12. Ethan
12
ETHAN
There are reasons hockey players don't do feelings. Feelings are messy. Like when the ketchup bottle explodes all over your fries. Or when you’ve got a friend like Ryan, who can read you like a book, staring you down.
“One word, and I’m throwing you out of the car.”
Ryan chuckles, throwing his arm over the back of the seat, peering at me like some deadbeat physiognomist. “I haven’t spoken a word, man.”
My nose wrinkles. “Your grin’s way too smug for someone getting a free lift.”
"Bro, you're like ... happy or something?" Ryan gives me a look like I’ve grown a second head. He’s lounging in the passenger seat of my truck like he belongs there, one leg thrown up on the dash, wearing this I’m gonna ruin your day grin.
"What? I’m not allowed to be in a good mood?" I shoot back, cranking the steering wheel to avoid a pothole big enough to swallow five pucks.
Ryan doesn’t buy it. He’s been my teammate long enough to know I don’t do ‘good moods.’ Not around Christmas anyway. He begged me to lose the frown last year when we were up by three in the final period with a power play—that’s how bad it is.
"You don’t do good moods. Nah, not buying it. But you know what I do buy?" He stretches, all casual like he’s definitely about to say something that’ll make me think about driving him off a cliff. " Holly . Your new roomie. Something going on there? Some roommate with benefits shit?"
There it is. The pothole I can’t dodge. My grip on the steering wheel tightens.
“Shut up, Connors!”
Ryan laughs, that infuriating chuckle that only he can pull off without getting decked. "Come on, man. I’ve seen you since she moved in. Suddenly, Ethan Carter, aka Ice King, is all ... soft."
Soft? Me?
"You sure it’s not just your brain going soft?" I shoot back, swerving the car around a slowpoke Prius. Honestly, who drives a Prius in Chicago? It's like they want to die in a snowbank.
"Oh, I’m soft? Dude, you’re practically skipping into practice these days. I swear, next thing I know, you’ll be doing TikTok dances in the locker room."
“You’re making up a Netflix rom-com plot in your head. Maybe you should drop the hockey stick and pick up a pen.”
“You know I’m right,” he taps the dashboard like he’s about to give me some deep, life-changing advice. "You caved on the whole promo thing too. You, of all people! And you didn’t even throw a tantrum. If that’s not ‘I’m crushing on my hot roommate’ behavior, then I don’t know what is."
I don’t answer. Partly because he’s kinda right, but mostly because I’m still trying to figure out what the hell the last two days even meant. Holly. Me. The thing we did. Or, well ... things .
Ryan keeps going, because obviously he doesn’t care if I’m having an existential crisis behind the wheel. " Plus , I heard her ex is Jake Roland. And he’s in town. You sure you wanna go head-to-head with some big-shot Hollywood type?"
My jaw tightens. Jake. The name alone is enough to make me want to check someone into the boards—hard. "Don’t even mention that guy."
"Whoa, easy there, tiger," Ryan says, holding up his hands like I’m about to tackle him right in the truck. "What did Jake ever do to you, man?"
"Existing is enough," I growl, gripping the wheel until my knuckles are white.
Ryan’s smirk grows. "Aww, this is cute . You’re breaking your ‘no hate without knowing’ rule for this guy. Must be super bad if Mr. Know-the-Guy-First is out here throwing shade."
"I know enough," I say, trying to keep the bite out of my voice. "He’s all talk. All ego. No substance."
Ryan grins wider, which shouldn’t be physically possible, but here we are. "Suuuure. And this has nothing to do with Holly? You’re just randomly going full-on defense mode ‘cause you, what? Hate Hollywood now?"
Deflection time.
"Speaking of women, what’s up with you ? Thought you were swiping right on every girl in Chicago. But lately ... you’ve been looking kinda settled ."
Ryan rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue, which is weird. "Yeah, yeah. People change, man."
"People, maybe. You ? Nah." I glance over at him, eyebrow raised. "I know you as well as you know me. So, who’s the unlucky lady?"
He hesitates. Which means it’s someone I know. "Lauren."
I nearly swerve into oncoming traffic. " Lauren ? No way.”
“I’m in trouble, right?”
“Our team therapist? I know we’re all close and all, but she literally gets paid to get inside our heads."
"Yeah, I know," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. "It’s complicated."
Complicated. Right . "Dude, when did this start? And is she even into you?”
