26. Ethan
26
ETHAN
Snow flutters outside, layering the street in icy lace. The neighborhood is silent, every sound softened, hushed, as if the whole world’s a snow globe. From the window, the streetlights look like tiny stars trying to pierce through the gray haze. It’s late, too late for me to be sitting here, but sleep feels far away tonight.
There’s a restlessness pressing in, the kind that starts small but sinks deep, settling just beneath the ribs.
It’s the kind of night when I’d love to be wrapped up in Holly’s arms, while she tells me about silly Christmas parties and jokes her parents tell around the bright Christmas trees.
Wishes clearly aren’t horses.
I’m stuck sitting out here while Holly’s door is shut with a finality I’ll never get used to. She disappeared hours ago, just after I arrived home. And the only thing stopping me from walking to her door to knock is guilt burning below my ribs. The truth of the day lingers, coiled up in a half-truth and one big, blatant lie—I wasn’t with the guys. I’d spent the day doing something that makes me burn with shame.
I don’t know if it’s my lie or something else, but something’s off with Holly. She’d been silent, careful even, the way people are when they’re sitting on something heavy. And the tension—that familiar, invisible pull in the air—keeps dragging my thoughts back to her.
And I’m on my second glass of beer because a drink seems like the logical way to drown the uncertainty. The glass in hand doesn’t do much, though, and the snow’s barely a distraction. But maybe she’s asleep now. She’d said goodnight so subtly earlier, like she’d been balancing on a wire. If she’s up there, asleep or even pretending to be, all this guilt doesn’t get any easier.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, a sharp pulse against the quiet of the night. It’s not exactly a welcome noise, and I pull the gadget out sluggishly; the name flashing on the screen drags me straight back to my lie.
It’s Mandy. The woman I’d spent the day with.
Answering means stepping outside, and with a quiet as close to silent as possible, the door opens and clicks shut behind me. The air’s sharp enough to cut skin, but the shed’s close enough for cover.
“Ethan?” her voice comes through, soft, hesitant.
“Mandy.” There’s no warmth in it. No need for pretense. She can’t feel it, but out here, the air’s even colder, the kind that seeps in, stiffening everything from hands to resolve.
“Thank you for meeting me earlier today.”
“You said I’m your only family member in town.”
She chuckles dryly. “That’s true. But you don’t owe it to me to come see me. And it’s also true I’d have been stranded on a cold snowy day in Chicago if you decided not to see me. So, thank you, again.”
Mandy is the only member of Frank Carter’s nuclear family that I can stand. And when she’d called me on my way to Ryan’s to say that she’s in town and she had nowhere to stay, I’d asked her to meet me at the Blizzards mall.
David and Mandy used to be very close but my uncle Frank and his wife Gloria did everything to separate them, just like they did everything to make my brother’s life, and mine, difficult, but I’d never forget the times Mandy had our backs. But her being in Chicago means something’s up and she told me she was too embarrassed to tell me to my face earlier today but she’d call later.
It seems she’s found her courage.
“You can speak to me, Mandy.”
“Ethan, I know it isn’t fair to ask anything of you, and you owe us nothing. And my mom also shouldn’t be able to ask anything more. But,” her words tangle as she sniffles, “Mom’s got a plan. A business. And somehow, you’re the one tapped to help us get it off the ground.”
My sigh pulls itself out without permission. Gloria, who made it clear to anyone who’d listen, over the years just how worthless the Carter brothers were in her eyes. Who hadn’t lifted a finger when we’d been up against everything on our own. And now, I’m being asked to open up the bank for her?
Mandy’s voice softens, as if she can sense the tension through the line. “You’re probably hating every second of this.”
The understatement of the century. “Mandy, we both know this isn’t your fault. But Gloria sent you because you’re the one I’d listen to, right?”
A long pause hangs between us. Finally, a sigh. “She thinks I can make you see it’s a family thing, that we’re trying to keep something afloat.”
Family. That word feels as fake as any greeting card message when it comes to Uncle Frank’s circle. Blood ties that are meant to mean loyalty, protection, a bond. Instead, they’re just a chain, weighed down with the same manipulations over and over. And Mandy, as much as she might try, is just another link.
Still, she waits. There’s no one else who could ask this and be given the time of day. And the irony sits in my stomach like a stone.
