Page 9

"If you don't stop bouncing your leg like that, I'm going to staple your pants to the chair," Nate threatened, not looking up from his textbook. "Some of us are trying to study."

I forced my leg to still. The campus coffee shop was packed, with students hunched over laptops and textbooks, fortifying themselves with caffeine and sugar.

"What's got you so jumpy anyway?" Nate glanced up, his expression softening when he saw my face. "Still no word from Hockey Boy?"

I shook my head, stirring my now-cold coffee. "Not since Sunday, and that was three days ago."

"Maybe he's busy," Nate suggested. "They did have that away game in Vermont."

"Maybe." But I couldn't shake the feeling that Sean was avoiding me again, retreating back behind his walls after allowing me a brief glimpse of the real person underneath.

Nate closed his textbook with a sigh. "Look, you can't keep obsessing over this. Either he'll get his head out of his ass and call you, or he won't. Either way, you need to—"

He broke off suddenly, his eyes fixed on someone behind me. I turned to follow his gaze and saw Zach entering the coffee shop, flanked by a couple of his teammates. Nate stiffened, his eyes darting back to his textbook as if it contained the secrets of the universe.

"Incoming," I murmured, watching as Zach spotted us. He hesitated for a moment, saying something to his teammates before approaching our table alone.

"Hey, Lucas," he greeted me warmly, then turned to Nate with a more cautious, "Hi."

"Zach," Nate acknowledged coolly, still not looking up. "Didn't know hockey players could read. Is that why you're in a coffee shop?"

I kicked him under the table, but Zach just laughed, seemingly unfazed by the barb.

"We fuel on caffeine like normal humans," he replied, then added with a hint of uncertainty, "Mind if I join you for a minute?"

I gestured to the empty chair at our table. "Be our guest."

Zach sat, setting down his coffee cup. There was an awkward silence as he and Nate pointedly avoided looking at each other, while I tried to think of something—anything—to say.

"Good game in Vermont," I offered finally. "That last-minute goal was impressive."

"Thanks." Zach smiled. "Coach has us running extra drills this week to prepare for the Harvard game. It's a big one."

Another silence fell, even more strained than before. I was about to make an excuse to leave them alone when Zach cleared his throat.

"Actually, Lucas, would you mind if I talked to Nate for a minute? Privately?"

I raised my eyebrows, glancing at Nate to gauge his reaction. My roommate's expression was carefully neutral, but I could see the tension in his shoulders.

"That depends," Nate said before I could respond. "Are you planning to actually talk to me this time, or will you disappear for weeks afterward?"

Zach winced visibly. "I deserve that. And I'm sorry. About ghosting you after the party."

"Sorry enough to discuss it in front of your teammates?" Nate challenged, nodding toward the hockey players watching curiously from the counter.

"They're not..." Zach fumbled, then took a deep breath. "Yes. I'm sorry enough to have this conversation right here, if that's what you want."

Nate blinked, clearly surprised by Zach's willingness. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why now? It's been weeks."

"Because I can't stop thinking about you, okay?" Zach blurted out, his voice low but intense. "Even when I'm trying to hate you for being so damn annoying, I just can't."

I felt like I was witnessing something private, something I shouldn't be intruding on. I gathered my books quickly. "I just remembered I need to... um, return a book. To the library. Right now."

Neither of them seemed to notice as I slipped away, too caught up in their standoff. I retreated to a corner table with a view of them, too invested in whatever was unfolding to leave completely.

From my new vantage point, I could see Zach leaning forward, speaking earnestly while Nate listened with crossed arms. Zach seemed to be doing most of the talking, occasionally running a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration or nervousness.

At one point, Zach reached across the table and took Nate's wrist, saying something that made Nate's eyes widen. Nate pulled his arm away, his expression conflicted, and said something that made Zach's face fall.

Then Nate stood abruptly, gathering his books, and walked out without looking back. Zach remained at the table, staring at his coffee cup with the most defeated expression I'd ever seen on his usually confident face.

After a moment's debate, I approached him again, sliding into Nate's vacated chair. "That bad, huh?"

Zach looked up, startled out of his thoughts. "Oh. Yeah. I guess you could say that."

"Want to talk about it?" I offered.

He hesitated, then shrugged. "Not much to say. I screwed up, tried to apologize, and he still hates me. Can't really blame him."

"I don't think he hates you," I said carefully. "Nate doesn't storm out when he hates someone. He just gets icily polite until they go away. Storming out means he cares enough to be hurt."

"That doesn't make me feel better." Zach sighed, pushing his coffee aside. "I don't know what I expected. That he'd just forgive me for being a coward and we'd ride off into the sunset together?"