Ryan sighs dramatically, like he’s about to deliver the kind of line you’d hear in a rom-com. "It’s not like that. She just ... she gets under my skin, you know?"
I bark out a laugh. "You mean she calls you out on your BS. And you like it."
"Shut up." He’s grinning now, though. " You’re the one humming like a Disney princess because of your girl."
Before I can come up with a decent comeback, we pull into the parking lot at the training center. The ice rink looms ahead, all cold steel and glass, waiting. Always waiting.
Ryan hops out of the truck, still smirking. "Catch you inside, lover boy."
Great. Fantastic . This is my life now—getting roasted by Ryan. I have to take it until I can sort out the mess in my head, and what Holly wants as well.
Inside the locker room, it’s the usual chaos: Liam’s got his helmet on backward, guys are shouting about last night’s game, and the place smells like a mix of sweat and stale Gatorade.
Liam grins at me, still wearing his helmet like it’s a fashion statement. "Yo! Carter! You ready to destroy today?"
"Always," I grunt, sliding into my routine. Gear on, head down, and just when I think I’m in the clear?—
One of the staff taps me on the shoulder. "Hey, Ethan. Reid wants to see you. Now."
Just perfect.
"Now?" I ask, halfway through pulling on my jersey.
"Yeah, says it’s urgent."
I shoot a glance over at Ryan, who’s busy flirting with the Gatorade cooler. He catches my eye and smirks again. "Uh-oh, someone’s in trouble. Did you finally break something?"
"Shut up." I shrug into my jacket and head for Reid’s office, trying not to think about what fresh hell awaits. Meetings with Reid? Always a bad sign. Always.
The office is cold. Like, seriously cold, which makes sense ‘cause Reid has all the warmth of a glacier. His office is all polished wood, glass, and leather, and he’s sitting behind his desk like a villain in a movie where the hero’s about to get fired—or worse.
"Ethan." He gestures for me to sit. Not a good start.
I sit, and he slides his tablet toward me, no smile, no small talk. "Thought you should see this before it goes live tomorrow."
I glance down at the screen, and boom—there’s my name in big, bold letters:
"Chicago’s Ice King Leaves Family in the Cold: The Real Story Behind Ethan Carter’s Success."
Raymond Blue strikes again.
I snort, because honestly, what else is there to do? " This guy. He’s obsessed."
“I know,” Reid leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "But that’s the problem, Ethan. It doesn’t matter what the truth is. What matters is what people think the truth is."
Swiping through the article, my stomach churns. All this BS about my family, how they supposedly gave up everything for me while I turned my back on them. It’s ridiculous. But PR is a funny thing—funny in the way a punch to the gut is funny.
"This is insane," I say, my laughter a little too bitter. "No one’s gonna believe this crap."
"You sure about that?" Reid’s voice is low, but there’s no mistaking the warning in it.
The silence stretches between us, cold and sharp.
Reid taps the desk with his fingers, his face softening—just barely. "I’ve been telling you to engage more with the fans, Ethan. Show them who you are. Because if you don’t? This is what they see. And this? Hurts more than just you. It hurts the team."
My jaw clenches. "So, what? My life isn’t mine anymore?"
Reid sighs, rubbing his temple like he’s heard this all before. "When you’re the face of the Blizzards? No. Your life is public. You have to own that, Ethan."
The words hit harder than they should. It’s not like he’s wrong. Doesn’t make it any easier to swallow, though.
"Fine. I’ll deal with it." Pushing the tablet back, I stand up, my chest tight. "But this? It’s low. Even for Blue."
Reid nods. "I know. But keep your head down. Focus on the next game."
Dismissed.
Great.
Back at the rink, I pull on my gear and hit the ice, but my head’s not in it. Every hit, every pass, feels too sharp, too fast. It’s like the anger won’t leave, no matter how hard I skate. The sound of a shoulder check hitting the boards is the only thing that feels real.
Then I’m face-to-face with the overeager reserve player who knocked me down, and before I know it, gloves are off and the whole team circles around us. Coach Andrew’s shrill whistle snaps me back to reality
"Carter! Off the ice!"
And just like that, I’m benched. The coach sends me home after letting me stew for a bit more time.
The drive home is quiet. Too quiet. Normally, Ryan would be cracking jokes, calling out my bad mood, but he’s still at the rink. No one to distract me from my own thoughts. Just the sound of the engine and the growing weight in my chest.