“I’ll help you,” the words spill out before they’re ready. A small way to close this chapter. But the terms come out firm. “This is the last favor. After this, the tab’s closed.”
Silence again, broken by a soft, almost resigned, “Thank you.” She pauses, adds, “I hope you find the kind of peace you’ve been looking for away from us. Really.”
A click, and the call’s over. The quiet that follows is nearly oppressive.
Returning to the house, it’s hard to shake off the weight of the call. Family—always just one small favor away from bringing the past back. Inside, there’s warmth again, the scent of pine filling the air from the decorated Christmas tree, blinking with soft lights. But instead of the comfort, it’s a reminder that this season, so steeped in family tradition, carries its own ghosts.
As if sensing my mood, the lights flicker across the living room, their soft glow dancing across the room. But it’s Holly who catches my attention—standing in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze watchful.
“You’re still awake,” the words stumble out, an attempt to recover from the surprise of her presence.
She raises a brow, eyes flicking to the phone still in my hand. “I heard the door. Did you ... have a call?”
“Yeah,” slips out without conviction. “Just ... the agent.”
The look she gives holds every ounce of doubt she must be feeling, her lips pressing into a thin line as if trying to hold back something sharper. She nods once, quietly, picking up a bottle of water from the counter. Her movements are smooth, controlled, but it’s the tension in her shoulders that says she’s carrying something too heavy.
“Something wrong?” The question’s as careful as a step onto thin ice.
She gives a small shake of her head. “Nothing. Just needed some water.”
Her retreat is swift. She turns around and heads off to her room, and all that’s left is the quiet, her silent words still hanging in the air. It’s not a good night. Not with this much unsaid, lingering in the space between us.
I want to rush to her door, knock on it, ask her to give me another chance to explain things, but I’m scared Holly won’t see things as I do. She grew up sheltered in a huge family. She’s always spoken glowingly about big family parties and everyone on good terms with each other. It’s a stark contrast to the mess that is the Carters.
And I’m worried that it won’t paint me in positive light if I open up on this to her.
A week goes by, and every day feels as though the silence around me and Holly has wrapped itself tighter. She’s there, but distant, polite. The kind of careful calm that feels more unsettling than an argument would.
I’d mostly say she avoids me, but whenever I’m around, she moves through the house in a labored way, pale, her words clipped, with a smile that’s a shadow of its usual self.
Seeing her that way fills me with an ache that has no easy cure.
Today’s practice, every pass, every hit against the boards, feels hollow. The puck slides away as if it, too, senses the unease. Each lap around the ice is colder, the layers of padding and helmet doing nothing against the bite of the chill inside.
And the guys? They’re starting to notice. Even Ryan’s usual quips are toned down, his gaze catching mine in a way that holds questions. But none can be answered here, on the ice, where the focus is supposed to be on the game. Only, the game feels like just another empty motion right now.
After practice, Reid calls me into the office. He’s perched by his desk, that usual managerial glint in his eyes as he leans back, watching with a calm that feels anything but.
“You’ve been making strides,” he starts, voice smooth, the kind that’s meant to build trust. “The fan engagement has been remarkable. The team’s never looked better. And, by the way, Raymond Blue’s latest article? Glowing.”
A pause, sharp and heavy. “That raises some flags.”
“And he’s asked for an interview.”
Suspicion snakes through the relief that had barely settled. Raymond Blue—my personal favorite nightmare, known for spinning even the most innocent news into something dark and twisted. Trusting him is like shaking hands with a snake.
“Interview?” The word tastes bitter.
Reid’s nod is firm, like this is some well-thought strategy instead of a dangerous invitation. “Think about it. The man’s got influence, and if he’s writing positively, there’s a chance to keep that momentum. Meet him, see if he’s genuine.”
Genuine . If Blue’s genuine, then hockey’s a ballroom dance, and this meeting’s about to become some choreographed disaster. But Reid’s stance is clear—no sense arguing. This is just another hoop to jump through, another PR move that’s meant to do the team good.
Reid gives me a location to meet him—a swanky restaurant that’s as exclusive as the high rollers who frequent it. Fine. He wants a meeting? We’ll see just how friendly he can be when he’s backed into a corner.