"What exactly happened between you two?" I asked, genuinely curious. Nate had been tight-lipped about the details, just saying they'd "had a moment" at a party before Zach ghosted him.

Zach was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. Then he laughed humorlessly. "You know how sometimes you meet someone and it's like... instant dislike? But also instant something else?"

I nodded, thinking of my complicated feelings for Sean.

"That was me and Nate, at this house party for the arts department. He was taking photos for some project, being all serious and professional. I was there with some friends." Zach traced the rim of his cup with his finger. "I said something stupid about his camera, he called me an 'uncultured hockey goon,' and somehow we ended up sitting on the back porch arguing about photography for hours."

"Arguing," I repeated skeptically. "Just arguing?"

"At first, yeah." A small smile played at Zach's lips. "But then? I don't know. It shifted. He showed me some of his photos on his camera, and they were incredible. He's got this eye for capturing moments, emotions. And when he talks about photography, he gets so passionate, so alive. I couldn't look away."

The raw honesty in Zach's voice caught me off guard. This vulnerable side was so different from his cocky on-ice persona.

"So what happened?" I prompted when he fell silent again.

"I kissed him," Zach admitted simply. "Right there on the porch, under the stars, and suddenly more clear-headed than I'd ever been. And he kissed me back." He shook his head, as if still disbelieving. "I'd never felt anything like that before. With anyone."

"And then you ghosted him," I filled in the blank.

"Yeah." Zach looked ashamed. "I freaked out. I'd never been attracted to a guy before. Never even considered the possibility. And suddenly I'm sitting there having this moment with someone who's not only a guy, but who had spent the last two hours telling me exactly how shallow and clueless I am."

"So you ran."

"So I ran," he confirmed. "Didn't text, didn't call, avoided him on campus. Like the mature adult I clearly am." The self-deprecation in his tone was painful to hear.

"And now?" I asked.

"And now I can't stop thinking about him. About that night. About how stupid I was to run away from the one real connection I've felt in... maybe ever." Zach looked at me directly. "I've made a complete mess of things, haven't I?"

"Not complete," I assured him. "Nate's hurt, but he's not unforgiving. Give him some time to process."

"That's pretty much what you told Sean too, isn't it?" Zach asked unexpectedly.

I blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. "What?"

"About his shoulder. You know he's injured, but you haven't pushed or gone public with it. You're giving him space to come to you."

I stared at him, stunned. "How did you—"

"He's my best friend," Zach said simply. "And I have eyes. I've seen how he favors that side, how he grimaces when he thinks no one's looking. And I've seen how you watch him, concerned but not calling him out."

"I—" I didn't know how to respond. "It's not my place to—"

"It's exactly your place," Zach interrupted. "You're a reporter. It's literally your job to report on things like star players hiding injuries."

I flushed, uncomfortable with having my professional dilemma laid so bare by someone I barely knew. "It's more complicated than that."

"Because you care about him," Zach nodded. "I get it. More than you know."

We sat in silence for a moment, two people united by our concern for others who weren't making it easy to care about them.

"He likes you too, you know," Zach said finally. "Sean. He tries to hide it, but I can tell. The way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching... I've never seen him look at anyone like that."

Something warm unfurled in my chest at his words, a fragile hope I'd been trying to suppress. "Has he said anything? About us?"

"Not directly. Sean's not big on talking about feelings." Zach smiled wryly. "But he doesn't need to. It's in the way he checks his phone constantly, the way he perks up whenever your name comes up. The way he shuts down when his dad calls right after talking to you, like he's trying to keep those two parts of his life separate."

That explained the abrupt mood shift at Hat Trick's, after Sean's phone call. I filed the observation away for later reflection.

"Thanks for telling me," I said. "And for what it's worth, I think you should try again with Nate. Maybe give him a little space first, but don't give up."

"No?" Zach looked skeptical.

"No," I confirmed. "Something tells me he's not as immune to your charms as he pretends to be. Especially when you're being honest like this, instead of hiding behind that cocky hockey star act."

"It's not an act," Zach protested, then amended, "Okay, it's partly an act. It's easier sometimes, you know? Being what people expect you to be."

"I'm learning that," I said, thinking of Sean's perfect hockey player persona versus the conflicted man I glimpsed underneath. "But the real thing is worth the risk, don't you think?"

Back at our apartment that evening, I found Nate in full cleaning mode—a sure sign he was upset. He was aggressively wiping down the kitchen counters, our ancient radio blasting pop music to cover the sound of his furious scrubbing.

"Want to talk about it?" I asked, turning down the volume.

