Page 13 of The Boyfriend Zone

"Game recap, few quotes from the coach, praise for the goalie, mention Zach's goals..." Nate ticked off the points on his fingers. "Standard sports reporting."

"What about injuries?" I asked carefully. "If we suspect a player is hurt but hiding it?"

Nate's eyes narrowed. "Sean."

I nodded.

"You really think he's injured?"

"I know he is." I set my beer down, opening my notebook to the page where I'd sketched a rough diagram of the hit. "He took a check in the second period that targeted his right shoulder. He flinched, then compensated for the rest of the game. And afterwards, the trainer was examining the same shoulder."

"That doesn't mean it's serious," Nate pointed out. "Hockey's a contact sport. Guys get banged up all the time."

"It's the way he denied it when I asked," I insisted. "Too quick, too dismissive. And he looked... scared, almost. What if it's serious? What if he's risking permanent damage by playing through it?"

"That's his choice, Lucas." Nate's voice was gentler now. "And medically speaking, not your business. You're a reporter, not his doctor."

"But—"

"But nothing. Unless you have concrete proof, or he admits it on the record, you can't write about it. That's basic journalistic ethics."

He was right, of course. But if Sean was putting himself at risk, someone should be looking out for him—even if he didn't want them to.

"Fine," I conceded. "I'll stick to the facts for the article."

"Good. And maybe try to be a little objective about the defenseman with the dreamy eyes while you're at it."

I threw a cushion at him, which he dodged easily.

"I am objective! Professionally, at least." I took a swig of beer. "But personally? I don't know what to think about him. One minute he's kissing me like I'm the best thing that's ever happened to him, the next he's acting like I don't exist, then he's apologizing and saying it meant something, but we still have to pretend it never happened."

"Sounds exhausting."

"It is. And now I have to cover his games all season." I groaned, letting my head fall back against the couch. "Why couldn't I have kissed a nice English major with no complications?"

"Because you're attracted to brooding men with secrets," Nate said matter-of-factly. "Always have been."

"I am not!"

"Junior year of high school: Ryan Martinez, who ended up having a secret girlfriend at another school. Freshman year: Professor Andrews' TA, who turned out to be married. Last summer: that bartender who 'couldn't date while focusing on his music career.'" Nate ticked them off on his fingers. "Face it, Lucas. You have a type, and it's 'emotionally unavailable with a side of mysterious past.'"

I wanted to argue, but he wasn't entirely wrong. I did tend to fall for complicated men, drawn to the challenge of understanding them, of being the one they opened up to.

"Well, at least Sean was honest about why he can't be seen with me," I said finally. "That's something."

"I guess." Nate didn't sound convinced. "Just be careful, okay? I don't want to see you get hurt chasing another guy who can't give you what you deserve."

The oven timer beeped, saving me from having to respond. As Nate went to retrieve our pizza, I turned back to my laptop, determined to write a factual, objective article about the game.

Chapter 5: Sean

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.

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