Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
BELL
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been sitting in my car in the lot outside the Aces’ practice facility, but I figured it was long enough that it was probably starting to look weird. I’d already scrolled through all Instagram twice, texted my old roommates to find out what they were up to, and double-checked my fantasy football lineup for this weekend’s game.
I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel, jittery with restless energy, my leg bouncing despite the cramped interior.
By the time Ethan finally emerged from the arena looking just as broody and annoyed as he had all fucking practice, I was already halfway to losing my mind with boredom.
He stopped abruptly when he noticed my BMW X6 parked next to his GMC Acadia. His expression instantly darkened when he realized I was sitting inside.
I raised my hand in a casual wave, and he scowled.
Yeah, that tracked.
He closed the distance with purposeful strides, his dark blue hoodie hugging his muscular frame. His hockey bag was slung over his broad shoulder, strands of wavy dark hair falling over his forehead. He looked unfairly good. Rugged. Handsome.
He also looked grumpy as fuck. Like the kind of guy who’d rather eat glass than smile for a photo.
When he reached his SUV, he popped the hatch and dumped his bag inside before coming back around, stopping at my window.
I hit the button to lower it, resting my forearm along the edge of the door. “Hey, Dad.”
His nostrils flared. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Waiting for you.” I grinned. “Figured I should follow you home since, y’know, we’re roomies now.”
His jaw ticked. “Christ. They already told you.”
“Uh, yeah. Did they not tell you until just now?”
He scrubbed his palm down over his face, exhaling sharply. “They did not.”
I fought back a smirk at the way his fingers tightened around his keys. He looked like he wanted to drive me into the boards again—not that I’d necessarily mind.
Ethan huffed out a breath, then yanked open his door without another word.
“Sure, I’ll follow you. Thanks for suggesting it,” I said, grinning to myself as I swung a U-turn and pulled out of the lot behind him.
Fifteen minutes later, I was driving through a part of Austin I hadn’t explored yet. When I wasn’t holed up at the hotel, I’d been hitting up the bars and clubs in the Warehouse District. Probably didn’t want that getting back to Coach, though, given the “It’s time to buckle down and focus on hockey; no more fucking around” speech we’d been given a couple of days ago when one of the vets had shown up reeking of booze and perfume.
As I followed Ethan into a residential area of town, the cityscape faded into quiet, tree-lined streets. Bungalows with wide porches lined the blocks, several of them featuring large vegetable gardens and chicken coops in their front yards. People were out enjoying the evening despite the lingering heat—walking their dogs, rocking on porch swings, and nursing drinks under the glow of cafe lights.
I let out a small huff of surprise. I’d assumed he would live somewhere more sterile—a high-rise condo downtown or maybe a cookie-cutter McMansion out in the suburbs. Something boring to match his whole boring vibe.
I was in the middle of forming some smart-ass comment in my head that was bound to get under his skin, when Ethan’s turn signal flicked on and he pulled into the driveway of a house that was …
Definitely not what I pictured.
I slowed, my foot on the brake as I took in the deep blue bungalow with crisp white trim and a bright-ass yellow front door that looked like it had been ripped straight from my old roommate Kiki’s manifestation boards.
A narrow concrete path divided the front yard, which, unlike his neighbors’, was predominantly neatly trimmed grass but included some flower beds tucked along the foundation. A small “Protect Our National Parks” sign was staked among the greenery, and a short set of steps led up to a covered porch outfitted with a cozy wicker seating area.
It was cute. Way cuter than I would have expected from Mr. Serious over there.
I arched a brow, glancing at the houses on either side—one had a rainbow flag affixed to the garage, while the other had both “Black Lives Matter” and “Resist” flags hanging from the porch railing. A huge multi-colored Pride flag flew from a flagpole in the yard of the house across the street, and a painted butterfly mural stretched across the garage doors.
The whole street had an artsy, progressive vibe, which only made Ethan’s house stand out more. Not because it didn’t fit in—because it almost did.
I killed the engine and climbed out of my car, stretching my arms overhead. A muscle in my abdomen twinged, and I winced. Fuck. Guess I needed some extra yoga stretches before bed tonight. I was too young to be feeling these sorts of aches and pains—then again, the NHL was no joke. Just pre-season, and my body was already feeling it.
I dropped my arms and rolled out my shoulders, shaking off the ache as I turned, only to find Ethan watching me from the other side of his SUV, arms crossed like he was bracing for whatever dumb shit I was about to say.
I grinned, nodding toward the house. “Gotta say, not what I expected.”
His expression didn’t budge. “What did you expect?”
