Page 80 of The Boyfriend Zone

We'd won, 4-3, and my blocked shot had sealed it. The pain in my shoulder was already fading to a dull throb—just a bruise, nothing serious. The rehabilitation had done its job; the joint was strong again, capable of withstanding even unexpected impacts.

As we celebrated on the ice, Tristan and Zach suddenly hoisted me onto their shoulders, carrying me around the rink in a victory lap typically reserved for players who had scored hat tricks or game-winning goals.

"Put me down, you idiots," I laughed, though I made no real effort to escape. "I didn't even score!"

"Shut up and enjoy it, Sean," Tristan called up to me. "Senior privilege."

From my elevated position, I could see Lucas standing and applauding, his face alight with a mixture of pride and amusement. Beside him, my grandmother was practically jumping up and down with excitement, while my father smiled broadly, nodding his approval in a way that meant more than any verbal praise ever could.

In the locker room afterwards, the celebration continued as we toasted the win and the seniors' final regular season home game. When it was my turn to say something, I found myself unexpectedly emotional.

"I thought I'd let you all down," I said, my voice rougher than usual. "When I got hurt. I thought I'd failed the team, failed myself. But you never let me quit. You kept a place for me, kept me involved even when I couldn't play. That means more than any win ever could."

The team responded with a rousing cheer, some pounding their sticks against the floor in the traditional hockey sign of respect. It was chaotic and loud and perfect, a fitting tribute to four years of brotherhood on and off the ice.

After most of the crowd had dispersed, I found Lucas waiting just outside the locker room, his reporter's notebook tucked away, present now only as himself rather than as media.

"Hey," he greeted me with open arms. "You were amazing out there."

I pulled him into a tight hug, drinking in the familiar scent of his shampoo and the comforting solidity of his presence. "Thanks for being here," I murmured against his hair.

The moment was interrupted by Rose bustling toward us, her arms outstretched. "There's my champion!" she declared, enveloping me in a hug that belied her small stature with its fierceness. "That block at the end! I nearly had a heart attack!"

"You and me both," Lucas muttered, though his proud smile never faltered.

My father approached more sedately, but the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable as he clasped my hand. "Well played, son. That was some game."

"Thanks, Dad," I replied, still slightly amazed by his presence, by the genuine pride in his expression. "Glad you could make it."

As we made our way toward the reception in the student union ballroom, I was conscious of the easy way Lucas interacted with my grandmother, the respectful but not intimidated manner he adopted with my father. They had met briefly before the game, but seeing them together now, chatting about the highlights of the match as if they'd known each other for years, filled me with a quiet contentment.

The ballroom was transformed for the occasion, with team banners and photographs from the season displayed prominently. A slideshow played on a projector at the front of the room, cycling through action shots from our games.

"Oh my god," Lucas laughed suddenly, pointing to the screen. "That's us."

I turned to see a photograph I hadn't known existed—Lucas and me embracing on the ice, his homemade sign somehow wrapped around his shoulders like a cape.

"Who took that?" I wondered aloud.

"Ava, probably," Lucas guessed. "She's always lurking with that camera."

Throughout dinner, I found myself repeatedly drawn back to that photo whenever it cycled through the slideshow. It captured something essential about us—the way we fit together, the uncomplicated happiness in our expressions.

When Zach hijacked the microphone for an impromptu "roast," I was prepared for the worst.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, grinning wickedly, "I'd like to say a few words about our beloved seniors, especially my boy Sean Mitchell over there."

"Oh no," I groaned, while Lucas looked on with amused anticipation.

"Now, Sean here is secretly a drama queen," Zach declared to the laughing crowd. "Think about it. Gets injured, hides it for weeks, then stages this miraculous comeback just in time for the championship run? Talk about a flair for the dramatic! The man wanted a storyline worthy of a Hallmark movie!"

As the room erupted in laughter, I shook my head, unable to suppress my own smile. There was enough truth in his teasing to make it land, but enough affection behind it to take any sting out of the words.

"And let's not forget," Zach continued, "the man was so dedicated to winning that he went out and got himself a boyfriend just to improve team dynamics. Now that's commitment to the program!"

Lucas buried his face in his hands in mock embarrassment while I laughed along with everyone else. The ease with which Zach referenced our relationship, the casual acceptance of everyone in the room—these were gifts I couldn't have imagined possible a year ago.

As the formal program wound down and people began to mingle, I noticed my father deep in conversation with Lucas, both of them laughing at something. The sight would have terrified me months ago; now it filled me with a cautious hope.

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