Page 43 of The Boyfriend Zone

"Been better," he admitted, his voice tired but more open than I'd ever heard it. "The pain's manageable with the meds they gave me, but..."

"But?" I prompted when he trailed off.

"But the real pain is here." He tapped his chest with his good hand. "Wondering what happens next. To my season, my future... to us."

The last two words hung in the air between us, fragile and tentative.

"I'm so sorry," I blurted out, guilt washing over me. "I should have done more, said something sooner. I knew you were hurt, I could have—"

"Lucas, stop." Sean reached out, his left hand finding mine. "This isn't on you. Not even a little bit. I was the one being stubborn, hiding it from everyone, pushing away help."

"Still, I—"

"You tried," he said firmly. "More than once. You were the only one who really saw what was happening, who cared enough to push past all my bullshit. If I'd listened to you weeks ago, maybe it wouldn't have gotten this bad."

His hand was warm around mine, his thumb tracing small circles on my skin. The simple contact grounded me, calmed the storm of guilt and worry that had been building since I'd seen him collapse on the ice.

"What did the doctor say?" I asked.

Sean sighed, his head falling back against the cushions. "Full diagnosis tomorrow after the MRI, but preliminary exam shows a Grade 2 sprain with possible partial tearing. Dr. Shaw thinks I've been aggravating it for weeks, making a minor injury worse every time I played through it."

"And recovery time?"

"Best case, four weeks of rest and physical therapy. Worst case, a minor surgery and three months minimum." His voice wavered slightly. "Either way, I'm out for most of the season. Might make it back for tournament play if I'm lucky and follow the protocol exactly."

"What about the scouts?" I asked gently, knowing how much that had been weighing on him.

"Coach talked to them," Sean said, surprising me. "Told them the situation, that I'd been playing through an injury all season. Said my dedication was admirable but misguided." He laughed without humor. "That's coach-speak for 'the kid's an idiot but he's tough.'"

"And they were okay with that?"

"Apparently. One of them even said they'd be back to watch me when I'm healthy." Sean shook his head, as if he still couldn't believe it. "Said playing through pain showed heart, but knowing when to step back showed maturity."

Relief flooded through me. "That's good, right? They're still interested."

"Yeah," Sean agreed, though his expression remained troubled. "But my dad..."

Of course. Robert Mitchell, the former hockey star with the shattered dreams, living vicariously through his son.

"You haven't told him yet," I guessed.

Sean shook his head. "Grandma Rose called him after the game. He's driving up tomorrow to 'assess the situation.'" His free hand made air quotes, his tone suggesting exactly what kind of assessment he was expecting.

"Do you want me to be there?" I offered impulsively. "When he comes, I mean."

Sean's eyes widened, and for a moment I thought I'd overstepped. Then his expression softened into something that made my heart skip.

"You'd do that?"

"Of course," I said without hesitation. "That's what..." I paused, suddenly unsure how to define what we were. Friends seemed inadequate, but we hadn't exactly established anything more.

"That's what people who care about each other do," I finished.

Sean's gaze held mine, something raw and honest in his eyes that he'd never allowed me to see before.

"I've been awful to you," he said quietly. "Pushing you away, snapping at you, making you feel like you were imagining things. And still, you're here. Why, Lucas?"

It was a simple question with a complicated answer. Why had I persisted when he'd given me every reason to walk away? Why had I kept coming back, kept caring, kept hoping?

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