Page 29 of The Boyfriend Zone

Nate was quiet, absorbing this. "It hurt," he said finally. "Having this amazing night and then... nothing. Radio silence. Like I wasn't even worth the courtesy of a 'thanks but no thanks' text."

"I know." I crossed to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "And you have every right to be angry about that. But if you felt something real that night, don't you owe it to yourself to at least consider that he might have too?"

"Maybe." Nate stood, clearly done with the conversation. "I'll think about it. But right now, I'm going to finish stress-cleaning the kitchen, and then I'm going to eat an entire pizza by myself while cursing the existence of attractive hockey players."

"Sounds like a solid plan," I laughed. "Need company for the pizza part?"

"Nah, I think I need some quality time with my feelings and carbohydrates." Nate picked up the cleaning cloth again, but his movements were less frantic now.

As I passed Nate's desk in the living room, I noticed a book I hadn't seen before—a glossy hardcover photography collection by one of Nate's favorite artists. Curious, I picked it up, and a small note slipped out.

Thought you might like this. Saw it and thought of you. I'm sorry for being a jerk. - Z

The handwriting was somewhat messy but earnest, the note clearly written on whatever scrap of paper had been available in the moment. It seemed impulsive, genuine—not the calculated gesture of someone just trying to get back in someone's good graces.

"What are you doing?" Nate called from the kitchen.

I hastily put the book down. "Nothing. Just looking for my charger."

Later that evening, I glanced over from my desk to see Nate curled up on the couch, pizza box beside him, flipping through the photography book with a conflicted expression. He'd pause occasionally, studying a particular image with the focus he reserved for things that truly moved him.

Watching him, I thought about what Zach had said—that the real thing was worth the risk. I couldn't help but wonder if Sean felt the same way.

We all had our walls, I realized. Some built from fear, some from past hurts, some from expectations we felt we had to live up to. And sometimes the hardest thing wasn't breaking through someone else's defenses, but letting them see past our own.

With that thought in mind, I picked up my phone and, before I could second-guess myself, sent a text to Sean:

Hey. Just checking in. Hope your shoulder's feeling better after the Vermont game.

Chapter 10: Sean

"Move your feet, Sean! What the hell kind of defensive coverage is that?"

Coach Barnett's voice cut through the sounds of skates carving ice and sticks slapping pucks. I gritted my teeth, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in my shoulder as I pushed myself harder, faster.

The afternoon practice was brutal, even by Coach's standards. After barely scraping by with a win in Vermont, he'd been on a mission to "fix our lazy-ass defensive gaps," which meant drill after punishing drill with minimal breaks.

On a normal day, I could handle it. Today, with my shoulder feeling like someone was driving ice picks into the joint, it was torture.

"Three-on-two scrimmage!" Coach barked. "First line offense against Sean, Karlsson, and Peterson! Let's go!"

I positioned myself at the blue line, trying to mask how heavily I was breathing. Across from me, Zach smirked as he lined up with the other forwards. That cocky grin usually meant he had something tricky planned.

Sure enough, when the whistle blew and they charged toward our end, Zach drew my attention before making a quick pass to the freshman winger coming up on my right. I pivoted to intercept, but my reaction was a split second too slow—I was instinctively protecting my injured shoulder, pulling back from the contact that would normally be automatic.

The freshman slipped past me easily, faked out our goalie, and buried the puck in the net.

"What the hell was that?" Coach Barnett's face was flushed with anger as he skated over. "Sean! Get over here!"

I glided toward him, chest heaving, sweat dripping beneath my practice jersey despite the rink's chill.

"Where's your head at today?" he demanded, loud enough for the entire team to hear. "That was basic coverage! My dead grandmother could have made that play!"

"Sorry, Coach," I managed, eyes fixed on the ice. "Won't happen again."

"Damn right it won't," he growled. "You've been off all week. What's going on with you?"

I could feel the team watching, waiting for my response. Zach had skated closer, his earlier smirk replaced by concern.

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