Page 63 of The Boyfriend Zone

"I contain multitudes," Nate sniffed, settling into an armchair. "Besides, not everyone's parental relationships are as dysfunctional as yours, Hockey Boy."

"Oh, please," Zach rolled his eyes. "Your dad sends you a birthday text with the wrong date every year and your mom still introduces you as her 'artsy one,' like you're a collectible set."

"At least she remembers I exist between major holidays," Nate fired back. "When was the last time your parents called that wasn't about your grades or to ask if you've met a nice girl yet?"

"Last Tuesday, actually," Zach replied smugly. "Mom wanted my opinion on what to get Dad for their anniversary."

"Probably because you're so gifted at selecting thoughtful presents," Nate said with exaggerated sweetness. "Like that time you got me that photography book I already owned."

"You said you liked it!"

"I said I already had it, which you would have known if you'd listened instead of just trying to impress me with your supposed attention to my interests."

"I wasn't trying to impress you," Zach protested, a flush creeping up his neck. "I was being a considerate friend, something you wouldn't recognize if it hit you in your pretentious, filter-obsessed face."

"They're doing it again," I murmured to Lucas, momentarily distracted from my own problems by the verbal tennis match unfolding before us.

"Always," Lucas agreed with a small smile. "It's their love language."

"For the love of God," Tristan groaned from the doorway, startling all of us—I hadn't even noticed him arrive. "Would you two just kiss already instead of whatever this clear denial of your feelings is?"

A brief, stunned silence fell over the room. Zach and Nate stared at each other, then at Tristan, then back at each other before simultaneously bursting into awkward laughter.

"Me? And him?" Nate gestured between them, his voice slightly higher than normal. "That's hilarious. We're just friends."

"Yeah, can you imagine?" Zach added, his laugh sounding forced. "We'd kill each other within a week."

"Day three: Found dead after argument about proper coffee brewing temperature," Nate supplied, getting into the bit.

"Day five: Homicide by hockey stick after victim rearranged suspect's equipment bag for better aesthetic composition in Instagram photo," Zach countered.

They continued, building increasingly ridiculous scenarios of domestic discord, each more outlandish than the last. But I couldn't help noticing how Nate's eyes lingered on Zach when he thought no one was looking, or how Zach's laughter seemed to catch whenever Nate made a particularly clever retort.

"And don't even get me started on how we'd handle Valentine's Day," Zach was saying, his voice dropping into a surprisingly tender register. "Me planning something stupidly romantic like renting out the whole campus greenhouse for a private dinner surrounded by flowers, with string lights everywhere and that soft jazz you pretend to hate but actually love playing in the background."

Nate's sarcastic expression faltered, a genuine blush rising to his cheeks. "That's oddly specific," he managed, clearing his throat. "And completely ridiculous."

"Totally," Zach agreed quickly, though his eyes never left Nate's. "Ridiculous."

Another charged silence fell, this one crackling with unspoken tension.

"So," Zach said abruptly, his voice overly casual. "Game tonight? That match-up we talked about is on. I've got beer and those pretzel things you like."

"Sure," Nate nodded, equally casual. "Why not? Nothing better to do."

The conversation mercifully shifted then, Tristan asking about practice schedules and Zach launching into a story about a prank gone wrong in the locker room. But Lucas's knowing glance told me he'd noticed the same thing I had—whatever Zach and Nate claimed, there was definitely something simmering beneath their constant bickering.

It was a welcome distraction from my own anxiety, but as the evening wore on and my friends departed one by one, the reality of tomorrow's dinner with my father loomed larger. Lucas stayed behind, sensing my unease even as I tried to mask it.

"What are you most worried about?" he asked, leaning into my side on the couch.

I considered deflecting, then remembered my promise to be more honest, especially with Lucas. "Everything," I admitted. "That he'll be disappointed in my progress. That he'll question my choices. That he'll somehow sense there's something different about me and push until I either lie or come out to him before I'm ready."

Lucas's hand found mine again, a constant anchor I'd come to rely on. "Whatever happens," he said quietly, "I'm here. Before, during, after—whatever you need."

"Thanks. Just knowing that helps."

Later that night, after Lucas had gone home with promises to check in tomorrow, I lay awake staring at the ceiling. My relationship with my father had always been complex—equal parts admiration, fear, and desperate desire for approval. He'd been my hero, my coach, my harshest critic, and occasionally, my biggest supporter. But never really just my dad.

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