"Nothing to talk about," Nate replied tersely, moving on to the stove with renewed vigor. "Just thought the place could use a deep clean."

"Sure." I leaned against the refrigerator, watching him. "So this has nothing to do with a certain hockey player accosting you in the coffee shop today?"

"Accosting?" Nate snorted. "Drama queen much? We had a conversation. End of story."

"Must have been some conversation to inspire this level of cleaning frenzy."

Nate stopped scrubbing, his shoulders slumping slightly. "He apologized."

"And?"

"And nothing. He said he panicked because he's never been attracted to a guy before, and he didn't know how to face me after the kiss." Nate resumed cleaning, though with less intensity. "Standard closet case excuse."

"Did it seem like an excuse?"

Nate was quiet for a moment. "No," he admitted finally. "It seemed real. He looked scared, Lucas. Vulnerable. I've never seen him like that."

"And that freaked you out," I guessed.

"I don't know." Nate threw down the cleaning cloth in frustration. "It would be so much easier if he was just the arrogant jerk I thought he was. Now he's all... complex and human and shit."

I bit back a smile at his eloquent summary. "Inconvenient when people don't stick to the boxes we put them in, isn't it?"

"Extremely." Nate sank onto a kitchen chair. "He said the kiss wasn't meaningless. That he couldn't stop thinking about me, even when he was trying to hate me for being 'so damn annoying.'"

"High praise from Zach," I observed.

"Right?" Nate laughed despite himself. "Who says things like that in real life?"

"Someone who's not very good at expressing feelings but is trying really hard," I suggested.

Nate's smile faded. "Maybe. Or someone who's realized I'm a convenient experiment now that his curiosity has overcome his panic."

"Is that what you think?"

"I don't know what to think," Nate confessed. "That night at the party felt special, Lucas. We talked for hours. Really talked, not just flirted. He told me about growing up in this small town in Minnesota, being the only kid who wanted to play hockey instead of work in his family's restaurant. How he feels like he has to prove himself every day because he got here on talent, not money like some of the other guys."

"And what did you tell him?"

"Too much," Nate admitted. "About growing up with my mom after dad left, about how photography became my escape, my way of controlling what I saw and how I saw it." He shook his head. "I never talk about that stuff, especially not with some random guy at a party. But he really listened."

"That doesn't sound like someone who's just experimenting," I pointed out gently.

"Then why did he run?" Nate's voice cracked slightly, revealing the hurt beneath his anger. "Why did he make me feel like I'd imagined the whole connection?"

"Because he was scared," I said simply. "The same reason Sean pretended not to know me after the club. The same reason lots of people run from things that matter—because they matter."

Nate was quiet, absorbing this. "It hurt," he said finally. "Having this amazing night and then... nothing. Radio silence. Like I wasn't even worth the courtesy of a 'thanks but no thanks' text."

"I know." I crossed to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "And you have every right to be angry about that. But if you felt something real that night, don't you owe it to yourself to at least consider that he might have too?"

"Maybe." Nate stood, clearly done with the conversation. "I'll think about it. But right now, I'm going to finish stress-cleaning the kitchen, and then I'm going to eat an entire pizza by myself while cursing the existence of attractive hockey players."

"Sounds like a solid plan," I laughed. "Need company for the pizza part?"

"Nah, I think I need some quality time with my feelings and carbohydrates." Nate picked up the cleaning cloth again, but his movements were less frantic now.

As I passed Nate's desk in the living room, I noticed a book I hadn't seen before—a glossy hardcover photography collection by one of Nate's favorite artists. Curious, I picked it up, and a small note slipped out.

Thought you might like this. Saw it and thought of you. I'm sorry for being a jerk. - Z

The handwriting was somewhat messy but earnest, the note clearly written on whatever scrap of paper had been available in the moment. It seemed impulsive, genuine—not the calculated gesture of someone just trying to get back in someone's good graces.

"What are you doing?" Nate called from the kitchen.

I hastily put the book down. "Nothing. Just looking for my charger."

Later that evening, I glanced over from my desk to see Nate curled up on the couch, pizza box beside him, flipping through the photography book with a conflicted expression. He'd pause occasionally, studying a particular image with the focus he reserved for things that truly moved him.

Watching him, I thought about what Zach had said—that the real thing was worth the risk. I couldn't help but wonder if Sean felt the same way.

We all had our walls, I realized. Some built from fear, some from past hurts, some from expectations we felt we had to live up to. And sometimes the hardest thing wasn't breaking through someone else's defenses, but letting them see past our own.

With that thought in mind, I picked up my phone and, before I could second-guess myself, sent a text to Sean:

Hey. Just checking in. Hope your shoulder's feeling better after the Vermont game.