Page 7

Hat Trick's Tavern was packed, as usual on a post-game night. The local sports bar had been the hockey team's unofficial headquarters for as long as anyone could remember, its walls decorated with team jerseys from years past, its booths and tables perpetually full of athletes and their admirers.

I snagged our regular booth in the back, sliding in beside Zach and a couple of other teammates. The familiar sounds of classic rock, clinking glasses, and overlapping conversations created a comfortable backdrop, one that usually helped me unwind after a game. But tonight, I couldn't relax, my eyes constantly drifting to the door.

"Waiting for someone?" Zach asked, nudging me with his elbow.

"No," I answered too quickly, then faltered under his skeptical gaze. "You know the reporters are coming, right? To do that piece on team bonding or whatever."

"Right. The reporters." Zach's knowing smirk made me want to sink into the floor. "Including your friend Lucas."

I took a careful sip of my soda—no alcohol for me tonight, not with my shoulder throbbing and the likelihood I'd need painkillers later. "He's not my friend. He's just covering our team."

"Sure." Zach was clearly unconvinced. "That's why you asked me three times if I thought they'd actually show up."

Before I could formulate a denial, the door opened, and Lucas walked in with Nate. They paused in the entrance, looking slightly out of place among the rowdy sports fans and athletes. Lucas was dressed more casually than I'd seen him before, in dark jeans and a simple button-down shirt that somehow made him look even more attractive than usual.

Our eyes met across the room, and something fluttered in my stomach. I lifted my hand in a small wave before I could think better of it.

Tristan called out to the reporters. "Press! Over here!"

Lucas and Nate made their way toward our booth, navigating through the crowded bar. I slid further into the seat, making room, while trying to appear casual about it.

"Glad you could make it," Tristan said, ever the diplomat. "Figured you might want to see how we celebrate a win."

"Thanks for the invitation," Lucas replied, his voice carrying that hint of warmth that seemed to draw people in. "Hope we're not intruding on team bonding."

"Not at all," Tristan assured him. "Consider yourselves honorary team members for the night. No official interviews, though. This is off the record unless we say otherwise."

"Deal," Nate agreed, setting his camera bag carefully under the table. "We're just here to observe the natural habitat of the college hockey player."

"Like a nature documentary," Zach quipped, his eyes fixed on Nate. "'Here we see the talented forward in his preferred environment, surrounded by admirers.'"

"More like 'Here we observe the overconfident jock engaging in ritualistic peacocking behavior,'" Nate retorted, though I didn't miss the slight flush on his cheeks.

The table erupted in "oohs" at the comeback, and just like that, the initial awkwardness dissolved. Lucas slid into the seat beside me, close enough that I could catch the subtle scent of his cologne—something clean with hints of cedar and spice. My heart rate kicked up several notches.

"Hey," he said quietly, while the others were distracted by Zach and Nate's continuing verbal sparring.

"Hey yourself," I replied, suddenly hyper-aware of every point where our arms almost touched. "Thanks for coming."

"Wouldn't miss it." His smile did strange things to my insides. "Though I'm a little surprised you wanted me here, considering..."

He let the sentence trail off, but I knew what he meant. Considering our agreement to keep our distance. Considering the kiss in the gym that had been haunting my thoughts for days.

"I've been thinking about that," I admitted, keeping my voice low. "And I realized maybe we could be friends. Publicly, I mean. No reason the team's defenseman and the reporter covering the team can't get along, right?"

Lucas's eyes widened slightly. "Friends," he repeated, testing the word. "I'd like that."

"Good." I relaxed slightly, even as part of me wondered if friendship was really all I wanted. "So, friend, how's your article coming along? The one Mia assigned about the team?"

"Not bad," Lucas replied, his eyes never leaving mine. "I'm focusing on team dynamics, how you all work together so seamlessly on the ice. It's actually fascinating to watch."

"You make us sound like a well-oiled machine," I chuckled. "If only Coach could see us through your eyes."

"Oh? Does he not appreciate your brilliance?"

"Let's just say he's more the 'yell until they get it right' type of motivator. But it works." I took another sip of my soda. "So what kind of journalism do you want to do after graduation? Sports reporting?"

"Maybe." Lucas looked thoughtful. "I like sports, but I'm more interested in the human stories behind them. The personal journeys, the challenges people overcome."

