Page 60 of The Boyfriend Zone

I bit back a laugh from my position behind Ava, enjoying Sean's discomfort perhaps a bit too much. We were in the campus newspaper's lounge, a quirky space filled with mismatched furniture and framed front pages from significant moments in the university's history. It was the agreed-upon location for the formal interview I'd arranged as part of a profile piece focusing on Sean's recovery and leadership.

"Think of it as practice for when you're famous," I suggested helpfully. "All those NHL promotional photoshoots with you trying to look intimidating while holding a stick and staring into the distance."

Sean shot me a look that was half-amusement, half-warning. "Not helping, Lucas."

"You're both hopeless," Ava declared, though her tone was fond as she snapped a few more shots. "Sean, just look at Lucas for a minute. Talk to him, not me."

Sean's gaze shifted to me, and the transformation was immediate—his posture relaxed, his expression softened, and a small smile played at the corners of his mouth. Ava's camera clicked rapidly, capturing the change.

"Perfect," she announced after a moment. "Those are the money shots right there." She lowered her camera with a satisfied nod. "I'll leave you two to the actual interview portion. Try to maintain some professional distance, if that's even possible."

As she packed up her gear, she caught my eye and mouthed "He's cute when he looks at you" with an exaggerated wink. I felt heat rise to my cheeks but maintained my composure as I prepared my recorder and notes.

Once Ava had departed with a cheerful wave, I slipped into professional mode, setting up my recorder on the coffee table between us.

"Ready?" I asked, settling into the armchair across from where Sean sat on the couch.

"As I'll ever be," he replied, still looking vaguely uncomfortable. "It's weird being on this side of an interview with you. Feels like we've come full circle."

"We have, in a way," I acknowledged, thinking back to those early, tension-filled interviews in the locker room. "But this time you're not trying to hide a major injury from me, so that's progress."

Sean laughed, some of the stiffness leaving his shoulders. "Fair point. Ask away, then. I'm an open book."

I pressed record and began with the easy questions—his background in hockey, favorite memories with the team, the adjustment to college-level play. Sean answered thoughtfully, gradually relaxing into the conversation as we established a rhythm.

"You mentioned your first goal in peewee hockey," I prompted. "Tell me about that."

Sean's face lit up with the memory. "I was seven, this tiny kid with equipment too big for me because my dad insisted on buying room to grow. We were playing against this team from the next town over, and they were crushing us—like, 5-0 in the second period."

He leaned forward, caught up in the story now. "I was on defense, but during a line change, I ended up with the puck at center ice. Everyone expected me to pass it—I always passed it, always played it safe. But something just clicked, and I took off down the ice on a breakaway."

"All alone?" I asked, genuinely invested in the story despite it having no real relevance to my article.

"Completely," Sean confirmed, his eyes bright with the memory. "I could hear my dad yelling from the stands to pass it to our forward, but for once, I just didn't. I faked left, went right, and somehow managed to flip the puck over the goalie's pad. Complete fluke, honestly."

"But you scored."

"I scored," he nodded, a grin spreading across his face. "And the look on my dad's face—he was so surprised, then so proud. It was the first time I really felt like I could be good at this, you know? Not just following instructions, but making my own plays."

There was something poignant about the memory—the young boy seeking approval, finding a moment of agency on the ice. It spoke volumes about the dynamics that had shaped Sean into the person he was now.

"You mentioned moving away from home for college," I continued. "How did that adjustment go?"

"It was hard at first," Sean admitted. "I'd always had my dad's voice in my ear, telling me what to do, how to play, how to be. Suddenly I had to figure that out for myself."

"And did you? Figure it out, I mean."

Sean's expression turned reflective. "I'm still working on it. But the team helped a lot. They became a sort of second family—with all the annoying sibling dynamics included." His smile turned wry. "Zach, especially, has been like the irritating brother I never wanted but somehow can't live without."

I laughed, knowing exactly what he meant from watching their interactions. "The team's support has been important during your recovery too, from what I've observed."

"Crucial," Sean agreed. "They've kept me in the loop, made me feel like I'm still contributing even when I can't play. Coach, too, has been surprisingly understanding."

"What would you say you've learned from this experience?" I asked, moving into the meatier part of the interview. "The injury, I mean."

Sean was quiet for a moment, genuinely considering the question. "That isolation is poison," he said finally, his voice softer than before. "Keeping things to yourself—pain, fear, doubt—it only makes them grow. I thought I was protecting everyone by handling it alone, but really, I was just making it worse."

"For yourself and the team," I observed.

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