Page 51 of The Boyfriend Zone

I started to withdraw my hand, suddenly aware of its placement, but Sean covered it with his own, keeping it there. The casual intimacy of the gesture made my heart skip.

Around us, the bus had settled into journey mode—some players with headphones on, others already napping, a card game starting up in the back row. No one seemed to notice or care about our quiet conversation or connected hands.

"So," Sean said after a moment, "tell me about your childhood dream of being a reporter. I bet you were one of those kids with the little notebook interviewing neighbors about their dogs."

I stared at him, startled by the accuracy of his guess. "How did you know that?"

"Seriously?" Sean laughed. "You actually did that?"

"Mrs. Greenberg next door had a poodle named Sir Fluffington," I confessed, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "I wrote a three-page exposé on his preference for chicken treats over beef ones. My mom still has it somewhere."

"That's adorable," Sean declared, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of my hand. "Little Lucas, investigative reporter."

"What about you?" I asked, eager to shift the focus from my embarrassing childhood endeavors. "What were your summers like growing up? All hockey camps and training?"

Something flickered in Sean's eyes—a shadow of old pain, quickly masked. "Pretty much," he said. "While other kids were at the beach or playing video games, I was doing dryland training and skating clinics."

"That sounds intense for a kid," I noted gently.

Sean shrugged his good shoulder. "It was normal for me. Dad was always convinced I had what it took to go pro, so every summer was another opportunity to get an edge on the competition."

There was no bitterness in his tone, just matter-of-fact acceptance, which somehow made it sadder.

"Did you ever resent it?" I asked, genuinely curious. "Missing out on normal kid stuff?"

"Sometimes," Sean admitted after a thoughtful pause. "But I loved hockey too—still do. And there were good parts. The friends I made at those camps, the feeling of mastering a new skill, the pure joy of being on the ice." A small smile played at his lips. "Grandma Rose always made sure I had at least a few weeks of normal summer too. She'd take me fishing or camping, no hockey talk allowed."

"She sounds amazing," I said, remembering the warm woman who had welcomed me into her home without hesitation.

"She is," Sean agreed. "The perfect counterbalance to my dad's intensity. After mom left when I was eight, Rose stepped in to make sure I had some semblance of a normal childhood."

This was new information—Sean rarely mentioned his mother. I wanted to ask more but hesitated, unsure if I was crossing into sensitive territory.

Sean seemed to read my thoughts. "It's okay," he said softly. "You can ask. About my mom, I mean. It's not a secret, just not something I talk about much."

"What happened?" I asked carefully.

"The simple version is she couldn't handle my dad's obsession with hockey," Sean explained. "The fighting got worse, and eventually she left. Said she needed to find herself or something." He shrugged again, but I could see the old hurt beneath the casual gesture. "She sends birthday cards sometimes, but we haven't seen each other in years."

"I'm sorry," I said, squeezing his hand. "That must have been hard."

"It was what it was," Sean replied, the phrase carrying the weight of years of practiced acceptance. "What about your family? You've mentioned your mom a few times, but not much else."

"It's just Mom and me," I said. "My dad's still in the picture but from a distance—he moved to California when I was twelve, got remarried, started a new family. We talk on holidays, but that's about it."

"Does that bother you?" Sean asked, his tone genuinely interested rather than pitying.

"Not as much as it probably should," I admitted. "Mom and I are close, and she's always been incredibly supportive. Proud of everything I do, even when I'm not sure it's worth being proud of."

"Like what?"

"Like the time I wrote an impassioned letter to the editor about the school cafeteria removing chocolate milk from the lunch menu," I laughed at the memory. "I was fourteen and treated it like I was exposing Watergate. Mom framed it when they published it."

Sean's laugh was warm, free from the tension that had often shadowed it before his injury. "I can picture that perfectly."

The conversation flowed easily after that, moving from childhood memories to favorite books to dream vacations. At some point, the bus hit another bump, more jarring than the first, and I found myself pitching forward. Sean steadied me with his good arm, and when I straightened, it felt natural to lean against him slightly, our shoulders touching.

As the miles passed, our voices grew quieter, the conversation more intimate. Sean told me about his fear that the injury might have permanently altered his future plans, and I confided my own doubts about whether I was cut out for the competitive world of journalism.

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