I gestured vaguely. “I don’t know… something boring. White paint, zero personality. Maybe a sad little cactus in a pot if you really wanted to go wild.”
That earned me an eye roll as he sighed and made his way to the front door. “Just grab your shit.”
He stepped up onto the porch but didn’t go inside right away, distracted by a voice calling out from next door.
“Evening, Ethan.”
An older woman waved from her porch swing, a wine glass in her hand, one leg tucked up underneath her. She had a head full of long silver curls and a relaxed, easy sort of smile.
Ethan tipped his chin. “Hey, Marjorie.”
“You bringing home strays now?” she teased, nodding toward me.
He let out a long-suffering sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Something like that.”
I shot her my best flirty grin, the one that made little old ladies absolutely melt. “I’m house-trained and everything.”
Her lips quirked. “Oh, I bet you are, sugar.” She took a slow sip of her wine, her gaze flicking over me like she was already entertained.
Not that I could blame her. I was a fucking delight.
Dragging my attention back to my new roomie, I gestured vaguely toward the houses surrounding his. “Kinda surprised you live on a street like this. Whole place feels like a queer utopia.”
His mouth flattened, and for the briefest second, something flickered across his face too quickly for me to catch. Guilt? Panic? Whatever it was, it’d been replaced by his usual blank expression.
Interesting .
I was used to his annoyed glances by now, the scowls, the disapproving glares he seemed to specialize in.
But this hadn’t been any of those.
And fuck, I wanted to press him on it. Wanted to poke at whatever nerve I’d hit and see what happened.
But I didn’t know him. Not really. Didn’t know what he was capable of.
Which was why I’d nearly shit a brick when Coach MacKenzie told me I’d be boarding with Ethan for the foreseeable future. I didn’t think he was a bigot—not overtly, anyway—but there was something under the surface that made me think I wasn’t exactly the kind of person he wanted in his space, either.
You learned to read the signs early. Tight smiles. Sidelong glances. Loaded silences. Not because you were looking for trouble, but because you had to know where it might be hiding. Call it self-preservation. Call it survival. Either way, it was instinct by now.
Honestly, I’d had my doubts about coming to Texas. The state didn’t exactly scream safe for someone like me. So when I found out I’d be living with Ethan Harrison—a guy who radiated judgment—I figured his neighborhood would match: a gated suburban hellscape with MAGA flags flying from every porch—the kind of place where I’d think twice about grabbing the mail in my favorite unicorn crop top.
But this?
This wasn’t that.
It wasn’t just the pride flags, either. It was the beautifully painted murals, the “All Are Welcome Here” signs, the “Trans Rights Are Human Rights” banners tucked among the landscaping.
The whole street radiated safety. And maybe that shouldn’t have mattered, but it absolutely did.
I could feel the tension in my shoulders start to ease as I realized I’d been wrong about the guy. At least I hoped I was.
Only one way to find out.
“Wasn’t sure what I’d be walking into, y’know?” I said, pushing down my nerves and steeling my resolve. “Thought I might be bunking next to a Trump supporter or some guy who thinks drag queens are the reason for the downfall of society.”
Ethan’s jaw ticked again. “Fuck that noise,” he muttered, unlocking the front door. Then he shot me another one of those indecipherable looks over his shoulder before stepping over the threshold. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”
I set my duffel bag down inside the door, glancing around. The living room had what looked like original trim and molding. Warm-toned hardwood floors stretched out beneath a Persian-style rug, while the walls were painted a soft cream color. Despite the rank stench wafting off our hockey gear, the whole place somehow managed to smell faintly like cedar and something sweet and smoky, kind of like the copal they burned everywhere in Tulum.
A leather couch faced a sleek, wall-mounted TV, and a pair of mid-century modern chairs flanked a coffee table made from reclaimed wood. The whole setup looked grown-up. Like a real home. It was a far cry from the off-campus house I’d shared back at Thackeray, where the furniture came from garage sales, and nobody knew who the blender actually belonged to or who’d brought the toaster with them when we moved in. It had been a party house. Great, if a bit chaotic at times.
On the flip side, Ethan’s home screamed, “I do not throw parties here, and neither will you,” which certainly tracked with some of the things I’d heard our teammates say about him in passing. I got the impression that while most of them liked him, several—save maybe our captain—didn’t actually know him.
“Not bad,” I said, bracing my hands on my hips. “Could maybe use a rainbow doormat now that I’m staying here, though.” I turned and gave him a slow, playful grin.
