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"If you sigh one more time, I'm going to throw this controller at your head," Nate declared, not looking away from the zombie apocalypse unfolding on our TV screen. "That's like the fifth one in ten minutes."

I slumped deeper into our threadbare armchair, staring at the ceiling. "I didn't sign up for this."

"For what? Watching me destroy the undead? Because I'm pretty sure that was the entire plan for our Sunday night."

"No," I groaned, running a hand over my face. "This situation, with Sean."

Nate paused his game, turning to face me with exaggerated shock. "Lucas, willingly discussing feelings? Who are you and what have you done with my emotionally constipated roommate?"

I threw a pillow at him, which he dodged with practiced ease. "I'm serious, Nate. I'm in over my head here."

Nate's expression softened as he set down his controller. "Okay, talk to me. You two were having a whole conversation without saying a word. It was sickeningly cute."

"We're just friends," I insisted, though the words sounded hollow even to my own ears.

"Right. And Zach and I are mortal enemies who exchanged phone numbers purely for professional reasons."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what professional reasons would those be?"

Nate's cheeks colored slightly. "He wants me to take some action shots for his hockey profile. Strictly business."

"Of course." I bit back a smile. "And the fact that you spent two hours arguing about photography with him was just thorough pre-production planning."

"Exactly." Nate unpaused his game, his fingers jabbing buttons with unnecessary force. "Anyway, we're talking about you and your hockey hottie, not me."

I sighed, picking up my phone again to check for messages that weren't there. "Sean's not 'my' anything. He made it very clear he wants to keep things professional."

"Says the guy who walked you outside for a private goodbye."

"It wasn't private," I protested. "We were literally on a public sidewalk."

"Did he kiss you?" Nate asked bluntly.

"No!" My response was too quick, too emphatic. "No," I repeated more calmly. "We're... I don't know what we are, actually."

Nate set down his controller, his expression softening from teasing to concern. "Seriously, Lucas. What's going on with you two? One minute he's pretending he doesn't know you, then he's inviting you to team gatherings, then he's looking at you like you're water in a desert."

I ran a hand through my hair, frustration building. "I wish I knew. It's like there are two Seans—the one who kissed me at the club and again at the gym, who talks to me like I'm the only person in the room... and then there's the guarded, distant Sean who shuts down the moment anyone else is watching or when I get too close to whatever he's hiding."

"The shoulder thing?" Nate asked.

I nodded. "He's definitely injured, and it's definitely worse than he's letting on. But there's more to it than that. It's like he's carrying this enormous weight, and he won't let anyone help him with it."

"Including you?"

"Especially me." I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Every time I think we're making progress, that he might actually let me in, he pulls away again."

Nate was quiet for a moment, contemplative in a way he rarely was. "You really like him, don't you? Not just as a story?"

"Yeah," I admitted softly. "I do. And that's the problem. I can't be objective about this anymore."

"Maybe you don't need to be," Nate suggested. "Maybe what Sean needs isn't a reporter digging for truth, but someone who cares enough to listen when he's ready to talk."

"And if he's never ready?" I asked, voicing the fear that had been growing in me. "What if he just keeps pushing me away because it's easier than dealing with whatever's going on?"

"Then that's his loss." Nate's voice was firm. "But from what I saw tonight, I don't think that's what he wants. I think he's scared."

"Of what?"

"Probably the same thing Zach is. The same thing lots of athletes in his position would be." Nate shrugged. "Being out in a sport that's not exactly known for its acceptance. Disappointing people who have certain expectations. Losing opportunities."

"It's not just that, though," I insisted. "The way he reacted when I asked about his shoulder... it was like I'd threatened him somehow."

"Maybe you did." Nate picked up his controller again, but didn't resume playing. "Think about it—if he's hiding an injury, there's a reason. Maybe it's serious enough that he could be benched if the coach found out. Or maybe he's afraid of looking weak."

I considered this, remembering the tension in Sean's posture when he'd returned from his phone call with his father. "His dad seems to put a lot of pressure on him," I said slowly. "Always pushing for perfection, talking about scouts and the NHL."

"There you go," Nate nodded. "Classic case of a kid trying to live up to impossible expectations. And now he's caught between his health, his future, and disappointing Daddy Dearest."

"So what do I do?" I asked, genuinely at a loss.

"Your only option is to wait it out. Be there when he's ready to talk, but don't push."

"When did you get so wise about relationships?" I asked, attempting to lighten the mood.

Nate grinned. "I contain multitudes, my friend. Also, I've watched a lot of rom-coms."

I laughed. "Speaking of which, are you going to tell me what really happened with Zach? Because you two went from sniping at each other to exchanging numbers pretty quickly."

Nate's expression grew guarded. "Nothing happened. We just found some common ground."

"Photography," I supplied skeptically.

"Yes, photography. He's actually got a decent eye, even if his technical knowledge is basically nonexistent." Nate tried to sound dismissive, but there was an undercurrent of something warmer in his voice. "And he's less annoying when he's not trying so hard to be the cocky jock stereotype."

"High praise indeed," I teased.

"Shut up." Nate threw a cushion at me, which I dodged easily. "Not all of us are having dramatic star-crossed romances with closeted hockey players."

"We're not—" I started to protest, then gave up with a sigh. "Whatever. I'm going to write my article."

"The safe, non-controversial team dynamics one?" Nate asked knowingly.

"Yes." I stood, heading for my desk. "The one that won't ruin someone's career or make him hate me."

"Noble of you. Professionally questionable, but noble."

I ignored him, settling at my desk and opening my laptop. Instead of just describing the team's dynamics on the ice, I wrote about the found-family aspect of the hockey team. How they supported each other through grueling practices and high-pressure games. How they celebrated victories together and commiserated over defeats. How even off the ice, they looked out for one another, with specific examples of the brotherly bond between Zach and Sean.

As I typed, I realized I was essentially writing about what drew me to Sean as well—his loyalty, his dedication, his quiet strength.

By the time I finished around midnight, I had a solid piece that I was proud of. Nate had fallen asleep on the couch, his game paused on the screen. I draped a throw blanket over him. As I got ready for bed, my phone buzzed with a text.

Sean: Just checking—was that actually your fifth cup of coffee yesterday when we talked after the game? Because that can't be healthy.

I smiled, remembering our brief exchange in the hallway after Saturday's match. I'd been clutching my travel mug, making notes while waiting for the post-game press conference.

Me: Judge not lest ye be judged, Mr. "I survive on protein shakes and willpower."

His response came quickly: Touché. But seriously, are you part hummingbird? Your heart must beat at 200 BPM.

Me: Occupational hazard. Deadlines + early mornings = caffeine dependency. Just submitted the piece about Friday night at Hat Trick's.

There was a longer pause before his next text: Anything I should be worried about?

The question held more weight than its casual wording suggested. I considered how to respond, wanting to reassure him without being dishonest.

Me: No. It's about the team as a family, the support system you have in each other. Mentioned your love of hockey movies and thoughtful nature. Nothing compromising.

Sean: Thanks. Not just for that, but for how you handled everything at the rink. Not asking about my shoulder in front of others.

The acknowledgment of my discretion made my chest warm. It wasn't much, but it was something—a small opening in the wall he'd built between us.

Me: How is it, by the way? That hit in the third period looked rough.

Another pause, longer this time. I wondered if I'd overstepped.

Sean: Same as usual. Nothing I can't handle.

I frowned at the non-answer, fingers hovering over the keyboard before I decided not to push further.