Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
BELL
I woke up later than usual, the sun cutting through blinds I kept forgetting to close. I stretched, my muscles stiff and aching, then flopped an arm over my eyes to block out the light.
No matter how much ice time or gym work I crammed in this week, I still couldn’t shake how poorly I was playing.
Coach’s disappointment was bad enough, but it was Ethan’s glare during the third period last night that really stuck with me.
It wasn’t that I was playing like shit. It was that I’d been playing scared.
Hockey was supposed to be instinctual—fast, reactive—but instead of trusting myself, I second-guessed every pass, every read. I had open lanes and didn’t take them, or I had clear shots and chickened out, thinking Oscar had a better angle.
And every time I hesitated, every time I gave the other team an extra second to close the gap, I could feel Ethan watching me.
No, not just watching— judging .
At one point, after I’d dumped the puck into the zone instead of driving to the net, he slammed his stick against the boards on his way back to the bench.
When I sat down, sucking in breath after breath like I was drowning, I risked a glance his way.
His expression was carved from stone, his eyes sharp enough to slice through me. He didn’t have to say a word; I got the message clear as day: “Grow some fucking confidence.”
I knew he was right. The worst part of it was that I’d never had this problem before. Confidence wasn’t just something I had, it was who I was. It was in the way I played, the way I carried myself, the way I could walk into any room and own it.
But lately, something was off. Like my instincts were wrapped in sludge, every decision bogged down before it could turn into action.
I’d tried telling myself I was just going through an adjustment period—had talked to my therapist about ways to break through—but nothing I tried worked.
Things were getting worse.
And if Ethan had picked up on that? If he thought I didn’t belong with the Aces?
That thought sat heavy in my chest, pressing down on my ribs like a weight I couldn’t shake.
Because I really, really wanted him to think I belonged.
I blew out a breath and dragged myself out of bed. If I stayed here, I’d just keep spiraling.
Coffee first. Then maybe I’d figure out how to unfuck my brain.
Scrubbing my hands over my face, I padded toward the kitchen. The house was quiet, which wasn’t unusual. Ethan had a habit of disappearing for hours on end, coming and going like a ghost. It was weirdly unsettling how little space he took up, considering this was his house and I was just crashing here.
Mug in hand, I stepped out onto the porch, breathing in the rich scent of coffee as I settled onto the top step. The concrete was warm, which I relished after freezing my balls off all night, and the air was thick with the promise of another scorching Texas day.
Across the street, a couple was walking their dog, a black and white spotted Great Dane I’d heard them call Methuselah. A few houses away, a guy was unloading a trunk full of groceries while his toddler waddled toward the house ahead of him. Two tweens, one with bright pink hair down to their waist, were riding their bikes down the street.
I let out a contented sigh before taking another sip of coffee. This was the first time I’d ever lived somewhere that felt like a real community. I liked it. Liked sitting out here in the mornings and watching people go about their day.
But if I was being honest? What I really liked was watching Ethan interact with those same people.
Currently, he was carrying heavy bags of soil from the back of Marjorie’s Subaru to the raised beds in her front yard, his posture looser than I’d ever seen it. And he wasn’t just talking to her—he was laughing. A real, genuine laugh, not one of those dry exhales of air he sometimes let out when I got under his skin.
The sound of it sent an odd sort of warmth through my chest before that feeling curled low in my stomach.
I stared, captivated by this version of the man—the one who wasn’t all sharp edges and gruff monosyllables. The one who smiled without reservation as his hands moved to adjust the brim of Marjorie’s sun hat.
And then—shit. He caught me staring.
For a second, I thought he might scowl, might hit me with one of his patented Ethan Harrison glares, but instead, something shocking happened. He waved. Not a big, enthusiastic wave, just a slight lift of his fingers. A quiet acknowledgement.
I froze. My brain stalled out. Then—because I was absolutely unprepared for this moment—I slowly, awkwardly, lifted my mug in silent salute like a goddamned idiot who didn’t know how to behave in social situations.
The whole exchange lasted maybe three seconds, tops. Still, it lingered in my brain and sat heavy in my chest all morning and into the late afternoon. I didn’t know what had come over Ethan, but if he could offer me that tiny sliver of warmth, I figured I should offer something back.
He’d probably go back to freezing me out, but it was worth a shot at a peace offering. Or maybe it was a bribe. I honestly wasn’t sure.
I’d noticed over the past couple of weeks that he had a soft spot for old-school Italian comfort food. The fridge was mostly what you’d expect—grilled chicken breasts, kale salads in glass containers, protein shakes lined up like little soldiers—but nestled among them were the unmistakable signs of his one area of indulgence: foil-wrapped leftovers of baked ziti or spaghetti with meatballs the size of my fist.
