Page 78 of The Boyfriend Zone

Sean nodded thoughtfully. "That seems reasonable. You'd be contributing something valuable to the conversation without getting dragged into a petty back-and-forth."

"That's what I told Mia," I agreed. "But she wanted to make sure I'm not just doing it because I'm personally involved. Because of us."

"Are you?" Sean asked, his tone curious rather than accusatory.

I considered the question honestly. "Partly," I admitted. "I'd be lying if I said it doesn't bother me that someone's taking shots at you, even indirectly. But I also genuinely think there's an important discussion to be had about the ethics of this kind of reporting."

Sean was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of my hand. "I trust you," he said finally. "Whatever you decide to write—or not write—I know you'll do it for the right reasons. And I'm okay with it either way."

The simple declaration of trust meant more than I could express. "Thank you."

"I'm just stating facts," Sean shrugged, though his eyes were warm. "You've always tried to do the right thing, even when it wasn't clear what that was. It's one of the things I admire most about you."

I leaned into him, the stress of the day finally catching up with me. "When did you get so wise and supportive?"

"Must be all that physical therapy," Sean joked. "They're rebuilding me, better than before. Stronger, faster, more emotionally intelligent."

I laughed, the tension easing from my shoulders. "The Six Million Dollar Hockey Player."

"Inflation," Sean corrected soberly. "At least twelve million these days."

We spent the evening brainstorming approaches for the potential op-ed, Sean offering insights from an athlete's perspective while I considered the journalistic angles. By the time we ordered takeout for dinner, I had a solid outline that felt both personal and professional—addressing the reality of sports culture without compromising my integrity or Sean's privacy.

Over the next few days, I carefully crafted the piece, running drafts by both Mia and Sean to ensure it struck the right balance. The final version called out the pressure athletes face to play through pain, the system that often prioritizes performance over health, and the responsibility of journalists to report with both accuracy and empathy.

The campus reaction was largely positive. The evening after publication, Sean surprised me at the newspaper office with takeout dinner, a proud smile on his face.

"Delivery for my favorite journalist," he announced, holding up a bag from my favorite Thai place. "Figured you could use brain food after conquering the ethical dilemmas of modern sports reporting."

I grinned, clearing space on my desk. "Perfect timing. I was just finishing up here."

We spread out the containers between us, falling into easy conversation as we ate. Sean updated me on his shoulder rehabilitation progress, while I shared anecdotes from my feature writing class. It was comfortable, domestic almost—this sharing of mundane details, finding joy in each other's ordinary triumphs and frustrations.

As we were finishing, our conversation drifted toward the future. With graduation approaching for Sean and my final year of college looming, it was becoming a more frequent topic between us.

"My advisor mentioned there might be a spot in that minor league team in Providence," Sean said, trying to sound casual though I could hear the undercurrent of excitement in his voice. "The scout was impressed with my comeback, apparently. Said it showed character."

"Sean, that's amazing!" I exclaimed, genuinely thrilled for him. "When would that start? After graduation?"

"Late summer training camp, yeah," he nodded. "It's not NHL or anything, but it's a foot in the door. And Providence isn't that far from here."

The implication hung between us—that if I stayed for my senior year, as planned, we'd be separated by only a couple of hours' drive rather than half the country.

"That's perfect," I said, reaching for his hand across the desk. "Close enough for weekend visits, but far enough that we don't get sick of each other."

Sean laughed, but I could see the relief in his eyes at my positive reaction. "You wouldn't be... I don't know, stuck here while I move on? I don't want you to feel held back."

"Are you kidding? This is your dream," I reminded him. "And there are internships and papers everywhere. It's not like I'd be stuck here if I wanted to be closer to where you end up."

The words came out more significant than I'd intended, laying bare the assumption that we'd be factoring each other into our future plans. Sean's eyes widened slightly, but then his expression softened into something that made my heart skip.

"Are you saying you'd follow me around the country, Lucas?" he teased, though there was genuine question beneath the lightness.

"I'm saying," I replied carefully, "that I care about you enough to consider all options. Which includes the possibility of me getting a kickass internship somewhere that you'd have to follow me to."

"Touché," Sean grinned. "I guess we've got options, then."

"Always good to have options," I agreed, starting to gather the empty containers. "But for now, we still have months before any decisions need to be made."

---