Guys like Ethan never quite knew what to do with me. And yeah, sometimes I leaned into that. The rainbows, the unicorns, the glitter lip gloss I sometimes wore, or the dark, smoky eyeliner when I really wanted to throw people off. I was a six-foot-one, two hundred pound hockey player built like a brick shithouse with a jawline that looked like it had been chiseled out of stone. No one was going to shove me into a locker or call me a slur to my face—not anymore.
So if I wanted to paint my nails or crack a joke about being a princess, I did it. Loudly. And maybe part of me liked watching people, especially the quiet, judgmental ones, try to puzzle me out. Liked reminding them that queerness didn’t look one way, didn’t act one way. That it could look like this—like me.
And yeah, maybe that was a little petty.
But maybe it was also power.
Ethan muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience as he nudged the door shut behind him, tossed his keys into a bowl on a long table, and turned to face me. “I have a couple of ground rules.”
I plunked my ass down on the edge of one of the mid-century modern chairs, spreading my knees and throwing one arm over the back. “Hit me.”
“First of all, my bedroom is off-limits. I never want to catch you in there for any reason.”
My head jerked back, a disbelieving laugh catching in my throat before I swallowed it down. “Seriously?”
I pushed to my feet, and Ethan’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he wasn’t sure if I was about to throw a punch or a tantrum.
I wasn’t going to do either. I just needed to move, shake off the way his words made me feel like a piece of shit.
I paced a few steps, then turned to face him, my arms crossed. “Afraid I’m going to tiptoe into your room in the middle of the night and crawl into bed with you? Jesus, man.” The words came out exactly as sharp as I intended.
My jaw tightened as I watched him watching me—his face unreadable at first, then slowly shifting, his arms dropping to his sides.
“No,” he said, his voice rough. “Shit. That’s not—” He exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck, looking painfully awkward suddenly. “That’s not what I meant.”
I didn’t say anything, just let the silence stretch.
He gestured vaguely toward the hallway, not meeting my eyes. “It’s my space. It’s where I go to be alone. I’m—fuck. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
I held his gaze for another long second, then dropped back into the chair with a shrug that I hoped masked my embarrassment. I couldn’t explain why I’d reacted the way I did, only that it was the first place my mind went.
Obviously, given where he lived, Ethan wasn’t a homophobic asshole, but I’d feel like a complete fool if I tried to walk my words back now. If I admitted how much they’d hurt.
I’d just have to bluff my way through this.
“Could’ve just said that, but fine. Your fortress of solitude is safe from me. Any more rules?”
I didn’t know why I bothered asking. Of course he had more rules. He’d probably been coming up with a whole book of them since his chat with Coach earlier.
He exhaled through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck again. “Yeah,” he said, voice a little gruffer than before. “Just a few.”
“Define ‘a few,’” I teased, my mouth quirking to the side.
He squared his shoulders. “Wash your damn dishes— all of them. Don’t leave shit in the sink like you’re waiting for the dishwashing fairy to show up and do them for you.”
“Noted,” I said, grinning now despite my earlier outburst. “No dishes for the dishwasher fairy.”
“Second, no laundry in the common areas. You wanna let your socks ferment in your bedroom, be my guest. But if I step over a pile of clothes in the hallway, I will lose my shit.”
“Fair.”
“Third,” he continued, “don’t touch the thermostat. Ever. I don’t care if you’re freezing or sweating; just grab a hoodie or take off a layer. The house stays at sixty-five degrees at all times.”
“Wow. Cold-hearted and cold-blooded.”
His lips twitched like he wanted to smile but refused to indulge me. “And finally,” he said, “don’t leave your shit all over the place. Your room can be as filthy as you want, but the rest of the house should always look like it does right now.”
I glanced around, then gave a low whistle. “High standards, Harrison. Anyone ever tell you you’d make a great drill sergeant?”
“Yeah. My ex.”
Oooh, a nugget of personal information. I hadn’t expected that. What else could I get him to reveal?
“Okay,” I said, kicking one foot up onto the coffee table like I hadn’t just been told not to treat the place like a frat house. “Anything else? No loud music? No guests?” I waggled my eyebrows. “No walking around shirtless after a workout?”
His eyes dropped briefly to my chest before he caught himself and looked away. “Just … use common sense.”
“Not really my strong suit, but I’ll do my best.” I tapped my pointer finger against my chin. “One question—what’s your stance on glitter?”
Ethan froze like I’d just threatened to douse the house in gasoline.
“I’m asking hypothetically,” I said quickly, trying not to laugh. “Mostly. I mean, I’m not planning to glitter bomb the living room or anything, but it’s good to know where the line is.”
His jaw flexed so hard I thought I heard his molars crack. “You’re not bringing glitter into my house.”
I beamed. “Noted.”
And just like that, I felt a little bit better.