There weren’t any labels or logos, so I did some research on the best mom-and-pop Italian restaurant nearby and scrolled until I found a place that looked like it fit the bill. It had vinyl, red-checkered tablecloths, paper placemats kids could color on, and meatballs described as ‘life-changing’ in the reviews.
* * *
I pulled into the driveway with two heavy takeout bags warming the passenger seat of my car, the sharp, glorious scent of garlic filling the cabin. My stomach growled loudly.
My diet wasn’t as strict as Ethan’s—since moving to Austin, I’d eaten my body weight in barbecue—but I tried to stay away from complex carbohydrates since they made me feel bloated and sluggish. I’d probably regret this meal tomorrow, but if it got Ethan to stop treating me like an interloper? Totally worth it.
Stepping inside, the house was quiet, and he was nowhere to be seen. Not that that was a surprise. I didn’t know where he disappeared to when we didn’t have practice or a game, but disappear he did—always slipping back in around this time like a teenager who’d snuck out and didn’t want to be caught sneaking back in.
I set the bags on the counter and glanced toward the dining room. It wasn’t a formal space by any means, but somehow, eating in there felt too intimate.
Catching sight of the sun sinking low in the sky, painting it in cotton candy colors, I wandered to the patio doors and slid them open. For once, the heat didn’t feel too oppressive. A breeze rustled the trees, carrying the scent of jasmine from Marjorie’s yard as the cicadas started their evening concert.
Dinner outside, then. Too lovely to waste, really.
Back in the kitchen, I grabbed a big bottle of sparkling water, two plates from the cabinet, and real forks—not the plastic ones the restaurant put in their to-go bags. If I was doing this, I was doing it right.
Never mind that I’d just decided the dining room was too formal. Apparently, that was only a problem inside.
I set the food on the patio table, opened the containers, and started plating things up like I was Martha Fucking Stewart. Halfway through dishing out the pesto lasagna, I paused. What the hell was I doing? Setting a table. For Ethan Harrison. In his backyard. Like this was a date.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I was hoping to accomplish here. Maybe I just wanted to see if he’d open up a little. Or at least acknowledge that I wasn’t the worst possible person in the world to be sharing his space with.
I shook my head and focused on the food, ignoring the weird little flutter in my chest that whispered maybe, deep down, I wished this was a date.
That he didn’t hate me.
When everything was finally arranged to my liking, I sat down and checked the time on my phone.
Still no Ethan.
I debated texting him to say I’d picked up food, but that felt weirdly domestic. Too familiar. So I just waited instead. Told myself I wasn’t anxious. That I didn’t care if he brushed me off.
Finally, the door creaked open, and he stepped outside, his gaze immediately landing on the table. He froze for a split second before arching a brow. “What’s all this?”
I stood up, brushing my sweating hands on my shorts. Ugh. Why were they sweating? Probably because he was staring at the meal like I was a needy boyfriend who’d ambushed him.
“I, uh…” I cleared my throat. “Got dinner. Figured we could eat out here. You know, as a thank you. For letting me stay here. Even though you didn’t really have a choice.” When I quit babbling, I chuckled, awkward and way too loud. “Sorry for, you know, ruining your life.”
A beat of silence. Then, to my complete shock, the corner of his mouth twitched.
I grinned. “Did you just … was that almost a smile?”
He rolled his eyes and stared at the table for what felt like a lifetime, then glanced back at me.
More time passed before he nodded and stepped forward.
We ate in near silence for the first few minutes, the occasional clink of our forks against our plates the only sound between us. I snuck glances at him, watching the way his jaw flexed as he chewed, the subtle way his eyes darted toward mine and quickly away again.
The silence was killing me.
I didn’t think I’d ever gone this long sharing a meal with someone without speaking.
“For fuck’s sake, Ethan,” I said, sawing a meatball in half with the side of my fork. “You’ve been yapping nonstop for, like, ten minutes straight. Do you ever stop talking?”
His mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smirk he didn’t want to give me. “That’s me,” he said dryly, reaching for his water. “A veritable chatterbox.” He took a sip, then set the glass down with deliberate care, like he was buying himself a moment to formulate his thoughts. “What can I say? I like the quiet.”
“You must really hate me then.”
He glanced over at me, and his expression softened almost imperceptibly. “I don’t, Stryker.”
I set my fork down and wiped my hands on my napkin, even though they weren’t dirty. My heart was suddenly beating harder than it should’ve been for something as simple as a name. “You can call me Bell, you know.”
Ethan looked at me, eyebrows lifting just slightly.
I forced a shrug. “Everyone else does.”
He didn’t respond right away, just studied me for a second too long. Long enough that I felt stripped bare under the weight of his gaze.
“Not a fan of your first name?” he asked.
