Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
ETHAN
Stryker Bell was a goddamn menace. While the rest of us ran through our plays with military-like precision, he improvised, dangling through defenders, his edge work so sharp his turns and transitions were some of the most precise I’d ever seen. At the blue line, he caught a stretch pass and, instead of making the chip to center like we’d practiced a hundred fucking times this week, he spun off Johannsen and ripped a shot top shelf, sending the puck past Keats before he could react.
“Kid’s a showboating little shit, but you can’t deny he can skate.” O’Leary exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
It was the kind of move that would go viral on HockeyTube within minutes if our PR crew decided to share it out—the kind of cocky, selfish bullshit that had steam practically shooting out of my ears.
I slammed my stick against the ice in frustration, the sharp crack echoing through the space. In my periphery, I saw Coach Mack shoot me a warning glance, but my focus stayed locked on Stryker, my jaw clenched so hard I could feel my molars grinding.
“Jesus,” Oscar said as we lined up for another drill. “The rookie’s got moves.”
“Yeah,” I admitted begrudgingly.
Skating backward, Stryker caught my eye, smirked, then turned his attention to Miller, flicking him a two-finger salute before adding a little shimmy for good measure.
“For fuck’s sake.” My grip tightened on my stick. “Who the hell does he think he is?”
Viggy snorted. “Dunno, but the fans are gonna love him.”
I huffed. “Of course they will.”
The kid was talented; there was no denying that. And while I’d never admit it out loud, I could see exactly why the Aces wanted him.
But talent wasn’t everything.
This wasn’t juniors or college. This was the pros. It was fast. It was brutal. And if Stryker Bell wanted to fuck around, someone was going to make damn sure he found out.
The sharp blast of Coach’s whistle signaled the end of drills. “All right, boys! Let’s finish with another scrimmage.” He skated toward center ice, Assistant Coach Russo following behind to act as referee. “Game conditions. Gold jerseys against blue. Hard shifts. Make ‘em count.”
Based on the distribution of players, my team was clearly meant to test the newbies, a mix of solid rookies and guys up from the AHL hoping to prove themselves.
I rolled my shoulders as, across the ice, Stryker was grinning, all confidence and swagger as he knocked fists with Miller.
Viggy won the face-off, and I drove hard into the zone, tracking the play as he dished the puck back to our defense. A few quick passes, and we transitioned up the ice.
Stryker cut through the neutral zone, calling for the puck, his stick tapping insistently against the ice.
Demanding little fuck.
Miller sent the pass tape-to-tape, and just like that, Stryker was flying into the offensive zone with that same damn flair he’d been flashing all damn week.
I stayed with him, though, adjusting my stride to match his pace.
He was fast. He was skilled.
But so was I.
When Stryker had the puck on his stick again, I somehow instinctively knew what was coming before he made his first move. Maybe it was experience, or maybe it was the hours I’d spent watching his film. Either way, I was ready for him.
He could have chipped it deep and driven to the net. Could have passed to Miller again, who was wide open at the top of the circle. But, no. That wasn’t his style. Instead, he pulled another slick move, dragging the puck behind his back to avoid Roonie, then cut hard toward the crease.
Showboating.
Again.
Before he could get his shot off, though, I closed the gap, putting all my weight behind the hit. I felt a satisfying jolt as my shoulder sent him into the boards. Not enough to injure him; just enough to make a fucking point. The glass shook, and his stick hit the ice. Whistles rang out, and a couple of guys hooted in approval. Someone let out a low oooof .
I barely heard any of it over the steady hammer of my pulse. Maybe I should have skated off, but I waited half a second longer, watching the kid pick himself back up. Watching to see if he’d flash that fucking smirk at me again.
Stryker gave his shoulders a lazy roll, testing for damage like a guy who’d been hit plenty of times before and didn’t seem all that bothered. Then, as he bent to retrieve his stick, he shot me a slow grin.
“Damn, Harrison,” he drawled. “If you wanted to get cozy, all you had to do was ask.”
He wanted a reaction. Wanted me to engage.
Well, that was not happening.
I turned and skated away, pretending I didn’t notice the heat crawling up the back of my neck.
* * *
The check I’d thrown on Stryker lingered in my muscles as I toweled off my hair, exhaustion settling into my limbs. Across the room, he was chatting with Miller and Viggy, grinning like he didn’t have a care in the world.
I flexed my fingers and rolled the stiffness from my shoulders, trying to ignore the way irritation prickled beneath my skin.
“Harrison.” Coach Mack’s unmistakable voice cut through the din. “My office.”
A few guys glanced my way as I yanked my blue Aces hoodie over my head and stood. The second I met Coach’s gaze, my stomach tightened. Nothing good ever followed when he called you into his office wearing that annoyed-looking expression.
