Page 10 of The Boyfriend Zone

Something clicked in my head. The way they were looking at each other, the charged atmosphere between them... it reminded me of something. Or someone.

Lucas. Moving toward us with an amused expression, clearly about to intervene in whatever was happening between his colleague and my best friend.

I turned away quickly, grabbing my bag and heading for the exit. I needed to ice my shoulder properly, away from curious eyes and probing questions. But more than that, I needed to get away from Lucas.

I slipped into the empty training room, locking the door behind me. Sinking onto a bench, I carefully removed my jersey and the protective padding underneath, wincing as the movement pulled at my injured shoulder.

The bruising had spread, angry purple splotches extending down my upper arm. I rotated my shoulder carefully, assessing the damage. The pain was worse than before, but I could still move it through most of its range of motion. Not ideal, but manageable. I'd played through worse.

As I applied a fresh ice pack, I thought about Lucas's perceptive gaze, the way he'd immediately zeroed in on my weakness. It should have made me angry, this invasion of privacy, this threat to my carefully constructed facade. But instead, I felt a grudging admiration. He was good at his job, observant in a way that went beyond simple note-taking.

I closed my eyes, letting the cold seep into my muscles. Images from last night flooded my mind—Lucas laughing at something I'd said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The way he'd leaned in when I talked, like each word mattered. The feel of his lips against mine, soft at first, then more insistent.

God, I was in trouble. One night, one kiss, and I couldn't get him out of my head. And now he'd be around all season, watching me, analyzing me, perhaps even exposing my secrets.

My phone buzzed in my bag, jolting me out of my thoughts. I knew without looking who it would be. My father always called after games—win or lose, without fail.

I briefly considered not answering, but that would only lead to more calls, more questions. With a sigh, I dug out my phone with my good arm and swiped to accept the call.

"Hey, Dad."

"There's my star defenseman!" His booming voice filled the quiet room. "Caught the livestream. That hit in the third period was textbook perfect, son."

"Thanks." I adjusted the ice pack, biting back a groan. "We played well."

"The team did, sure. But I'm more interested in your performance.CoachBarnett says there were two scouts there tonight. NHL scouts." There was no missing the excitement in his voice.

"Yeah, I saw them." Hard to miss, the way they sat together with their clipboards, eyes tracking every move on the ice.

"And? How do you think you looked?"

I closed my eyes. "Fine, Dad. Solid game. No major mistakes."

"That's not good enough, Sean. 'Fine' doesn't get you drafted. 'Solid' doesn't earn you a spot on a professional roster." His voice took on the familiar lecturing tone. "You need to be exceptional. Memorable. The kind of player they can't stop talking about."

"I know, Dad." I'd heard this speech a thousand times before. "I'm working on it."

"Work harder. This is your year, son. Everything we've been building toward."

Everythinghe'dbeen building toward, he meant. My father's own hockey career had been cut short by a knee injury his senior year of college. He'd never quite gotten over the loss of his dream, and from the moment I'd shown any athletic ability, he'd transferred those ambitions to me.

Sometimes I wondered if he'd love me as much if I'd been born without any talent for the sport.

"Sean? You listening?"

"Yeah, sorry. Just tired." I sat up straighter, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. "You're right. I'll step it up next game."

"That's my boy." His tone softened slightly. "How's the shoulder?"

I froze. "What?"

"Your shoulder. You were favoring it a bit in the second period. Nothing serious, I hope?"

If he had noticed from a livestream, was it really that obvious? Or did he just know my body language that well after all these years of scrutinizing my play?

"It's nothing," I said, the lie coming easily after so much practice. "Just a stinger. I'm icing it now, standard procedure."

"Good, good. Can't be too careful." He paused. "You know, when I was your age, I played through a separated shoulder for three games before I told anyone. Cost me six weeks of the season once they found out how bad it was."

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