"The secrets they keep?" I asked, only half-joking.

His eyes widened slightly. "That's not—I didn't mean—"

"Relax, I'm teasing." I bumped his shoulder lightly with mine, ignoring the twinge of pain the contact caused. "I get it. People are complicated. That's what makes them interesting to write about."

"Exactly. And what about you? Is the NHL still the dream?"

The question was innocent enough, but it hit a nerve—the same one my father had been prodding for years.

"That's the plan," I said, trying to keep my tone neutral. "At least, that's what everyone expects."

"But what do you want?" Lucas asked, his gaze surprisingly perceptive.

Before I could answer—before I could even formulate a response to a question so few people had ever bothered to ask me—my phone buzzed.

"Sorry, I should take this," I said, already sliding out of the booth. "It's my dad."

Lucas nodded, and I made my way toward the tavern's entrance, where the noise level was slightly lower. I took a deep breath before answering.

"Hey, Dad."

"Sean! Just watched the highlights from your last game. That check in the third period was sloppy, son. You telegraphed it from a mile away."

No "hello," no "how are you"—just straight to critique. Typical.

"I know," I said, leaning against the wall. "I'm working on it."

"Work harder. I talked to Coach yesterday, and he says there'll be scouts from at least three NHL teams at the next home game."

My stomach twisted. "That's... great."

"It could be, if you're at your best." His voice took on that familiar lecturing tone. "You can't afford any mistakes, Sean. This is your shot."

I closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted. "I won't let you down, Dad."

"That's my boy. Remember what I always say—"

"Hockey first, everything else second," I finished automatically.

"Exactly. I'm counting on you, Sean."

After we hung up, I stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of his expectations pressing down on me like a physical force. My shoulder throbbed, a constant reminder of how close I was to losing everything—my spot on the team, my scholarship, my father's approval, my future.

When I returned to the booth, the easy camaraderie of earlier had broken up into smaller conversations. Zach and Nate were locked in what appeared to be an intense debate about the merits of different camera lenses, while Tristan was talking hockey strategy with another teammate.

Lucas looked up as I slid back into my seat, his smile fading as he took in my expression.

"Everything okay?" he asked quietly.

"Fine." The lie came automatically. "Just my dad checking in."

Lucas studied me for a moment. "You don't seem fine."

"I'm good, really." I forced a smile. "Just tired. It's been a long day."

He didn't push, but I could tell he didn't believe me. We sat in silence for a bit, both nursing our drinks, until Lucas spoke again.

"You know, it's okay not to be okay sometimes."

When was the last time someone had given me permission to be anything less than perfect?

"Is that what you tell all your interview subjects?" I deflected, uncomfortable with how easily he seemed to see through me.

"No," Lucas replied seriously. "Just the ones I care about."

Our eyes met, and for a moment, I felt like I could tell him everything—about my shoulder, about my father, about the suffocating pressure I felt every time I stepped onto the ice. About how the only time I'd felt truly free recently was when I was kissing him.

But the moment was broken when Zach loudly proclaimed, "There's no way a 50mm prime is better than a good zoom lens for sports photography, press boy!"

"For the action shots, sure," Nate countered, leaning forward intently. "But for capturing emotion, the intimacy of player moments, the fixed focal length creates a completely different aesthetic."

"Is he always this passionate about camera equipment?" I asked Lucas, grateful for the distraction.

"Oh, this is nothing," Lucas laughed. "You should hear him when someone suggests that digital filters are just as good as proper exposure techniques."

The conversation flowed easily after that, with Lucas sharing funny stories about the newspaper office and me recounting some of the team's more ridiculous road trip antics. It felt good—normal, even—like we really could be friends without all the complications of our attraction to each other.

But every time our hands accidentally brushed reaching for drinks, or our eyes held for a beat too long, that undeniable pull was still there, a current running beneath the surface of our carefully casual interaction.

As the night wore on, teammates began to filter out. Tristan clapped me on the shoulder as he left, making me wince slightly as he hit too close to my injury.

"You coming, Sean?" he asked. "Early practice tomorrow."

"In a bit," I replied. "Just gonna finish my drink."

Zach, who had somehow migrated to sitting right next to Nate during their ongoing debate, gave me a knowing look but didn't comment.

