Page 4 of The Boyfriend Zone

"Try me." The gleam in his eye told me he absolutely would.

I collapsed into our threadbare armchair, giving in. "Fine. Yes, I kissed someone. His name is Sean. He's tall, plays sports, and yes, he's hot. And a good kisser. Satisfied?"

"Not even close." Nate set his controller aside, giving me his full attention. "Details, Lucas. I need details. How did you meet him? What did you talk about? And most importantly, when are you seeing him again?"

"We're not," I admitted, trying to ignore the twinge of disappointment. "I didn't get his number."

Nate stared at me in disbelief. "You're joking. You meet a hot athlete who can apparently kiss well enough to make you blush twelve hours later, and you don't get his number? What is wrong with you?"

"I don't know!" I threw my hands up. "It was loud, my friends were waiting, and it just... didn't happen."

"Unbelievable." Nate shook his head. "Well, at least tell me what you talked about before the kissing commenced."

I found myself smiling as I recalled our conversation. "Movies, mostly. And how we both hate clubs but got dragged out by friends."

"Ah, bonding over mutual annoyance. Classic." Nate grinned. "Sounds like the start of a beautiful romance."

"It's not a romance," I corrected him. "It was just a fun night."

"A fun night you're obviously still thinking about." Nate's voice softened slightly. "You should have gotten his number, Lucas."

"I know." I sighed, sipping my coffee. "But it's fine. I mean, what are the chances I'll run into him again anyway?"

"At this university? Slim to none." Nate glanced at his watch. "Speaking of which, we should probably get ready if we're going to make it to the rink by two."

I groaned, suddenly remembering our assignment. After three semesters of hoping for something better than campus events or dining hall reviews, Nate and I had finally landed a decent beat for the university newspaper: covering the hockey team throughout their season.

The only problem? Neither of us knew anything about hockey.

"Remind me again why we agreed to this?" I asked, already heading back to my room to find something suitable to wear.

"Because Mia said it would be good experience, and we both know she's right." Nate called after me. "Besides, maybe you'll see some guys as hot as your mystery kisser!"

I flipped him off without turning around, his laughter following me down the hall.

An hour later, we were walking across campus toward the athletic complex, armed with notebooks, voice recorders, and a hastily googled list of hockey terminology.

"Okay, so a hat trick is three goals in one game by the same player," Nate recited from his notes. "A power play is when one team has more players on the ice because the other team has someone in the penalty box."

"And the penalty box is where players go when they break the rules," I added. "Like for tripping, or checking from behind, or—"

"Fighting," Nate finished with a grin. "Which is somehow actually allowed, but with rules. God, this sport is weird."

"Tell me about it." I pushed open the door to the complex, the blast of cold air a stark contrast to the warm September day outside. "Mia said we need to talk to the coach first, then do some player interviews."

"And I'm supposed to get locker room shots for the feature." Nate patted the camera bag slung over his shoulder. "Pre-game preparations, team bonding, that kind of thing."

We found our way to the hockey rink, the chill intensifying as we got closer. The team's PR assistant met us at the entrance, a harried-looking grad student named Emma who seemed relieved to see us.

"The coach is expecting you," she said, leading us through a maze of corridors. "The players are getting ready, but you'll have about fifteen minutes for interviews before they need to focus on the game."

She pushed open a door marked 'Home Team', and the noise hit us immediately—music playing from speakers, guys laughing and shouting to each other, the clatter of equipment being arranged.

"Hey everyone," Emma called out over the din. "These are the student reporters from The Daily. They'll be covering you guys this season, so try not to terrify them on day one, okay?"

A chorus of greetings and a few good-natured jeers came our way as we stepped into the locker room. I tried not to stare too obviously as muscular guys in various states of undress moved around the space, focusing instead on finding the coach for our initial interview.

A tall player with 'Captain' stitched under the 'C' on his jersey approached us, hand extended. "Tristan," he introduced himself. "Welcome to the madhouse."

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