4. Ethan
4
ETHAN
T he arena feels like a pressure cooker, ready to explode. I don't really want to be here, but I have no fucking choice. Traded and thrown into the wolves' den, the irony. The whispers and cold stares as I walk into the locker room are almost tangible.
"Traitor," someone mutters under their breath.
"Dirty player," another voice joins in.
I catch a few glares but don't acknowledge them. Let them talk. They don’t know the whole story, and I sure as hell don’t owe them anything yet.
Liam Makar stands by his locker, arms crossed. His eyes narrow as he watches me approach mine. "Ethan," he greets, the word coming out more like a challenge than a welcome.
"Liam," I respond curtly, setting my bag down with a thud.
Noah Kane sits on the bench nearby, lacing up his skates. "Missed the first game," he comments, not looking up. "Hope what ever you were doing was worth it."
I glare at him. "Didn't have much of a choice."
"Right," he says, finally meeting my eyes. There's a mixture of curiosity and distrust in his gaze. "Well, you're here now."
"Yeah, I'm here." I start unpacking my gear, ignoring the tension that thickens the air around us.
Liam's still watching me like he's sizing up an opponent. "You ready to play by our rules?"
I snort. "Rules? Pretty sure Bergam is the coach, not you."
"He is," Noah says, standing up and stretching. "But we have a way of doing things."
I slam my locker shut. "Look, I'm here to play and win. That's it."
Liam steps closer, his voice low but firm. "And you better keep it clean on the ice. No more of that shit from your last team."
"Noted," I say through gritted teeth.
Liam and Noah exchange a look, one of those silent conversations that come from years of playing together. Liam stands up, his presence dominating the room. "Alright, let's hit the ice," he announces, pointedly ignoring me. The team files out, their movements synchronized, leaving me alone in the locker room.
I take a deep breath, the scent of sweat and old leather filling my lungs. It's familiar but suffocating in this new context. The silence is thick, pressing against my ears as I finish lacing up my skates.
"Fucking great start," I mutter to myself, standing up and rolling my shoulders. The locker room feels like a cage, and I need to get out of here.
As I push through the doors to the rink, the cold air hits me like a slap. The ice is pristine, reflecting the harsh lights above. The rest of the team is already gliding across it, warming up with fluid movements that speak of muscle memory and years of practice.
The ice is my domain. It's the one place where everything else fades, and it's just me and the puck. During individual drills, I’m on fire. My shots cut through the air with a sharpness that sends the puck screaming into the net. One after another, they find their mark, echoing through the rink with a satisfying thud.
"Nice shot Reynolds," Noah comments as he skates by, but there's an edge to his voice.
I nod, not breaking my focus. This is what I do best. I live for these moments, where my skill speaks louder than any words could.
But when it comes to team drills, things start to fall apart. We move into a passing drill, and suddenly it’s like I’ve got two left hands. My passes go wide, missing their targets by inches but feeling like miles. Every time I think I’m in position, someone’s already there or I'm just a beat too late.
“Reynolds!” Coach Bergman’s voice slices through the chaos. “Get your head in the game!”
I grit my teeth and push harder, trying to mesh with their rhythm, but it's like dancing to a song I don’t know the steps to. During a breakaway drill, Liam barrels down the ice toward me. I try to intercept him, but he pivots effortlessly around me.
“Watch it!” he snaps as he flies past.
I curse under my breath and skate back into position. Noah slides a pass my way, but it bounces off my stick and skitters away.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
Coach blows his whistle so hard it feels like my eardrums might burst. “Reynolds!” he barks again. “This isn’t a one-man show! Learn to play with your team or sit on the bench!”
My jaw tightens as I skate over to him. “I’m trying.”
“Try harder,” Coach says through clenched teeth.
Liam skates up beside me, arms crossed over his broad chest. “We don’t need another hotshot who can’t pass.”
I glare at him. “I can fucking pass.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Noah chimes in from behind him, though his tone is lighter than Liam’s.
Coach steps between us before things can escalate further. “Alright, everyone back to positions! We’re running this drill again until you get it right.”
I grit my teeth, aware of the smirks and whispers from the team. I can almost hear their thoughts, judging every misstep I make. I’m determined to prove them wrong, to show them why I was traded here. But the more I try, the worse it gets.
