Page 87 of The Boyfriend Zone

The tension in the room broke with laughter, and even Zach had the grace to look mildly embarrassed.

"Sorry, Coach," he muttered, though his smile rather undercut the apology.

"Don't be sorry, be focused," Coach replied. "Channel that energy into the game. Now, let's talk strategy..."

The rest of the pre-game preparation passed in a blur of tactical discussions and last-minute adjustments. By the time we lined up to take the ice, my earlier anxiety had transformed into a focused determination. Whatever happened today—win or lose—I wanted to leave everything on the ice, to know I'd given my absolute best in my final collegiate game.

The arena was packed, the roar of the crowd a physical presence as we skated out for warm-ups. I spotted Lucas in the press section, his professional demeanor firmly in place though he allowed himself a small wave when our eyes met. Beside him, Nate looked equally composed, though his gaze kept straying to Zach during warm-up drills.

"Your man looks good in a tie," Zach commented as we stretched near the boards. "So does mine. We have excellent taste."

"They're not just eye candy, you know," I pointed out, though I couldn't disagree with his assessment. "They're actually really good at their jobs."

"Multi-talented," Zach agreed cheerfully. "Brains and beauty. We're punching way above our weight class, Sean."

I laughed, grateful for the momentary lightness before the intensity to come. "Don't I know it."

The puck dropped on what would prove to be one of the most challenging games of my career. The opposing team was every bit as skilled and determined as we were, their defense seemingly impenetrable in the first period as both teams felt each other out, neither willing to risk a costly mistake.

By the first intermission, the score remained 0-0, both teams retreating to their locker rooms to regroup and strategize.

"They're good," Tristan acknowledged grimly. "But so are we. We need to be more aggressive on the forecheck, create turnovers in their zone."

Coach nodded his agreement, making adjustments to our approach for the second period. I listened intently, visualizing the plays he described, mentally preparing for the battles to come.

When we returned to the ice, there was a new intensity to our play. We pressed harder, skated faster, fought for every inch of ice. But midway through the period, disaster struck. During a scramble in front of our net, I lunged to clear a loose puck and landed awkwardly, my rehabilitated shoulder taking the brunt of the impact.

Pain flared through the joint, sharp and familiar in the worst possible way. I skated to the bench, trying to mask my discomfort, but Coach's keen eyes missed nothing.

"Sean, you okay?" he asked sharply as Dr. Shaw appeared beside him.

"Fine," I gritted out, rotating my arm experimentally. The pain was acute but different from the chronic ache of my previous injury—a new impact rather than accumulated damage. "Just tweaked it a bit."

Dr. Shaw's examination was quick but thorough. "Minor strain," he concluded. "Not a re-injury of the previous issue. Rest it for a few minutes, ice if you need it, but you should be able to continue if you're careful."

Coach looked at me directly. "Your call, Sean. No pressure either way."

The fact that he was leaving it up to me, trusting my judgment after everything that had happened earlier in the season, meant a lot. I rotated my shoulder again, assessing the pain objectively. It hurt, but it was manageable—nothing like the debilitating agony I'd hidden for weeks before.

"I'm good to go," I decided. "Just need a few minutes and some ice."

Coach nodded, though his expression remained concerned. "Take all the time you need. We've got this covered until you're ready."

From the press area, I could see Lucas watching intently, his professional mask slipping to reveal naked worry. I gave him a subtle thumbs-up, trying to convey that this wasn't like last time, that I wasn't hiding anything serious.

The game continued, my shoulder throbbing but functional as I rejoined play. I adjusted my approach, relying more on positioning and less on physical force, using my stick and body placement to defend rather than brute strength.

The third period began with the score still deadlocked at 0-0, the tension in the arena palpable as both teams fought for advantage. Then, midway through the period, disaster struck again—this time on the scoreboard. A deflected shot from the point found its way past our goalie, giving our opponents a 1-0 lead with less than ten minutes remaining.

The groan from our bench was audible even over the wild cheers from the opposing team's section. We'd fought so hard, come so far, only to see the championship slipping away in the final minutes.

During a timeout, I skated to the bench, chest heaving from exertion, shoulder protesting each movement. Coach was drawing up a play to generate offense, but I had a sudden, crazy idea.

"Coach," I said, my voice clear despite my labored breathing. "Put me in front of the net on the next power play."

He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "You're a defenseman, Sean."

"I know, but I'm also six-foot-two and good at screening goalies," I pointed out. "We need bodies in front, traffic they can't clear easily. Let me try."

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