Page 30 of The Boyfriend Zone

"Just feeling a bit under the weather," I lied, the half-truth easier than admitting I was injured. "Nothing serious. I'll push through it."

Coach studied me skeptically, his eyes narrowing. "You better. Because if you can't get your head out of your ass, you'll be watching from the bench while Jensen takes your minutes." He jerked his head toward a sophomore defenseman who'd been gunning for my spot all season. "I don't care if you're our star blue-liner—I need players who can perform."

"Understood, Coach."

"Good. Now get back out there and show me you deserve your starting spot."

As I skated back to position, I caught a glimpse of movement at the edge of the rink. Lucas was there, notebook in hand, watching the practice intently. Our eyes met briefly before I looked away, a mixture of embarrassment and dread washing over me. Great. He'd witnessed that whole humiliating exchange.

I threw myself into the rest of practice with reckless intensity, ignoring the screaming pain in my shoulder. Every hit, every shot, every defensive play was like fire spreading down my arm, but I refused to show it. I had too much to prove.

By the time Coach finally blew the whistle ending practice, I was running on sheer willpower. My legs felt like lead as I trudged toward the locker room, deliberately avoiding Lucas's gaze as I passed the area where he was jotting notes.

"Yo, Sean!" Zach called, catching up to me. "You okay, man? You look like shit."

"Thanks," I muttered. "Just tired."

"Bullshit." He lowered his voice, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. "It's your shoulder, isn't it? It's getting worse."

I didn't answer, which was answer enough.

"Sean, you need to—"

"I need to shower and get the hell out of here," I cut him off sharply. "What I don't need is a lecture."

Zach raised his hands in surrender. "Fine. Be stubborn. But if you pass out on the ice because you're too proud to admit you're hurt, I'm telling everyone your most embarrassing drunk stories at your funeral."

In the locker room, I waited until most of the team had cleared out before heading to the showers. The hot water was blissful agony on my battered shoulder, and I stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting it soothe the tightness in my muscles.

By the time I emerged, only a few stragglers remained, gathering the last of their gear. I dressed slowly, carefully, each movement calculated to minimize the strain on my injury.

The hallway was mercifully empty when I finally exited, my gym bag slung over my good shoulder. I was so focused on the thought of getting home and icing my arm that I nearly collided with someone waiting just outside the door.

Lucas.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft but steady. "Got a minute?"

My heart sank. Of all the people I didn't want to face right now, Lucas topped the list. Not because I didn't want to see him—God knows I'd thought about him constantly since that night at Hat Trick's—but because I was raw, in pain, and in no state to maintain the walls I'd so carefully constructed.

"Actually, I was just heading out," I said, already moving past him. "Team meeting tomorrow, need to review some film."

"Sean." Something in his tone made me pause. "Is your shoulder okay?"

The direct question, asked with such genuine concern, hit like a body check. I felt my defenses rising, panic blooming in my chest. Had he seen something at practice? Had he been watching that closely?

"My shoulder's fine," I snapped, more harshly than I'd intended. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Lucas didn't flinch at my tone, just studied me with those perceptive eyes that seemed to see right through me. "I don't know. Maybe because you've been favoring your right side for weeks. Or because you grimace every time someone bumps into you. Or because Coach just reamed you out for a defensive lapse that the Sean I've been watching all season would never make."

"So now you're an expert on my playing style?" I felt cornered, defensive. "Are you writing an analysis piece or something?"

"I'm concerned," Lucas said simply. "As a friend."

The word 'friend' stung, though I had no right to feel hurt by it. Wasn't that what I'd asked for? A simple, uncomplicated friendship?

"Well, don't be," I said curtly. "There's nothing wrong, and even if there was, it wouldn't be any of your business."

I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth, especially when I saw the flash of hurt in Lucas's eyes. But I couldn't take them back, couldn't explain that I was lashing out because I was scared—scared of being benched, scared of disappointing my father, scared of losing my shot at the future I'd been working toward my whole life.

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