Page 36 of The Boyfriend Zone

Taking the hint, I backed toward the door, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons now. Would Sean retreat even further after this close call?

As I slipped out the door, I caught one last glimpse of him, standing alone by his locker with his head bowed, looking lost and uncertain in a way that made me want to go back and put my arms around him, teammates be damned.

Walking away from him felt wrong, like leaving something precious and fragile unprotected. But sometimes giving someone space was the most caring thing you could do.

I just hoped he'd use that space to decide what he really wanted—and that whatever it was, there might still be room in his life for me.

Chapter 12: Sean

The pain medication was wearing off, each bump in the road sending fresh jolts of agony through my shoulder. I stared out the window of Zach's car, watching familiar campus buildings slide past as we headed home from the rink.

"You look like shit," Zach observed helpfully. "Even worse than usual."

"Thanks," I muttered. "Really boost a guy's confidence."

"Just saying. Maybe it's time to admit—"

"Don't start." I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window. "Not now."

Zach fell silent, though I could feel the weight of his concern in the glances he kept shooting my way. We drove the rest of the short distance in silence, pulling up in front of the off-campus house we shared with two other teammates.

The moment we walked through the front door, I made a beeline for the couch, no longer able to pretend I was fine. Zach followed, eyeing the way I cradled my arm against my body.

"Wait here," he instructed, disappearing into the kitchen.

Our other roommate, Tristan, poked his head out of his room. "Hey, I was about to order pizza. You guys want—" He stopped, taking in my slumped posture. "Dude, you okay?"

"Fine," I said automatically. "Just tired."

Tristan looked skeptical but didn't press. "I'll get you the usual," he said, retreating back to his room.

Zach returned with an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel. "Here," he said, pressing it gently against my shoulder. "Hold this."

I complied, the cold a blessed relief against the fire in my joint. Zach disappeared again, returning with a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers.

"Take these," he ordered. "And before you object, I'm not leaving until you do, so save us both the time."

Too exhausted to argue, I swallowed the pills, then leaned back against the couch cushions with a sigh. For a while, we sat in silence, the only sound the distant murmur of Tristan talking on the phone in his room.

"Is it that obvious?" I asked finally.

Zach nodded, no joking now. "To me? Yeah. I've known you too long not to notice. To others?" He shrugged. "They see what they expect to see. The star defenseman, pushing through, being tough."

I closed my eyes, the weight of the admission settling over me. "It's a sprain," I said quietly. "Grade two, probably. Been getting worse for weeks now."

"Jesus, Sean." Zach's voice was a mixture of concern and exasperation. "Why the hell didn't you say something sooner? To me, at least?"

It was a fair question, one I'd been asking myself more and more lately.

"I don't know," I confessed. "Pride, maybe. Fear. Not wanting to let anyone down."

"Let anyone down," Zach repeated. "You mean your dad."

I didn't deny it. "He's sacrificed everything for my career. Mortgaged the house to pay for elite camps, private coaching, better equipment. Worked double shifts so I could play at the highest level. How do I tell him I might have messed it all up with one stupid injury?"

"By remembering that he's your father, not your owner," Zach said bluntly. "He invested in you because he loves you, not because he expected a return."

I wished I could believe that. But years of conditional approval, of praise tied exclusively to my performance on the ice, had taught me otherwise.

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