I gave a short, humorless laugh. “Let’s just say my dad picked it, and that’s reason enough to hate it.” My words came out sounding way more bitter than I intended, but the harsh reality was that I was bitter. And a part of me wanted to see what Ethan would do with that knowledge.
Instead of pressing me on my attitude, he just gave a quiet nod and said, “You don’t talk about him much.”
For a moment, I was tempted to make a joke the way I usually did whenever someone asked me about the fucker, but here, tonight, sitting next to a man I’d idolized my whole life, I didn’t want to.
I scraped my thumb along the edge of my plate and let out a slow breath as I glanced toward the porch light, where a moth batted its wings in its glow. I dragged my gaze back to Ethan. “You ever have someone in your life who was supposed to love you,” I said quietly, “but all they ever did was fuck you up?”
He went still beside me, then shifted slightly in his chair. When he spoke, his voice was careful. “No,” he said. “I … I can imagine, though.”
I nodded. I wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.
“I’ve heard some stuff about your relationship … with your dad, I mean.” He hesitated, and something that looked a bit like guilt flickered across his features. “Nothing too specific, just general tension.”
My stomach tightened. I could guess what he’d heard. I knew the Aces General Manager, Chris Ramos, had spoken with my college coach, Jorgen Halstrom, when the team was looking to draft me about the rumors that said I could be high-maintenance and had a chip on my shoulder.
But no one ever stopped to wonder—or even just ask me—why that was.
If Ethan thought I was just some entitled brat with daddy issues? That would fucking wreck me. For some reason that I couldn’t explain—or rather, I could but didn’t want to examine too closely right now—I needed him to know the truth.
I didn’t look away when I spoke. Not because it didn’t hurt to admit this out loud, but because I refused to hide. What I’d been through, what I’d survived, wasn’t something I was going to flinch away from. I held his gaze, steady and sure, because this was my truth, and I owned it.
“I was thirteen when my dad caught me kissing a boy on my hockey team. The next day, he shipped me off to some camp run by a megachurch he was affiliated with. He called it therapy. Said it would fix me.”
Ethan’s jaw clenched, and his eyes flashed with horror, but just for a second. The kind of reaction you’d miss if you weren’t watching for it, but I was.
I was always watching him.
“Jesus,” he said, his voice rough around the edges. “Bell …”
My chest tightened at the way he said my name. Not Stryker.
Bell .
Like he’d heard me. Like he saw me.
“I know what you’re probably picturing, and to be clear, it wasn’t the worst kind of place like that. I know people who’ve been through absolute hell in one of those camps, but it still fucked me up for a while. The shaming. The isolation. The constant message that something about me was broken.”
Ethan didn’t interrupt. He just listened, his eyes never leaving mine. But his knuckles were white where they curled around his water glass, the tension in his grip betraying how hard he was trying to hold himself together.
I scrubbed my hands down my face. Blowing out a long breath, I admitted, “I lasted two weeks. Finally told them I’d successfully prayed the gay away.”
I could see the effort it took for Ethan to keep his expression neutral—his brow was furrowed and his jaw was tight, as though each word forming in his head had to be vetted before it reached his lips. One hand rose to the back of his neck, rubbing slowly, before dropping back to the table with a quiet thud .
“I know I don’t have the right to ask this,” he said finally, his voice low, almost hesitant. “And you definitely don’t owe me an answer. But I was under the impression that you like girls, too. Is that not the case?” His tone wasn’t skeptical or accusing, just curious.
And while his question wasn’t entirely unexpected, it still caught me a little off guard. It’d been a long time since anyone had asked for clarification on my sexuality. I was loud about who I was—sometimes obnoxiously so—and most people didn’t need to ask.
“Oh, no,” I said with a dry little laugh. “I’m totally bi. Just, you know, my parents couldn’t seem to wrap their heads around that fact. Hell, I think they’d almost prefer it if I was gay. At least they understand what that means.”
I glanced down to pick at a fleck of basil on my plate, but when I spoke again, I lifted my face to look Ethan straight in the eye. “But liking both girls and boys? That just gave them more ammo. Proof that I was confused. That I needed to be set straight—pun absolutely intended.”
Ethan nodded like he’d suspected as much. “You’ve never hidden that. I mean, not from what I’ve seen.”
“Never,” I agreed. “Well, not once I left home, anyway.” I scraped a hand through my loose hair, but it blew right back into my face. Damnit. I wish I had a hair tie. “I pretended to be what they wanted until I was old enough to leave, and then, well, I stopped pretending.”
Silence stretched between us for a few long beats. “Anyway. Congratulations,” I said, my voice quieter now. “You’re officially one of only ten people who know the real story.”
He didn’t try to offer some meaningless platitudes. He just looked at me and said, his voice soft, “That never should’ve happened to you.”
