Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
ETHAN
The moment the puck dropped, I knew I wasn’t in the right headspace for tonight’s game.
My blade caught wrong on my first shift on the ice. Nothing major, just a stutter-step that threw off my rhythm. I recovered, but it was enough for Washington to swarm, intercept the puck, and fire it back into our zone.
I muttered a string of curses under my breath as I pivoted and chased it down.
The rest of the period followed that same rhythm; I was always just a bit off. Too wide on a pass. Too slow on a line change.
Too much in my head.
Coach’s voice barked out across the ice as I skated past, “Play smart, Harrison, and get your head in the damn game!”
I gritted my teeth and nodded in his direction. The problem wasn’t smarts, though. It wasn’t conditioning or my ability to read our opponents.
My problem was that, mentally, I was stuck in my backyard on a beautiful Texas evening.
My problem was a mouth I couldn’t stop dreaming about and a voice that haunted my every waking thought—and most of the unawake ones, too.
My problem was Stryker Fucking Bell.
He’d pushed that night. Said things he shouldn’t have said and saw things he shouldn’t have seen.
And what was worse was that I’d wanted it. Wanted him.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the heat in his voice or the way my body had responded.
And now here I was on the ice, where I was supposed to be a goddamn professional, and I couldn’t get him out of my head long enough to make a clean fucking pass.
Oscar barked my name as we scrambled for a rebound. I snapped back into motion, skated hard, and got there half a second too late. The puck ricocheted off the goalie’s pads and landed right on their star winger’s stick for a breakaway.
My stomach dropped.
I chased like hell, but I couldn’t close the gap. I barely made it to the blue line before the puck sailed past Mantei and hit the back of the twine with a sickening thunk .
The horn blew. The home crowd roared.
I bent at the waist, hands on my knees, sucking in air as shame washed over me.
Bell skated past me at the end of our shift, his eyes flicking toward me for a brief second. There was something in his expression that made me wince. Concern, maybe? Annoyance?
Whatever it was, it was nothing like the way he’d looked at me almost a week ago. Like he could see into my soul and knew all my deepest, darkest secrets.
I didn’t have time to dwell on it, though. Not when I got thrown back on the ice a couple of minutes later and immediately flubbed a pass that should’ve been routine. The puck bounced off my stick and sailed down the ice for an icing call, forcing our already gassed line back out for the draw.
Coach’s glare burned into me as I skated back to the bench. “Keep your head in it, Harrison!”
I nodded, throat tight, heart pounding. I tried to reset, but the next shift was even worse. I pinched too soon on a board battle, left my man wide open in the slot, and watched helplessly as the puck found his tape and then the back of our net.
When I came off again, my legs heavy and sweat dripping down my brow, Coach didn’t even wait for me to sit before he approached. “You’re done for the night.”
Eleven minutes left on the clock, and I didn’t argue. What would’ve been the point?
I simply dropped to the bench, my chest heaving and my gear soaked through with sweat and shame as I stared straight ahead, my jaw clenched tight enough to crack my molars.
My dentist was going to have a field day at my next appointment.
When the buzzer finally sounded, I didn’t know whether to be relieved or furious. It was our first loss of the regular season, and it felt like that was all down to my piss-poor performance.
Logically, I knew I hadn’t lost the game alone.
But logic and I weren’t exactly on speaking terms lately.
The locker room was quiet. No chirping or post-game bullshit. Just the hiss of the showers and the scrape of gear being stripped off.
I sat there in my own head, the weight of every blown play pressing down on my shoulders and feeling every mistake in my bones.
Across the room, Bell sat with a towel slung around his neck, bent over, unlacing his skates. When he sat back up, his gaze was a hum under my skin. His shoulders were tense, his mouth pressed in a flat line like he wanted to say something but knew better than to try.
Good.
Because I didn’t trust myself not to snap.
By the time I showered and suited back up, half the team had already cleared out. I pulled on my jacket, gave my cuffs a sharp tug, and squared my shoulders.
My dress shoes clicked against the concrete as I followed the rest of the stragglers toward the exit to head to the team bus.
I was almost there when I heard a quiet “Harrison” spoken from behind me.
I turned to see Viggy falling into step beside me. We walked together in silence for a few strides until he said, “You good?”
I gave him the barest of nods. “Yeah.”
He didn’t press for more. Viggy never did. That was part of what made him a good captain. He gave you space unless you made it clear you needed more.
“Tough game tonight.”
“Yeah,” I said. That was about as much introspection as I was capable of, and Viggy knew better than to expect more from me.
“You’ll bounce back,” he said, no trace of doubt in his voice.
I nodded again. “Yeah, I will.”
He gave me a quick chin lift and peeled off toward one of the rookies, probably to give him a word of encouragement before the kid spiraled too hard about his blown coverage in the second.
I headed for the bus, my jaw tight. I appreciated the check-in. Really, I did. But whatever was going on with me? That wasn’t something Viggy—or anyone else—could fix.
Because this wasn’t about hockey.
This was about my roommate and the voice that was burned into my brain. The mouth I couldn’t stop staring at. Those blue fucking eyes that caught everything—sharp, intuitive, and too damn knowing.
It was about those strong, calloused hands that made me wonder what they’d feel like pressing me down into the mattress.
This was about Stryker Bell and the way he’d upended my whole fucking life.
* * *
The door clicked shut behind me.