I followed him down the narrow hall leading to the staff offices. The air back here always felt a bit colder, the hum of the overhead lights a little louder.
Coach stopped outside his door, pushed it open, and gestured for me to step inside.
His office was utilitarian—functional, no frills, just like the man himself. A desk, a couple of chairs, the faint scent of coffee and fried food lingering in the air. The framed photo of him and his wife on a boat somewhere in the Caribbean was the only personal touch in the room.
Coach exhaled as he propped himself on his desk, arms crossing over his chest. “You wanna tell me what that was out there?”
I sank into the chair across from him, feigning innocence. “What was what?”
Coach’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Don’t play dumb. You lined Bell up from three strides out.”
“It was a clean hit.”
Coach held my gaze, letting the silence stretch between us for a few seconds before he shook his head. “Didn’t say it wasn’t clean.” He pushed off the desk and rounded it, lowering himself into his chair with a sigh. “It was, however, unnecessary.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to say Bell deserved it, that someone needed to rein in his cocky bullshit, but I swallowed those words down because Coach wasn’t wrong. I’d never played like this before.
The fact that I had today? That was a problem.
He watched me, his expression unreadable. “I see you agree with me,” he said after a few long seconds.
I exhaled through my nose, dropping my gaze to the scuff marks on the floor. “Yeah,” I admitted.
Coach leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against the armrest. His jaw worked like he was chewing on his words before speaking them. Then his gaze shifted toward the closed door as if making sure no one else was around to hear. “How much do you know about Bell?”
His question caught me off guard.
But I was equally sure an honest answer would catch him off guard even more, so I pretended like I hadn’t watched all of Stryker’s college games, read every article that mentioned him, and stalked his socials like it was my goddamn job.
“Just the basics,” I said with a slight lift of my shoulder.
Coach shifted in his chair, like he was weighing whether to say something or let it go. His mouth opened, then closed. Whatever was on his mind, it looked like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to let me in on it or not. Finally, he blew out a breath, dragging his hands down his face, tugging at his cheeks until his eyes drooped like a basset hound’s. “His dad’s a real piece of work.”
“How so?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.
You’d think with all the time I’d spent obsessing over the kid, I’d know more about his family, but information about his relationship with them was hard to come by. The only pictures I managed to unearth were from when Stryker was still a little boy. Given how open he was about everything else in his life, I got the impression that wasn’t by accident.
Still, it had been easy enough to learn that his dad, Samson Bell, was some famous soccer star who’d made a killing playing in England before retiring and moving back to Ohio to raise his family. A couple of the articles I read said he’d hoped his only son would follow in his footsteps. I figured that explained the kid’s stupid ass name. I mean, why in the hell would you name your son Stryker otherwise, and with a y instead of an i , to boot? So fucking ridiculous.
“I probably shouldn’t say anything,” Coach continued, his voice dropping slightly even though no one was around to overhear our conversation. “But between you and me, the guy’s a real hard-ass. He’s made a name for himself since retiring as a hell and damnation evangelical, if you get my drift.”
He gave me a pointed look that said everything his words didn’t: Stryker had the kind of family where coming out wasn’t just difficult—it could be dangerous.
The type of upbringing that left scars, even if you couldn’t see them.
And given how open he was about his sexuality? Fuck . That would have been a nightmare.
My stomach dropped as I envisioned what his home life must have been like, but I managed to keep my expression neutral.
I wasn’t necessarily a stranger to that kind of thing. I’d grown up in a town where slurs—both racist and homophobic—were regularly tossed around in the locker room, where no one batted an eye when a kid got called a “little fairy” for running his mouth. A place where the local diner had a Bible quote on the wall next to the specials board, and where my high school history teacher had once said, completely unprompted, that he wasn’t homophobic, but “didn’t see why gay people had to make such a big deal about everything.”
My parents never said shit like that, but I never saw them call other folks out on it, either. Never saw my dad correct one of his fishing buddies when one of them spouted shit they shouldn’t. Never saw my mom tell the ladies at the church bake sale to knock off the gossip about Mrs. Folger’s nephew, who “seemed a little off.”
Nah, my dad hadn’t said shit to his friends, but he’d said plenty to me .
So I did what I’d been forced to do—kept my mouth shut and my head down. Built a life so perfectly crafted that no one would ever think to look closer.
But Stryker?
He’d done the exact opposite.
He’d thrown himself into the spotlight and made himself impossible to ignore. Daring people to say something, to challenge him, to knock him down just so he could show them he’d always get right back up. Like he had to prove—to himself, to the world, to his parents—that nothing could touch him.
It made sense now. The over-the-top personality. The need to be seen. The way he pushed, provoked.
It had irritated the hell out of me. It still did. But now, at least, I understood him a little bit better—even if I didn’t necessarily want to.
