Page 45 of The Boyfriend Zone

In the hallway, I ran into Rose, who was bringing a fresh glass of water for her grandson.

"He's asleep," I told her quietly. "I didn't want to wake him to move to a bed."

"That's alright, dear. Not the first time he's slept on that couch, and it won't be the last." She set the water on a side table, then turned to me with a warm smile. "Thank you for coming tonight. It means more to him than he'll probably ever say."

"I wanted to be here," I said simply. "I care about him a lot."

"I can see that," Rose nodded, her eyes twinkling knowingly. "And he cares about you too. More than he's cared about anyone in a long time, I'd wager."

I felt heat creep up my neck, but Rose's expression held nothing but acceptance and warmth.

"Thank you for making him feel safe enough to be himself," she continued, reaching out to pat my hand. "Sean's always carried the weight of everyone's expectations. It's good to see him let someone else help shoulder the burden for a change."

"I'll do my best," I promised.

"I know you will, dear." She walked me to the door, surprising me with a warm hug before I left. "You're family now, as far as I'm concerned. Don't be a stranger."

Chapter 16: Sean

"If you stare any harder at that laptop screen, you're going to burn a hole in it," I teased, watching Lucas's face scrunch in concentration as he reviewed his notes.

We were tucked into a quiet corner of the campus coffee shop, supposedly studying, though I'd spent more time watching Lucas work than looking at my own textbook. My arm was still in a sling, the mobility in my shoulder improving but far from normal. It had been three weeks since the injury, and while the pain had eased with rest and the minor surgery to repair the partial tear, the reality of my situation—benched for most of the season—was still sinking in.

Lucas looked up, a smile breaking across his face that never failed to make my heart stutter. "I'm not staring, I'm analyzing. There's a difference."

"Analyzing what, exactly? You've read that same paragraph at least five times."

"My brilliant prose," he retorted, turning the laptop toward me. "The article came out this morning, and I'm overthinking every word choice, as usual."

I scanned the screen, recognition dawning as I read the headline: "The Price of Perfection: The Pressure on College Athletes to Play Through Pain."

The piece was exactly what we'd discussed—a thoughtful examination of the culture surrounding college sports, the implicit and explicit pressure athletes faced to perform even when injured, and the potential long-term consequences of that culture. He'd used examples from multiple sports and schools, keeping any references to me or our team vague enough that no one could identify specific cases.

"It's perfect, Lucas," I said sincerely. "Honest without being sensationalist. Gets the point across without throwing anyone under the bus."

"You're sure?" He bit his lip, a nervous habit I found endearing. "I was worried it might seem like I was still using your situation, even indirectly."

"You're not," I assured him, reaching across the table to take his hand. "You're using your platform to address something important, something that affects a lot of athletes. That's what good journalists do, right?"

Lucas relaxed visibly, squeezing my hand before returning to his hot chocolate. He took a sip and emerged with a dollop of whipped cream on his nose, completely unaware of it.

I couldn't help but laugh. "You've got a little something..." I gestured to my own nose.

"What?" He crossed his eyes trying to see, which only made me laugh harder.

"Here, let me." I reached over and gently wiped the cream away with my thumb, letting my hand linger against his cheek a moment longer than necessary.

Lucas leaned into the touch, his eyes warm. "You're different now, you know that?"

"Different how?" I asked, though I had a pretty good idea what he meant.

"Relaxed. Less coiled, I guess? Like you're finally comfortable in your own skin."

He was right. Since the truth had come out—about my injury, about my feelings for Lucas, about everything I'd been hiding—it was as if a weight had been lifted. The secrets had been suffocating me, and now that they were in the open, I could breathe again.

"It turns out honesty is less exhausting than lying," I admitted. "Who knew?"

"I seem to recall suggesting something along those lines," Lucas teased.

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