Page 64 of The Boyfriend Zone

And now I had to face him with my injury, my changed perspective, and the biggest revelation of all—Lucas. I wasn't sure which terrified me more: the idea of telling him about my boyfriend, or the possibility that he'd guess without me saying a word.

The restaurant my father chose was exactly what I expected—upscale enough to signal success, but not so fancy that they'd frown on his preferred uniform of polo shirt and khakis. I arrived five minutes early to find him already seated, scanning the menu with the same intensity he used to review game tapes.

"Sean," he said, standing as I approached. He offered a firm handshake rather than a hug—also expected. "You look well."

"Thanks, Dad," I replied, taking the seat across from him. "How was your flight?"

"Bit of turbulence over the mountains, but nothing major."

Small talk was never our strong suit. We ordered drinks and appetizers, commenting on the menu selections and restaurant décor until the preliminary social requirements had been fulfilled. Then, predictably, he shifted gears.

"Team's doing well," he observed, taking a sip of his water. "That win against Northeastern was impressive. Defense really stepped up in the third period."

"Yeah, Tristan's been solid as captain," I agreed, relieved to be on familiar territory. "And Jensen's developing faster than we expected as a freshman."

"Your replacement," my father noted, watching my reaction carefully.

I managed not to flinch. "Temporary replacement," I corrected. "But yeah, he's got potential."

"How's the shoulder?"

Here it was, the question I'd been dreading. "Better," I said, rotating it slightly as demonstration. "Dr. Shaw says I'm healing well, right on schedule. Should be back on ice in the new year, maybe even for the Dartmouth game."

My father grunted, a sound I'd spent years trying to decode. This particular grunt seemed to indicate cautious approval rather than outright disappointment, which was about the best I could hope for.

"Good, good. If you want a shot at the draft, you need to show them you can bounce back from setbacks. Mental toughness is what separates the pros from the college stars."

The draft. Always the end goal, the final destination that justified any sacrifice along the way. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak without revealing my increasingly complicated feelings about that particular dream.

"I read that article," he continued, surprising me. "The one your reporter friend wrote. About playing through injuries."

My pulse quickened. "Lucas's piece? What did you think?"

"Well-written," my father allowed, a high compliment from a man who rarely praised anything. "Made you sound like a good kid with a hard head."

There was a teasing note in his voice, but beneath it lay that familiar undercurrent of critique—the subtle suggestion that I should have managed the situation better, been smarter, stronger, more strategic.

"He is a good writer," I said carefully, unsure where this conversation was headed.

My father's gaze was uncomfortably perceptive as he studied me across the table. "He seems to be around you quite a bit," he observed. "This reporter."

My mouth went dry. Was I that transparent? Or had he been doing his research, asking around campus, piecing together clues I hadn't realized I was leaving?

"Is there something you want to tell me, Sean?"

The question hung between us, heavy with implication. I could deflect, change the subject, manufacture some safer topic of conversation. But as I sat there, looking at the man who had shaped so much of my life and identity, I realized I was tired of hiding, tired of compartmentalizing, tired of being less than my whole self to protect his vision of who I should be.

"Yes," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "Lucas is my boyfriend."

I held my breath, watching his face for the reaction I'd been dreading—disappointment, anger, rejection. His expression remained unreadable as he set down his fork and folded his hands on the table.

"I see," he said finally. When he spoke again, his question caught me completely off guard. "Was he the reason you hid your injury? Or was he the one who convinced you to come clean about it?"

I blinked, thrown by the unexpected direction. "Neither, really," I answered honestly. "I hid the injury because I was scared of letting everyone down. The team, Coach, you... mostly you," I admitted. "Lucas actually tried to get me to speak up sooner. He saw what was happening before anyone else did and kept pushing me to get help before it got worse."

My father nodded slowly. "The old me would have called that weakness," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "Admitting pain, stepping back from play. But after reading that article, I did some thinking."

He paused, as if struggling to find the right words—another rarity for Robert Mitchell, who typically had opinions as readily available as hockey statistics.

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