"I should head out too," Lucas said once Tristan had gone. "I've got an early class, and Mia wants the draft of this article by tomorrow afternoon."

"I'll walk you out," I offered, standing before I could think better of it.

Outside Hat Trick's, the night air was cool and crisp, a welcome relief from the tavern's warmth and noise. Lucas zipped up his jacket as we stood awkwardly on the sidewalk.

"Thanks for coming tonight," I said, suddenly shy. "It was nice. Hanging out like normal people."

"Is that what we are?" Lucas asked with a small smile. "Normal people?"

"Well, maybe not normal," I admitted. "But it felt good, being around you without all the... complications."

"Yeah." His voice was soft. "It did."

We stood there for a moment, neither of us quite ready to leave. The streetlight above cast a gentle glow on Lucas's face, highlighting the curve of his cheekbones, the fullness of his lips.

"Sean," he began hesitantly. "About your shoulder—"

I stiffened. "What about it?"

"Nothing," he backtracked quickly. "If you ever need to talk, about anything, I'm here. As a friend, not a reporter."

It would be so easy to confide in him, to let someone else help carry the burden I'd been shouldering alone.

"Thanks," I managed. "But I'm fine, really."

He nodded, not pushing but clearly not believing me either. "Well, the offer stands. Anytime."

"I should get back inside," I said, taking a step backward. "Make sure Zach isn't tormenting your flat mate too much."

"And I should make sure Nate isn't corrupting your best friend with his strong opinions on photographic technique," Lucas countered with a smile.

We stood there for another moment, and I had the overwhelming urge to kiss him again. Instead, I shoved my hands in my pockets to resist the temptation.

"Goodnight, Lucas."

"Goodnight, Sean."

I watched him walk away, his figure gradually disappearing into the darkness. Only when he was completely out of sight did I let my shoulders slump, the pretense of being "fine" slipping away.

Back inside, I found Zach still deep in conversation with Nate, their heads bent close together over what looked like photos on Nate's phone. I cleared my throat, and they sprang apart.

"I'm heading home," I announced. "You coming?"

Zach looked torn, his eyes darting between me and Nate. "Uh, yeah, just give me a sec."

I waited by the door while they exchanged what looked like phone numbers, Zach's usual cocky demeanor strangely subdued. When he joined me, his cheeks were slightly flushed.

"Not a word," he warned as we stepped outside.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I replied, though I couldn't help grinning. "Seems like you and the 'press boy' found some common ground."

"Shut up," Zach muttered, but there was no heat in it. "He's still annoying as hell."

"Sure he is."

We walked in comfortable silence for a while, the familiar route back to our apartment illuminated by streetlights and the occasional passing car.

"So," Zach said finally. "You and Lucas seemed pretty cozy too."

I tensed. "We're just friends."

"Uh-huh." Zach's skeptical tone made it clear he wasn't buying it. "Friends who look at each other like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're constantly trying to decide whether to argue with each other or make out."

I felt heat creep up my neck. "It's complicated."

"Yeah, no shit." Zach kicked at a pebble on the sidewalk. "Look, I get it, okay? The whole 'I've never been into guys before but suddenly there's this one guy' thing. It's confusing."

I glanced at him, surprised by the admission. "So you and Nate...?"

"There is no 'me and Nate,'" Zach said quickly. "He still thinks I'm an arrogant jerk who ghosted him after one kiss."

"Aren't you?" I teased.

Zach shoved me lightly. "You're supposed to be on my side, asshole."

"I am," I assured him. "But you did ghost him."

"Because I freaked out! I didn't know what to do with... all that."

I nodded, understanding completely. "So what now?"

Zach shrugged. "No idea. But he gave me his number, so that's something, right?"

"Definitely something," I agreed. "Just try not to disappear on him again. He seems like a good guy."

"Yeah," Zach said softly. "He is."

We reached our apartment building, the familiar walk-up with its perpetually broken elevator and slightly musty hallways. As I fumbled for my keys, Zach caught my arm.

"For what it's worth," he said, uncharacteristically serious, "Lucas seems like a good guy too. And he looks at you like you hung the moon or something."

I swallowed hard, not trusting myself to respond.

"All I'm saying is," Zach continued, "maybe some things are worth being complicated for."