Page 24 of The Boyfriend Zone

"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."

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