Page 6 of The Boyfriend Zone

Despite everything, I laughed. "No, don't do that. Let's just... do our job."

"Fine." Nate didn't look happy about it. "But if he hurts you, all bets are off."

The coach called the team together then, and we stepped back to observe. I watched as Sean integrated seamlessly with his teammates, nothing in his demeanor suggesting the passionate man who'd kissed me senseless just hours ago.

I tried to focus on the pre-game rituals, jotting notes about team dynamics and the coach's strategy talk, but my eyes kept drifting to Sean. What had changed between last night and now? Was he really going to act like nothing had happened?

As the team filed out to the ice, Sean glanced back once, his eyes meeting mine for just a moment. Something flickered there—regret? Apology? But then it was gone, and he was out the door with the rest of the team.

"Come on," Nate said, clapping me on the shoulder. "Let's go watch some hockey."

We made our way to the press box, a small elevated area with a perfect view of the ice. A few local sports reporters were already set up, but they barely glanced our way as we found seats.

"So that's why you didn't get his number," Nate mused as we settled in. "He was too busy being a coward."

"We don't know what's going on with him," I said, though the hurt was still fresh. "Maybe he's not out."

"That doesn't give him the right to treat you like a stranger." Nate was fuming on my behalf. "You deserve better, Lucas."

"It was just one night," I reminded him, and myself. "Let's focus on the game."

The teams took the ice to the roar of the crowd, and I tried to concentrate on the fast-paced action. I noted the rowdy student section with their chants and signs, the precision of the skaters as they ran through warm-up drills, the palpable excitement in the arena.

But my eyes kept finding Sean.

He was impossible to miss on the ice—number 28, his name emblazoned across his broad shoulders. He moved with power and control, his earlier stiffness gone as he blocked shots and made precise passes to teammates.

"He's actually pretty good," Nate admitted grudgingly, snapping photos of the action.

I just nodded, watching as Sean bodychecked an opposing player, sending him sprawling across the ice. The crowd roared its approval, and Sean's teammates thumped him on the back as they skated past.

This was a different side of the man I'd met last night. On the ice, he was all calculated aggression and focused intensity. I found myself wondering which version was the real Sean—the gentle, attentive man who'd kissed me so carefully, or this fierce competitor who seemed to thrive on physical confrontation.

Or maybe they were both real, different facets of a person I clearly didn't know at all.

By the time the final buzzer sounded, signaling a 3-1 victory for our team, I had pages of notes but no better understanding of Sean. I'd watched him play through what looked like a painful hit in the second period, noticed how he'd briefly favored his right shoulder before jumping right back into the action.

"Press conference in five," Emma announced, poking her head into the box. "Coach and select players will be available for questions."

"Let's go," Nate said, standing and gathering his gear. "Time to face the music."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, following him toward the exit.

Nate gave me a pointed look. "It means your hockey hottie will have to acknowledge your existence if you ask him a direct question, won't he?"

"I'm not going to abuse my position to make him uncomfortable," I said firmly. "Whatever his reasons, that's not how I operate."

Nate sighed. "You're too nice, Lucas."

The press conference was standard fare—the coach praised the team's effort, the captain spoke about their defensive strategy, and a forward who'd scored two goals answered questions about his technique. Sean wasn't among the players selected for the conference, which was both a relief and a disappointment.

Afterwards, we were allowed back into the locker room for individual interviews. The atmosphere was jubilant, players still riding the high of their victory. I interviewed the goalie first, getting quotes about his spectacular saves, then moved on to speaking with the team's top scorer.

I was deliberately avoiding Sean, but I couldn't help noticing him across the room, speaking quietly with a man who looked like a trainer, occasionally wincing as the man examined his shoulder.

Nate, meanwhile, had somehow ended up interviewing Zach, their body language suggesting they were seconds away from either fighting or something else entirely.

"So, do you think your goal was luck or actual skill?" Nate was asking, voice dripping with false sweetness.

---