss, even knowing how dangerous it was.

As I pushed through the gym doors into the crisp morning air, I tugged my hood up against the chill. The campus was still quiet, most students taking advantage of the early hour to sleep. I envied them their simple priorities, their freedom to be whoever they wanted without the weight of expectation crushing them.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out to find a message from an unfamiliar number.

For the record, that didn't help me forget anything. In fact, I think it made things worse. But in a good way. -L

Same here , I typed back before I could talk myself out of it. But maybe we should try again sometime. You know, for journalism.

His response came almost immediately: I'm very dedicated to thorough research.

I laughed out loud, startling a passing jogger. For just a moment, I allowed myself to imagine what it would be like to actually date Lucas—to take him to dinner, to hold his hand walking across campus, to introduce him to my friends as more than just the reporter covering our team.

The fantasy was so enticing it physically hurt to push it away, to remind myself of all the reasons I couldn't have that. My father's expectations. The scouts. The team. My future.

But as I trudged back to my apartment, shoulder aching and lips still tingling from Lucas's kiss, I found myself wondering for the first time if hockey was worth giving up everything else that might make me happy.