Coach shifted in his chair, resting an elbow on the armrest as he studied me. Not impatient. Not annoyed. Just watching. Measuring my reaction.
But if he was waiting for me to say something, he’d be waiting a long damn time.
After a moment, he continued. “I spoke with the kid’s coaches at Thackeray when we drafted him. There were … rumors, let’s call ‘em, about his family and how it affected him on the ice.”
That caught my attention. I sat forward slightly. “And?”
Coach tilted his head, considering me for a beat longer before exhaling. “And they assured us that while he can be excited, eager to please?—”
I snorted. That was certainly one way to put it. “Arrogant little fuckhead” was what I would have said.
Coach leaned back again, his expression shrewd. “As I was saying … with a bit of mentoring and a steady, positive influence, his talent’s limitless.”
I huffed out a laugh, rubbing a hand over my face. Yeah. I saw exactly where this was going. “So what, you want me to be that good influence?”
“I want you to mentor him.”
My stomach dropped. I stared at Coach for a beat, waiting for … I didn’t know what. Absolution? Indication that he was kidding?
He gave me nothing.
“You’re serious,” I said flatly.
He arched a brow. “Do I not look serious?”
I clenched my jaw so hard it ached, my fingers tightening on the armrests.
He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his desk. “Bell’s talented, no question. But helacks discipline.”
I huffed out a humorless laugh. “And you think I’m the guy to fix that?”
“Today’s antics aside, I think you’re one of the most grounded guys on this team.” The corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smirk.
I snorted. “Are you calling me boring, Coach?”
He let out a breath, something close to amusement flickering across his face. “I’m saying you’ve got discipline. Restraint. Hell, if there’s one thing you’ve mastered, Harrison, it’s self-denial.”
My body went rigid, blood rushing in my ears. For a single, suffocating second, it felt like Coach was looking right through me—like he knew . Like he’d somehow cracked open my chest and seen every secret I’d spent years hiding.
No. No fucking way .
I stared across at him, my pulse pounding in my ears, waiting for some tell that would confirm those words had been deliberate. But there was nothing there. Just the same steady expression I’d seen a thousand times before.
I forced a grin, my cheek muscles fighting me the entire way. “Didn’t realize that was a good thing.”
Coach leaned back in his chair. “It is when the rest of the guys are out partying and spending money like it’s burning a hole in their pocket. When they’re making dumbass decisions, you’re one of the few who keeps his head on straight. You show up, put in the work, and don’t let distractions pull you under.”
The tension in my shoulders eased—not completely, but enough. I forced myself to nod, swallowing against the lump of fear in my throat.
“Stryker doesn’t need someone breathing down his neck,” he continued. “He doesn’t need a babysitter. What he needs is an example of how to be a professional. How to carry himself in a league that will chew him up and spit him out if he’s not careful.”
I wanted to argue. To point out that I was the worst person for this job. But I couldn’t deny that Stryker was talented. And talent, as any player would tell you, wasn’t always enough.
Still, the idea of being his mentor made my skin itch. “And what if he doesn’t want my help?”
“Then make him want it.”
My stomach churned at the picture Coach’s simple words conjured. I swallowed hard, gripping the armrests to keep my hands steady.
I knew all about want .
Like how I wanted to know if Stryker would let me put my hands on him. Like how I wanted him on his knees, looking up at me, eyes flashing with reckless challenge.
But making him want something?
I didn’t have a goddamn clue how to do that.
I exhaled through my nose, forcing my expression into something neutral. Something that didn’t betray the way my pulse had kicked up or how my entire body felt too fucking hot all of a sudden.
After a beat, Coach shifted back in his chair. “And since he just got into town and doesn’t have a place yet …” He let the statement dangle, waiting for me to put the pieces together.
I let out a groan. “No.”
He ignored me. “You’re taking him in until he gets settled.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“What, you’d rather leave him holed up in a hotel for weeks on end and see what sort of trouble he gets up to?”
“Yes. That.”
“Nice try, but no. Greta’s available if you need help getting one of your guest rooms ready.”
I wasn’t exactly sure what Greta’s job title was, but she’d been with the Aces as long as I had—longer—and was a whiz at getting new players set up with housing, cars, and whatever else they needed to function. was his executive assistant, and she was a whiz at setting up.
I ran a hand down my face, willing myself to stay calm. Living with Stryker? Having him in my space—in my orbit—twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?
Fuck me.
I exhaled sharply. “Anything else?”
Coach tilted his head, studying me for a long moment. When he smiled, I knew things were about to get a whole lot worse.
“He’s also your new roommate on road trips.” He clasped his hands over his abdomen, his expression telling me this was already decided and no amount of arguing on my part would change his mind.
Fuck me, indeed.