“Pass it to your left!” Liam yells, frustration seeping into his voice.
I force myself to focus, sending the puck toward Noah. It’s too hard and too fast. He misses it by a mile.
“Damn it, Ethan,” Noah mutters under his breath, skating to retrieve the puck.
“Reynolds!” Coach Bergman’s voice booms across the ice.
“I fucking got it,” I snap back, trying to keep my cool. But inside, anger boils over.
We run through the drill again and again. My passes are off-target, my timing is shot. Each mistake feels like a knife twisting in my gut. The tension on the ice thickens with every missed opportunity.
"Alright practice is over. You're playing like a bunch of fucking amateurs out there and I can't stomach watching it anymore." Coach yells.
The ice is cold beneath my skates, but the tension in the air burns hot. We're cooling down, skating lazy laps around the rink. I try to shake off the frustration, but it's clinging to me like a second skin.
Liam skates up beside me, his eyes drilling into mine. "Look," he says in a low voice, "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but it stops now. We're fighting for the Cup, and I won't let you jeopardize that."
I stop, my fists clenching at my sides. "You think I'm trying to mess this up? I'm here to win, just like you."
Noah joins us, his usually friendly face hard. "Yeah, man. You're here now, so either get with the program or get out."
I bristle at his tone. "It's been one fucking practice," I snap back. "Give me a damn chance?—"
Liam cuts me off, his voice sharp. "This isn't about chances. It's about results. We need you to play as part of the team, not a lone wolf."
"I'm not an idiot, I know how to be part of a team," I say through gritted teeth.
"Do you?" Noah challenges. "Because from where we're standing, it sure doesn't look like it."
Before I can retort, Coach Bergman's whistle pierces the air. He calls us in with a wave of his hand.
The confrontation ends abruptly as we skate over to him. The rest of the team gathers around, sweat glistening on their faces and determination burning in their eyes.
"To the locker room, NOW!" Bergman orders. I decide I'm going to leave my pads on, because I have a feeling we're about to get our asses chewed out.
The team meeting drags on forever, filled with Coach Bergman's gruff commands and my teammates' thinly veiled hostility. I'm exhausted and frustrated, the adrenaline from practice slowly ebbing away. As the others filter out, I linger, pretending to fuss with my gear. I need a moment alone.
Once the locker room empties, I grab my bag and head for the exit. My mind races with everything that went wrong today, each mistake replaying in my head like a bad highlight reel. I push through the exit doors, head down, not paying attention to where I'm going.
I nearly collide with someone in the hallway. Instinctively, I reach out to steady myself—and them—before stepping back.
"Watch where you're going," I growl, trying to sidestep whoever it is.
The woman doesn’t budge. She stands her ground, her bright green eyes locked onto mine.
“Ethan Reynolds, right? I’m Olivia from the Minneapolis Star Tribune. I was hoping to get a few words with you about joining the Wolves.”
I scowl, my instinct to push past her. “Not interested.”
I step to the side, but she mirrors my movement, blocking my path. “Look,” she says, her voice firm but not unkind, “I know you’ve had a rough transition. But this is your chance to tell your side of the story. Don’t you want the fans to see the real Ethan Reynolds?”
Her directness catches me off guard. I study her face, expecting judgment or disdain, but all I see is genuine interest. Something in her expression makes me hesitate.
“Fine,” I say gruffly. “Five minutes.”
Olivia's face lights up with a smile that catches me off guard. It's like the sun just broke through the clouds, and for a second, I forget where I am.
"Great! Actually, I'm here to do individual interviews with the first line. Why don't you join us? It might help smooth things over with your teammates."
My instinct is to refuse, to keep my distance from anything that involves being buddy-buddy with these guys. But her enthusiasm is infectious, and before I know it, I'm nodding.
"Alright," I say reluctantly, "but I'm not promising to play nice."
She chuckles, a sound that feels like warm honey in this cold arena. "I wouldn't expect you to. Come on, let's go find the others."
We walk through the corridors of the Howl Center, the echo of our footsteps filling the space between us. Olivia's presence is oddly calming, her confidence radiating in every step she takes. The same confidence I used to possess before I was thrown to the fucking wolves, literally.