Pulling into the garage, I sit there for a minute, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles ache. I don’t wanna go inside. Not yet. Not when Holly’s probably waiting, and all I’ve got is bad news.
Then there’s a knock on the window. Holly. She’s standing there, looking like she stepped out of some cozy Instagram reel—oversized sweater showing off two dots, spilling her braless secret, leggings, messy bun. Casual, effortless, and, of course, ridiculously beautiful.
"You good?" She raises an eyebrow, leaning down to peer through the window. "Or is the car winning whatever fight you’ve got going on in there?"
Rolling down the window, I shake my head. "Just ... stuff. No big deal."
She tilts her head, studying me like she doesn’t quite believe it. "Wanna talk about it?"
"Nah." I force a smile, climbing out of the car. "It’s nothing."
Holly’s eyes linger on me for a second longer, then she shrugs. "Okay. But, hey—if you wanna talk at any minute, know that I’m here."
"Yeah." I lean against the car, trying to push everything else away. Focus on her. On now. "Tell me about your day."
And for a moment, it works. Everything else fades.
Holly’s voice bounces in my ears as we step into the house, her hands waving around while she talks about the Christmas showcase like it’s the next Coachella. I nod, doing my best to stay present, even though my brain is still replaying the disaster that was practice. And that article. And Reid. Pretty much all of it.
“So, I was thinking, we hang these massive icicle lights all around the rink,” Holly says, practically glowing. “It’ll be like Frozen, but, you know, with less Elsa and more hockey players.”
“Sounds cool,” I mumble, still trying to shake the image of Raymond Blue’s smug face from my mind. Why do the worst people in life get all the media gigs?
She pauses, eyes narrowing. “Cool? That’s all you’ve got? Come on, Carter, this is going to be epic. We’re talking full-on Instagram-able Christmas vibes. Do you have any idea how many viral TikToks could come out of this? We could break the internet.”
“Right, right. Totally. Very... TikTok-able,” I say, trying to sound like I’m 100% invested in Christmas decor and not mentally preparing to punch a wall.
We step into the kitchen, and Holly stops by the counter, her eyes darting to the fridge. "Hey, you want something quick to eat? I was thinking a low-carb snack or something, if you're into that whole post-practice, no-carb thing." She winks. "Gotta keep those abs, right?"
"Sure," I say, leaning against the counter, trying to focus on anything but the burning sensation creeping up my neck from the anger still simmering inside.
"Okay! I'll grab something real quick," she says, disappearing into the pantry, humming some upbeat tune like everything in the world is sunshine and glitter.
My phone pings. Please let this not be what I think it is .
Pulling it out, I swipe to the new message, and there it is: Jake Carter . The guy who makes Jake Roland look like a saint. Entitled, spoiled, and the human embodiment of a bad DM.
Jake: Hey, cuz. Just a friendly reminder: if you don’t send that check over by tomorrow, I’m gonna make sure that journalist writes another piece about how you’ve “forgotten where you came from.” You know how this works. Play nice.
Play nice? More like play dirty , and he’s the one with all the mud.
A low growl rumbles up from my throat before I can stop it, and the word comes out louder than expected. “Bullshit!”
Right as Holly walks in holding a tray of something that looks way too healthy to taste good. She freezes, eyes wide. "Excuse me?"
My heart drops. Of course. Timing’s always perfect when life’s trying to mess with you. "Sorry," I mutter, quickly pocketing my phone. "Not you. Definitely not you."
She raises an eyebrow, curiosity practically oozing out of her. "Right. Not me. So ... wanna talk about it? Or is yelling at imaginary things a new post-hockey thing you're doing?"
“Uh...” My brain scrambles, trying to catch up. "Look, I’ll take a raincheck on that snack, okay? Something came up, and I need to deal with it. Like, now."
She steps forward, setting the tray down with a clink , her eyes narrowing again. "Are you sure? You look kinda?—"
"Yeah," I cut her off, trying not to sound as frantic as I feel. "Definitely. Just ... give me a minute, alright?"
Before she can throw another suspicious look my way, I’m out the door, practically running like I’m escaping a crime scene. No way am I sticking around for more questions or for Holly to see me explode over Jake’s idiotic threats.
Because right now? Punching something sounds like a really, really good idea.