And goddamn, that simple statement hit harder than I expected. No judgment. No pity. Just the quiet kind of understanding I’d wanted from him without even realizing it.
A beat passed. Then another. And suddenly, I was way too aware of how close we were sitting. Of the breeze carrying the scent of jasmine and Ethan’s earthy cologne between us. Of the way the porch light haloed his profile in a soft glow.
It was quiet—too quiet—and the weight of everything I’d just admitted sat heavily on my shoulders. I’d said more just now about my past than I had in years. Had shown Ethan pieces of myself I usually kept locked down and smoothed over with jokes and swagger.
And he hadn’t judged me for any of it. If anything, it almost felt like he saw me in a way few really did.
And that scared the absolute shit out of me.
And when I felt this way, I did stupid shit. Said stupid things.
Generally turned into a fucking asshole.
I leaned back in my chair, rocking it onto two legs, my fingers hooked over the slats of the backrest. “Anyway. Going back to your earlier question,” I said, my voice outwardly casual while my pulse hammered in my neck. “I do like girls.” I balanced the chair there for a second before letting it fall back onto all fours with a soft thud . “But I prefer guys.”
Ethan’s head snapped up, his gaze cutting to mine—sharp, startled, and oh so hungry.
I knew I should stop, but I couldn’t seem to pump the brakes on my mouth. Because that look on his face? That flicker of heat, the crack in his careful composure?
It lit a fuse that I felt low in my gut.
And it made me reckless.
And yeah, a bit of an asshole, too.
But I had to know. Had to see.
Needed to find out.
“There’s just something about all that strength, you know?” I continued, my voice dipping lower, growing rougher, like we were sharing an intimate secret.
Which, I guess, in a way, I was sharing that with him. Even though he hadn’t asked me to, I couldn’t stop myself from speaking.
“There’s just something about watching a man crack open for you. And hearing the sounds he makes when he finally lets go?” A physical shiver passed through me, and I didn’t try to hide it. “Fuck. It’s addictive.”
For half a second, I thought I’d gone too far. Regretted pushing. Thought maybe I’d misread the moment.
But then his eyes dropped to my mouth, and his pupils dilated.
His breath stuttered, and his fingers flexed against the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.
I watched as heat bloomed in his cheeks, his complexion betraying him.
Blood rushed south so fast it made me dizzy. I’d been half-hard already, but seeing the physical manifestations of Ethan’s desire had my cock tenting my shorts. My whole body was primed and thrumming, caught somewhere between panic and pure, unfiltered need, my heart hammering in my chest loud enough that I was sure he could hear it.
I didn’t even realize I was leaning toward him until his chair scraped over the flagstones with a loud screech .
“Fuck you, Bell,” he seethed, before he turned and fled into the house, the door banging shut behind him.
I sat there for a few seconds, my breath coming too fast, my skin feeling too hot, and my cock throbbing like it had its own goddamn heartbeat.
Then I stood, my legs shaky beneath me, and stumbled through the darkened house to my room like I was drunk. I didn’t even bother turning on the lights when I got there. Just flung the door shut behind me and stripped down fast—shirt yanked over my head and my shorts and boxer briefs shoved quickly down my legs, catching around one ankle until I stumbled and kicked them aside.
My cock was hard and leaking when I dropped onto my bed, the cotton duvet cool against my overheated skin. I spat into my palm and wrapped a hand around myself with a strangled groan.
My whole body arched off the mattress with the first stroke.
Ethan’s flushed face flickered behind my eyelids, the way his pupils blew wide when I talked about getting a man to come apart for me. The way he stared at my mouth like he wanted to devour it. The quiet, desperate hunger he’d tried so hard to hide.
Fuck.
He wanted me. Even if he didn’t say it. Even if he didn’t know what to do with that want.
I bit down on my bottom lip, but it wasn’t enough to muffle the noises spilling out of me. I clamped my free hand over my mouth instead to keep from gasping his name too loudly.
Because his bedroom was right there.
Right fucking there.
And the thought of him hearing me? Of knowing what I was doing, what he’d made me want to do without ever even touching me?
Fuck.
I stroked harder, faster, my thumb smearing pre-come over the flushed head of mu cock. My thighs tensed, and my hips bucked up into my fist. My whole body was strung so tight I thought I might snap.
After a few more rough pulls, I came hard, my orgasm tearing through me so violently I had to bite down on my hand to keep from crying out. Hot stripes of cum splattered across my chest, my stomach, and dribbled down my wrist.
I lay there in the dark, panting into the crook of my arm, my body spent but still humming.
But as the last aftershocks pulsed through me and the high started to fade, a cold prickle settled at the base of my spine.
I dragged a hand over my face and whispered to the ceiling, “What have I done?”