Page 33 of The Boyfriend Zone

Sure enough, Nate's gaze was fixed on Zach, who was showing off with elaborate stick-handling at center ice. Even from this distance, I could see the conflicted expression on my best friend's face.

"You both are ridiculous," Ava declared, snapping another photo. "Pining after hockey players like you're in some cheesy rom-com."

"We're not pining," I protested weakly. "We're observing. For journalistic purposes."

On the ice, the scrimmage was winding down, players trickling toward the locker room in twos and threes. I watched as Sean lingered behind, practicing shots against an empty net with grim determination despite his obvious discomfort.

"I'm going to go talk to him," I decided suddenly, standing.

Ava grabbed my arm. "Wait for a better moment," she advised. "Look at him—he's all wound up. Let him cool down first."

She was right. Sean's body language screamed tension, frustration evident in every line of his posture. Better to wait until he'd had a chance to shower and calm down.

I bided my time, chatting with Ava and then briefly with Nate, who'd come over after Zach left the ice. When the last of the players had disappeared into the locker room, I made my move, heading down to the rink level.

The locker room door was ajar when I approached. I hesitated, uncertain if I should enter or wait outside. Then I heard a quiet, pained groan from within.

Peering through the gap, I saw Sean alone, his back to the door. He was still in his practice gear, struggling to lift his arm to remove his shoulder pads. The motion was clearly causing him significant pain—his face contorted with it as he tried again to reach the straps.

The sight tugged at my heart, all my journalistic detachment evaporating in the face of his obvious suffering. Without thinking, I pushed the door open wider and stepped inside.

"Need help with that?"

Sean stiffened, his head whipping around to face me. A series of emotions flashed across his face in quick succession—surprise, embarrassment, and finally, a guarded wariness.

"I'm fine," he said automatically, though he was still half-trapped in his gear. "Just taking my time."

I approached cautiously, keeping my voice gentle. "It doesn't look fine, Sean. It looks painful."

"It's nothing." But the strain in his voice belied his words.

"Let me help you." I moved closer, hands raised in a non-threatening gesture. "Just with the gear. Then we can talk."

Sean's eyes flashed with a mixture of pride and what might have been fear. "I don't need help, and we don't need to talk."

"Really?" I pressed, taking another step toward him. "Because from where I'm standing, you can barely lift your arm. That's not 'nothing,' Sean. That's not even close to nothing."

He looked away, jaw clenched. "It's none of your business."

"Maybe not as a reporter," I conceded. "But as someone who cares about you? As a friend? It is my business."

"Why?" Sean demanded, his voice rising with frustration. "Why do you care so much? Why can't you just leave it alone, like everyone else does?"

"Because unlike everyone else, I'm not willing to watch you destroy yourself for a game!" The words burst out of me with more force than I'd intended. "Because I can see how much pain you're in, and it kills me that you won't let anyone help you."

Sean stared at me, clearly taken aback. For a moment, I thought I might have gotten through to him. Then his expression hardened again.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he said coldly. "This isn't 'just a game' to me. It's my future. My whole life."

"And what kind of future will you have if you tear that shoulder completely?" I challenged, moving close enough that I could see the sweat still beading on his forehead, the lines of exhaustion around his eyes. "Dr. Shaw says injuries like yours can end careers if they're not treated properly."

Sean's eyes narrowed. "You've been talking to Dr. Shaw about me?"

"Not specifically about you," I clarified quickly. "About shoulder injuries in hockey players. Hypothetically."

"Right." His voice dripped with disbelief. "Just like you've been hypothetically watching me at practice, hypothetically taking notes on my performance, hypothetically building your big exposé on the team's injured star."

The accusation stung, especially because there was a grain of truth to it. I had been watching him, taking mental notes—not for a story, but out of concern. But how could I make him believe that?

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