Page 88 of The Boyfriend Zone

Coach hesitated, then nodded slowly. "One shift. Make it count."

When play resumed, I found myself in the unfamiliar position of forward on the power play, planted directly in front of the opposing goalie as my teammates cycled the puck around the perimeter. I could sense the goalie's annoyance as I established my position, using my size to block his vision while staying just outside the crease to avoid a penalty.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Tristan at the blue line, winding up for a shot. I braced myself, ready to react if the puck came near. Everything seemed to slow down—Tristan's stick connecting with the puck, the black disk hurtling toward the net, my own stick moving into position almost before I consciously directed it.

The puck glanced off my blade, changing direction just enough to slide beneath the goalie's pad and into the net. The arena erupted, my teammates crashing into me with triumphant shouts as I roared in celebration, the pain in my shoulder temporarily forgotten in the rush of scoring the tying goal.

"Told you it would work!" I shouted to Coach as we skated past the bench, his stoic expression breaking into a proud grin.

"One lucky deflection doesn't make you a forward, Sean," he called back, though he couldn't hide his smile. "Back to defense next shift!"

The clock wound down with the score still tied 1-1, neither team able to break through for a winning goal in regulation time. As the final buzzer sounded, we retreated to the locker room for a brief intermission before overtime—sudden death, winner takes all.

Chapter 28: Sean

The locker room during intermission was a strange mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline. We'd fought so hard for sixty minutes, pushed ourselves to the absolute limit, and now faced the prospect of sudden-death overtime where a single mistake could end our championship hopes.

"Just one more period," Tristan reminded us, his captain's voice steady despite his obvious fatigue. "One goal. That's all we need."

Coach Barnett's instructions were brief but focused, emphasizing positioning and smart risk assessment. We couldn't afford to be reckless, but neither could we play too conservatively. Finding that balance would be the key to victory.

As we prepared to return to the ice, I slipped out into the corridor for a moment of quiet, needing to center myself before the final push. To my surprise, Lucas was there, apparently having found a way past the security separating the press area from the team spaces.

"Hey," he said softly, his professional demeanor slipping as he reached out to gently squeeze my uninjured shoulder. "You okay?"

"Just one more period," I echoed Tristan's words, trying to project more confidence than I felt. My shoulder throbbed dully, but the pain was manageable—nothing compared to the weight of expectations pressing down on me.

Lucas studied my face, seeing past the bravado to the mix of determination and fear beneath. "You've got this," he said simply. "I believe in you."

Those four words, spoken with such utter conviction, hit me with unexpected force. Throughout my hockey career, I'd heard countless variations of "you can do it" or "we're counting on you" from coaches, teammates, my father. But Lucas's belief was different—not tied to performance or outcome, but to me as a person. He believed in me, win or lose.

"I love you," I said.

Lucas's expression softened into a smile. "I love you too," he replied, the simplicity of the declaration belying its significance.

We'd said these words before, in the privacy of quiet evenings and shared beds, but never like this—on the precipice of something important, with so much hanging in the balance. It felt like a talisman, a protection against whatever came next.

Our kiss was brief but fierce, a promise and encouragement wrapped into one. Then Lucas stepped back, his expression shifting back toward professionalism though his eyes still held that personal warmth.

"Now go win a championship," he said with a confidence that made it sound inevitable.

I rejoined my team with renewed focus, Lucas's words echoing in my mind as we took the ice for overtime. The crowd's roar was deafening, the tension palpable as the referee prepared to drop the puck for what could be the final faceoff of the game—and of my college career.

Overtime hockey has a particular intensity, each possession fraught with possibilities, each mistake potentially fatal. We played cautiously at first, both teams probing for weaknesses while trying to avoid the catastrophic turnover that could end everything.

Five minutes in, I found myself in a defensive position as an opposing forward broke free, charging toward our net with only me to beat. Time seemed to slow as I gauged his approach, calculating angles and options in the split-second available.

He deked right, preparing to cut left around me for a clean shot. In that moment, instinct took over. Despite my injured shoulder screaming in protest, I stretched out my stick in a desperate poke check, just managing to knock the puck off his blade before he could shoot.

The crowd's collective gasp turned to cheers as the danger passed, my teammates tapping their sticks on the boards in appreciation. But I had no time to acknowledge them, already transitioning from defense to offense as we pushed the puck up ice.

What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion, though it couldn't have taken more than seconds. Our forwards entered the offensive zone, a quick cycle of passes opening up a shooting lane. The initial shot rebounded off the goalie's pad, the puck skittering into the slot where, by some miracle of positioning or fate, I found myself alone with it on my stick.

Without thinking—without time to think—I wound up and fired, putting everything I had behind the shot. The puck flew true, finding the small opening between the goalie's blocker and the post, nestling into the back of the net with a sound that I swear I could hear even above the sudden explosion of noise from the crowd.

Game over. Championship won.

For a moment, I couldn't move, couldn't process what had just happened. Then my teammates were on me, a pile of ecstatic bodies crashing together at center ice, everyone shouting and laughing and crying all at once. Through the tangle of arms and sticks and helmets, I caught a glimpse of the press area where Lucas and Nate had leapt to their feet, professional decorum forgotten as they celebrated our victory.

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