Page 31 of The Boyfriend Zone

"I see," Lucas said after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. "My mistake."

"Look," I ran a hand through my still-damp hair, "whatever you're looking for, there's no story here, okay? There's nothing wrong with me, and I'd appreciate it if you'd just back off and stop trying to pry into my life."

The sharpness in my voice surprised even me, but I was too wound up to soften it. Everything hurt—my shoulder, my pride, my head—and Lucas standing there with his concerned eyes and his perceptive questions was more than I could handle right now.

Lucas's expression shifted from hurt to something cooler, more resolved. He nodded once, stepping back to let me pass. "Fine. Message received."

I walked past him, guilt already swirling in my gut as I felt his eyes on my back. I wanted to turn around, to apologize, to tell him that the problem wasn't him but me—my fear, my pain, my inability to be honest about either.

But I kept walking, shame and frustration propelling me forward until I rounded the corner and was out of sight. Once alone, I let my composure crack, slamming my fist into a locker door with a muffled curse.

Pain flared instantly, radiating from my knuckles up to my already agonized shoulder. "Shit," I hissed, cradling my hand against my chest.

Leaning against the cool metal of the lockers, I closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted beyond just the physical. What was wrong with me? Why did I keep pushing away the one person who seemed to genuinely care that something wasn't right? The one person who saw past the facade I worked so hard to maintain?

Because he terrified me, that's why. Not just his questions about my shoulder, but everything about him—the way he looked at me, the way he made me feel, the way he made me want things I couldn't have. Things that didn't fit with the life I was supposed to be living, the person I was supposed to be.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out to find a text from my father:

Just spoke with Coach Barnett. He says you're off your game. Everything better be squared away by the time those scouts come on Saturday.

No "how are you," no concern, just expectations and pressure. As always.

I didn't respond, shoving the phone back into my pocket with more force than necessary. The weight of everyone's expectations felt suffocating. All watching, all demanding perfection. And now Lucas, with his gentle probing and genuine concern, threatening to unravel the careful fiction I'd constructed that everything was fine.

The worst part was, I'd wanted to tell him. When he'd asked about my shoulder, part of me had wanted to admit how bad it was, to lean on him both figuratively and literally. To let someone else share the burden for once.

Chapter 11: Lucas

I couldn't get Sean's face out of my mind—the flash of panic when I'd asked about his shoulder, the anger that had followed, clearly masking something deeper. Hurt, perhaps. Or fear.

"You're doing it again," Nate pointed out, tossing a balled-up piece of paper at my head. "That thousand-yard stare thing. It's creepy."

"Sorry," I muttered, blinking as I refocused on our living room. "Just thinking."

"About Sean?" Nate's tone was sympathetic rather than teasing. "Still no word since the hallway incident?"

I shook my head. "Radio silence."

"Maybe it's for the best," Nate suggested carefully. "If he's going to bite your head off for showing basic human concern, he might not be worth the trouble."

"It wasn't like that," I defended, though I wasn't sure why I felt the need to. "He was in pain, and cornered, and I pushed when I should have backed off."

"Still doesn't give him the right to be a jerk to you."

"No," I agreed. "But I get it. If he admits something's wrong, everything changes."

Nate studied me thoughtfully. "You really care about him, don't you? This isn't just about the story anymore."

"It never was," I admitted quietly. "Not really. I mean, yes, I'm curious as a journalist, but mostly I'm just... worried. About him."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"I think I need more information," I said finally. "To understand what he's dealing with. How serious it might be. I have an idea. Want to come with me to the athletic complex?"

"Now?" Nate looked at me like I'd sprouted a second head. "It's 8 AM on a Saturday, Lucas. Normal people are still sleeping."

"Suit yourself," I shrugged, heading for the door. "I'll bring you back coffee."

---