I dropped my duffel and peeled off my jacket, hanging it in the closet on autopilot. My muscles ached with something deeper than exhaustion. I crossed to the window and tugged the curtains open, letting in the glow of the city beyond and the distant hum of traffic. Watching cars crawl down the street, I suddenly felt like I was suffocating.
I pulled at my tie to loosen it. It caught on my collar, and I gave up—yanking it off over my head and flinging it toward the nearest chair.
I needed a minute.
Just one fucking minute to breathe before Bell showed up and filled this small space with the intoxicating scent of his cologne—something earthy and dark with a hint of spice. It was always strongest after he got out of the shower, and I knew the second he stepped inside this room, I’d want to drown in it.
I’d been mentally bracing for this night all week, telling myself I could handle it.
That I could keep things professional between us.
That I wasn’t obsessing over the way his mouth moved when he’d said, “Fuck, it’s addictive,” in that low, sexy rumble that made my dick instantly hard.
But the absolute craziest thing about all this?
It wasn’t only physical.
Hard as I tried to fight it, I actually liked the guy.
What used to annoy the shit out of me about Bell had become the things I looked forward to most now. I caught myself waiting to hear what outrageous thing he’d say next. Wondering what stunt he’d pull just to get a rise out of me.
And that night on my patio, when he’d dropped the act for a few minutes and just let me see him?
Fuck.
All I wanted to do was pull him close and tell him he was okay. Safe. Wanted.
And that scared the ever-loving shit out of me.
I’d never felt that way about anyone in my entire life, and I sure as hell didn’t know what the fuck to do with those feelings now.
I blew out a breath as I moved to the bed closest to the window, sinking down on its edge. Elbows on my knees. Head cradled in my hands.
I needed to get it together before this whole thing spun even further out of control.
The lock clicked.
I sat up straight, scrubbing my hands over my face as the door swung open.
Bell stepped inside, his bag slung over his shoulder, his hair still damp from his post-game shower. He paused, wariness flickering on his face when he saw me just sitting there.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low, careful.
I lifted my chin. “Hey.”
He shut the door behind him, the sound seeming to echo loudly in the room. The air between us buzzed with everything that had happened out on that patio, everything we hadn’t said since.
Silently, he made his way to the other bed, dropping his bag by the nightstand. He toed off his shoes, his movements slower than usual. More deliberate.
He sank down onto the edge of his bed, his fingers working at the cuffs of his dress shirt. I stared as he rolled the sleeves up, one then the other, baring forearms dusted in light gold. His hands—strong, sure, and unfairly graceful—moved with the kind of unhurried focus that made my skin prickle and my mouth go dry.
“You okay?” he asked, not looking at me as he rocked onto his hip and pulled his phone out of his pocket, placing it screen-side down on the table between our beds.
I exhaled slowly through my nose. “Fine.”
I couldn’t stop staring as he flopped backward with a quiet grunt and draped an arm over his eyes. His dress shirt pulled tightly across his chest with the movement.
For a minute, all I could hear was the hum of the heater and the occasional car horn blaring outside. The silence stretched between us, humming like a live wire just waiting to snap.
“What happened out there tonight?” he asked eventually, sliding his arm off his face and glancing over at me.
I barked out a humorless laugh. “You mean me playing like shit?” I raised an eyebrow, silently challenging him to deny it.
“Everyone has bad games.”
“Not me.” It came out low, rough, like it hurt to say out loud. “I don’t get to fuck up like that.”
Bell didn’t say anything, but the look on his face—soft around the edges, like he saw too much—twisted something sharp in my chest.
He exhaled slowly, and the sound of it curled low in my gut, hot and unbearable.
I couldn’t handle that look from him. Not tonight. Not when I already felt like I was hanging on by a thread.
I shot to my feet and stalked to the dresser, yanking open a drawer—just needing something to do with my hands. Anything to keep them from shaking. “You can take the first shower,” I said over my shoulder.
He hesitated. “Already had one at the rink.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was worse than that. It was charged. Heavy with everything we hadn’t said and all the things I was terrified to admit.
I shoved the drawer closed and turned, restless energy crackling under my skin.
Bell rotated to face me, his feet planted on the floor in the space between our beds. His hands were loose at his side. He looked relaxed, composed. Like he wasn’t the reason my entire life felt like it was teetering on the fucking edge.
I scrubbed a hand over my mouth, pacing a short, jagged line across the room.
The way he was acting—so damn calm—made something ugly twist inside me. It wasn’t fair. He was the one who’d pushed and pushed. Who’d seen more than he should have. Who’d made me feel too much.
My chest tightened, my breath coming faster.
“Are you just gonna sit there and pretend my backyard never happened?” I forced out from between clenched teeth before I could stop myself. “All fucking week, you’ve given me the silent treatment. Let me stew in it. What the fuck is wrong with you, man?”
Bell blinked, his eyes flashing with something I couldn’t name. “I’ve been giving you space.”
“Space?” I laughed, the sound sharp and ugly. “You didn’t seem all that worried about space when you were talking about how you like to fuck. When you were pushing every damn button of mine you could find.”
He didn’t defend himself or try to explain why he’d done what he did. Just sat there, looking up at me with those clear, steady eyes like he wasn’t afraid of what he’d unleashed.
And that pissed me off even more.
“Was this some sort of joke to you? Fuck with the gay guy to see what sort of reaction you’d get?”