Page 9 of The Boyfriend Zone

"Sean! Line change!" Coach bellowed, snapping me back to reality.

I skated to the bench, sliding in beside Zach, who bumped my helmet with his glove in our usual greeting.

"Solid check, man," he said, passing me a water bottle. "Thought you were gonna put that guy through the glass."

I grunted in response, taking a long drink. The cold water was a welcome distraction from the pain radiating down my arm.

"You good?" Zach asked, his usual joking demeanor giving way to concern. "You're looking a little pale."

"I'm fine," I said automatically. "Just winded."

Zach didn't look convinced, but he let it drop, his attention shifting to the action on the ice. After a moment, he nudged me again. "So what's the deal with you and that reporter?"

I nearly choked on my water. "What?"

"Lucas, I think? You acted weird when Tristan introduced us."

"No idea what you're talking about," I said, keeping my eyes on the game. "Never met him before today."

"If you say so." Zach shrugged. "Cute, though. Not my type, but I could see why someone might be interested."

I remained silent, refusing to take the bait. Zach had been my best friend since freshman year, and while he was many things—cocky, loud, occasionally obnoxious—he wasn't stupid. He knew me better than anyone on the team, which meant he could probably tell something was off.

"Speaking of reporters," I said, desperate to change the subject, "what's with you and the photographer? Looked like you were about to throw down right there in the locker room."

Now it was Zach's turn to look uncomfortable. "Nothing. Just messing with him."

"Uh-huh."

"Seriously, it's nothing." But the flush creeping up his neck told a different story.

Before I could press further, Coach called my line back onto the ice. I stood, relieved to escape the conversation, and vaulted over the boards.

The rest of the game was a blur of adrenaline, pain, and hyperawareness of the press box. We pulled off a hard-fought victory, 3-1, with Zach scoring two of our goals. By the final buzzer, my shoulder felt like it was on fire, but I maintained my game face through the celebration and into the locker room.

I begged off from the press conference, claiming I needed to get treatment for a "minor bruise" from that last hit. The trainer, Dr. Shaw, gave me a skeptical look when I downplayed the pain, but he wrapped my shoulder and applied ice without too many questions.

"You should get this properly examined," he said quietly, so the other players couldn't hear. "That's twice in a week you've taken a hit on this side."

"It's nothing," I insisted. "Just a little sore. I'll ice it tonight and be fine tomorrow."

Dr. Shaw didn't look convinced, but he knew better than to push. He'd been around athletes long enough to understand our stubborn pride. "Your call, Sean. But if it gets worse, you come see me immediately, understand?"

I nodded, already planning to slip out before the reporters returned for individual interviews. But luck wasn't on my side. Just as I was gathering my gear, they filtered back in, Lucas among them.

I kept my head down, focusing on packing up my stuff, but I could feel his presence in the room like a physical weight. From the corner of my eye, I watched as he interviewed the goalie, then one of our forwards. He was good—asking intelligent questions, listening attentively, putting the guys at ease with his genuine interest.

It was the same quality that had drawn me to him at the club. The way he listened like whatever you were saying was the most fascinating thing he'd ever heard. I'd felt seen in a way I rarely did—not as a hockey player or a coach's son or an NHL prospect, but just as myself.

And then I'd gone and ruined it by pretending I didn't know him.

I was about to make my escape when I noticed Zach cornered by the photographer—Nate, I remembered. Their body language was bizarre, like two cats circling each other before a fight. Zach was smirking, leaning against his locker with practiced nonchalance, while Nate was all tight posture and narrowed eyes.

"—anyone can slam a puck into a net," Nate was saying, his voice dripping with disdain.

"Is that a challenge?" Zach asked, moving closer.

"Take it however you want."

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