Page 98 of The Boyfriend Zone

Chapter 32: Lucas

I couldn't stop fidgeting. Standing rink-side at an NHL arena—even for a preseason game—was thrilling enough, but knowing Sean was about to skate out for his first game at this level made my heart race with a mixture of pride, excitement, and vicarious nerves.

The past year had been a whirlwind, to put it mildly. After graduating, Sean had thrown himself into training, impressing enough in the minor leagues to earn this call-up to the main team for the preseason. It wasn't a guaranteed spot on the roster, but it was a foot in the door, a chance to show what he could do at the highest level.

I adjusted the press badge hanging around my neck, still slightly amazed that I was here in a dual capacity—both as Sean's supportive partner and as a credentialed sports journalist covering the game for a major outlet. The editor had been clear: I wasn't to cover Sean's performance specifically, to avoid any appearance of bias. Another writer would handle the player evaluations, while I focused on the broader human interest aspects of preseason hockey.

It was a fair arrangement, one that respected both my personal connection and my professional ethics. Besides, tonight I was more interested in being a supportive boyfriend than an objective reporter.

Players began filing onto the ice for warm-ups, and my heart leapt when I spotted number 28 skating out with the second group. Sean looked different in his new team's colors, but his skating was unmistakable—powerful, fluid, with that slight forward lean that always made him look like he was hunting something on the ice.

He circled with his teammates, loosening up with practiced movements, occasionally exchanging quick passes or words with the other players. I knew he was nervous—he'd barely touched his pregame meal at home, pushing food around his plate while insisting he was just focusing. He looked like he belonged, like he'd been skating on this ice his entire career.

As the players zoomed by, spraying ice with sharp turns and sudden stops, I couldn't help reflecting on how far we'd come from our small first apartment. We'd upgraded a few months ago to a slightly bigger place to accommodate Sean's team relocation, still modest by professional athlete standards but a definite step up from our starter home.

The arena lights began to dim, signaling it was nearly time for the national anthem. The players skated to their respective benches, and the crowd's excited murmur dropped to an anticipatory hush.

My mind wandered as the singer began the familiar melody. So much had happened in a year. Our first apartment had been a cramped but cherished space where we'd learned to navigate living together outside the college bubble. There had been adjustments, of course—road trips where we missed each other desperately, times when our schedules refused to align, the occasional argument about dishes left in the sink or alarms set too early.

But we'd always communicated, always found our way back to each other. It helped that we weren't navigating this new world entirely alone.

Zach and Nate, still madly in love despite—or perhaps because of—their constant bickering, had road-tripped to visit us last summer. What was supposed to be a weekend stay had stretched into a week, and by the end of it, they were apartment hunting in our neighborhood. Zach had enrolled in a coaching certification program while Nate landed a photographer position at a local paper, and just like that, our college friendship circle had reconstituted itself in a new city.

Tristan, who had signed with a team on the west coast, still crashed on our couch whenever his squad came to town for games. Even Coach Barnett had visited once, attending a minor league game as a proud spectator, though he'd tried to mask his sentiment with gruff comments about Sean's defensive positioning.

Holidays had been a rotating celebration—Grandma Rose commanding Thanksgiving with military precision, Sean's father more relaxed than I'd ever seen him as he helped us decorate for Christmas. My mom had joined us for New Year's, fitting seamlessly into our found family with her easy laugh and genuine interest in everyone's lives.

The anthem concluded, drawing me back to the present as the crowd applauded and the starting lineups took the ice. Sean wasn't in the first rotation—as a new call-up, he'd likely see limited minutes tonight—but before the puck dropped, he skated near the boards where I stood. As he stretched against the wall in a seemingly routine movement, he turned slightly and tapped the glass twice with his stick while meeting my eyes briefly—our little signal, private and meaningful amid the spectacle.

I smiled and gave a small nod, our relationship condensed into that tiny moment of connection amid the chaos.

The game itself was exhilarating. Sean played several shifts in each period, not the most ice time but enough to showcase his abilities. He was the same player I'd fallen in love with at college—smart, physical without being reckless, positionally sound. He even registered an assist on a second-period goal, sending a perfect breakout pass that eventually found its way into the net.

By the time the final horn sounded, Sean's team had secured a narrow victory. I finished my immediate post-game work duties quickly.

Then I made my way to the family lounge, an area I'd become familiar with during his time in the minors. The space was comfortable but understated, designed for players' loved ones to wait during the sometimes-lengthy post-game routines.

When Sean finally emerged from the locker room, he'd already showered and changed into a sharp charcoal suit that I'd helped him pick out for his NHL debut. His hair was still damp, his face flushed with a combination of exertion and excitement.

"Hey, you," I greeted him, moving immediately into his open arms.

"Hey yourself," he replied, pulling me into a quick hug and kiss—the kind appropriate for a semi-public space, but with a promise of more later. "What did you think?"

"I think you looked like you belonged out there," I answered honestly. "That assist was beautiful. Perfect tape-to-tape pass."

Sean's smile widened, clearly pleased by both the compliment and the fact that I'd learned enough hockey terminology to use it correctly. "Thanks. Felt good. Weird to be wearing different colors, but good."

"The team's traveling early tomorrow, right?" I asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to confirm.

"Yeah, bus leaves at 7 AM," Sean nodded, a flicker of something I couldn't quite read passing across his face. "But I have something I want to show you first, if you're up for a slight detour before heading home?"

"Of course," I agreed easily. "Lead the way."

To my surprise, he guided me not toward the exit but back toward the arena proper. By now, most fans had departed, and the cleanup crew was beginning their work in the stands.

"Where are we going?" I asked as we walked down a quiet corridor.

"You'll see," Sean replied, a hint of nervousness in his voice that intrigued me. "I just thought... this place is special. First NHL game and all. Wanted to show you something."

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