The restaurant’s the kind of place where subtlety is an art form—lighting so dim it feels like a conspiracy, waiters who glide with the precision of ghosts, and decor that whispers wealth in soft, shadowed tones. It’s a place meant for secrecy, and maybe that’s why Raymond Blue chose it. He’s seated when I arrive, his expression smug, eyes glinting like a predator who’s already seen his prey fall.
“Ethan,” he greets, his voice dripping with that familiar, slimy slickness. “Imagine my surprise that you actually accepted the invitation. Almost feels ... friendly.”
My jaw tightens as I resist the urge to turn on my heel and leave, but I force myself to sit. This isn’t about me—it's about Holly. Blue knows that, and he’s playing every angle he can. A waiter hovers nearby, clearly sensing the tension, but Blue flicks his wrist dismissively, keeping his gaze locked on mine like he’s got all the cards.
“Let’s cut the crap, Blue,” I say, voice laced with the edge of my anger. “What’s your angle here?”
His smirk spreads wider, that gleam in his eye sharpening as he slides a photograph across the table. I don’t even need to look closely to know what it is. It’s a snapshot of Holly and me, caught mid-laughter, her face lit up in that way that made me feel like we were the only two people in the world. I grind my teeth, forcing myself to keep steady, but he knows the impact he’s made.
Blue leans back, looking like a man who’s just pulled off the perfect heist. “Release this photo,” he drawls, his voice a soft, mocking lilt, “and she’ll be the one to suffer. A media frenzy, maybe even some ‘fan concerns’ about her professionalism.” He tilts his head, his grin almost gleeful. “And, of course, her past with Jake Roland? A scandal magnet in her own right. The public will eat it up, Ethan. They’d practically demand her head on a platter.”
I lean close to him, resisting the urge to yank him closer, barely able to hold my wrath. “You should know that if you hurt her, it’ll be the last thing you do.”
“And you should know when violence isn’t the way to go, Carter.”
Every muscle in my body screams for me to slam that smug face of his into the table, but I force myself to breathe. He’s fishing for a reaction, banking on the idea that I’ll lose my cool and give him even more ammunition. I force my voice to stay steady, each word like a razor’s edge. “And what exactly do you think you’ll gain from this, Blue? Blackmail’s a pretty big leap for a guy whose job is to write about sports.”
He gives a lazy shrug, his gaze never faltering. “I think it’ll get me quite a lot, actually. Here’s the deal. I want exclusive access to you, Ethan. Stories, behind-the-scenes details, the works. I want to be the one with all the insider knowledge on the Chicago Blizzards. And in return, well … you get to keep Holly’s reputation intact.”
There’s a spark of triumph in his eyes, like he’s already celebrating his victory. “Come on, Ethan,” he says, voice softening as if he’s doing me a favor. “Think about it—a fair trade. Her career stays untouched, her history with Roland fades into the background, and you become my little source on the inside. No one has to know how I got the scoop.”
The rage that’s been simmering beneath the surface threatens to boil over, but I clamp down hard, forcing it back. I lean forward, lowering my voice, every word laced with venom. “If you so much as breathe Holly’s name again, you’ll regret it. I swear, I’ll end you, Blue.”
He chuckles, the sound low and taunting. “You’ve got that all wrong, Carter. I’m not the enemy here. No, no—you’re going to help me. And if you manage things well, Holly’s news never sees the light of day.” He lifts his glass, a mock toast to his supposed genius. “So? Think about it. What’s a little ‘exclusive access’ compared to her career, her reputation?”
I clench my fists under the table, every instinct screaming at me to walk away, to refuse. But Holly’s face flashes in my mind—her smile, her laugh, the way she’s poured everything into this job. She’s worked too hard to have it torn down by someone like Blue.
He watches me in silence, sensing the internal war raging in my head. When I don’t respond right away, he leans forward, voice dropping. “You don’t have to decide now,” he says with a predatory grin. “But I’ll expect your cooperation moving forward. If you play nice, then we’ll keep this between us. Just remember ... I’ve got all the cards, Ethan.”
He stands, straightening his jacket like this is just business as usual. He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, his smirk even wider. “I’ll leave you to your meal, Carter. I’ve had my fill for the night.”
Then he strolls out, leaving me alone in the dim light, with a twisted choice gnawing at my gut.