21. Ethan
21
ETHAN
O livia's absence at practices and games gnaws at me. When she does show up, usually with another reporter in tow, she’s all business. Professional and distant. Like I'm just some entity she's writing an article on, not someone who's been buried inside her.
Part of me gets it—she's got her job, just like I do. But another part, the part that's starting to care more than I should, feels the sting of rejection.
I spot her by the entrance to the rink, chatting with some guy from another paper. My gut tightens. It's stupid, but I can't shake it.
"Hey, Reynolds," Noah calls out, skating over. "You gonna join us for the drill or just stare at Olivia all day?"
I glare at him. "Mind your own fucking business."
"Easy, man, just a joke" he says, holding up his hands. "Just thought you might want to participate in practice."
"You know you're one to talk," I snap back. "Wasn't too long ago your eyes were glued in her direction as well."
Noah's expression hardens. "Not you too, Ethan. Come on."
"Whatever," I mutter, turning my focus back to the ice.
Fuck, I really don't want to be the one to offer the olive branch. When what I really want to do is hit them both in the fucking head with it. But this shit is getting way old, way fast. With a resigned sigh, I make a decision.
"Hey, asshats!" I call out, skating over to them. "Drinks. Tonight. The Tavern."
Liam raises an eyebrow. "What's the occasion?"
"Team bonding," I say, my tone brooking no argument. "Gossip, bitching, whatever you want to call it."
Noah looks skeptical but nods. "Alright, Ethan. I'll bite."
"7 tonight. Don't be late."
They both mumble something under their breath as they skate away.
Never in a million years did I think I'd be playing fucking counselor to two grown men.
Later that night, the dim lighting of The Tavern casts shadows over Liam and Noah’s tense faces. They sit across from each other, arms crossed, both looking like they'd rather be anywhere else.
I take a swig of my beer and break the silence. "Look, this pissing contest between you two needs to stop. It's fucking ridiculous."
Liam glares at me. "You think this is that simple?"
"Yeah, it can be." I say bluntly. "We're here to win the Cup, not participate in high school drama."
Noah leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. "You think you know everything don't you?"
I smirk. "Pretty sure I know how to win games, which is more than I can say for you two right now."
Liam slams his drink down on the table, making the glasses rattle. "Ethan, you don't get it. Life doesn't always revolve around hockey."
"Oh I think I get it," I snap back. "Go on, give me a try."
Silence stretches between us like a taut wire ready to snap.
Noah finally speaks up, his voice tight. "Fine. I'm pissed because Liam's been acting like a goddamn territorial robot ever since Olivia showed up."
Liam's eyes flash with anger. "And you're any better? You're just as fucking whipped."
"Guys," I interrupt, my patience wearing thin. "Who or what Olivia does should be irrelevant. This is about the team."
"Easy for you to say," Liam mutters.
I have bite back the laugh, if they only knew. I lean forward, fixing him with a hard stare. "You think I don’t have shit to deal with? We all do. But we’re professionals first."
They exchange glances but neither speaks up.
"You know what fuck this," I say, standing up abruptly and tossing some bills on the table for my drink. "I knew this was a bad idea from the start. I'm not here to babysit you pussies while you wallow in your own pathetic bullshit. I tried."
As I walk out of The Tavern into the cool night air, frustration boils within me. These guys are supposed to be leaders, yet they're letting personal crap fuck with our chances.
I kick at a loose stone on the pavement, watching it skitter away into the darkness before heading back to my place.
Sitting alone in my apartment, I stare at the darkened screen of my phone, my agent's contact info glaring back at me. The idea of starting over with a new team looms large, a monstrous unknown. I've done it once, and look where it got me—alienated and pissed off.
My finger hovers over the call button. The thought of leaving, of not dealing with Liam’s constant leadership crap and Noah’s infuriatingly laid-back attitude, has its appeal. But there’s Olivia. The complicated knot she’s tied around all three of us is part of the reason things are so screwed up, but she’s also the reason I hesitate.
I sigh and drop the phone on the coffee table. Trading would be a cop-out. A fucking coward's move. I've lasted this long, the hell If I'm going to punk out now.
A knock on the door startles me, the sound jarring in the silence of my apartment. I glance at the clock—it's late. Who the fuck would be visiting me now? I get up, cracking my neck and stretching out the tension.
Opening the door, I'm met with Noah and Liam, each holding a six-pack of beer. My eyes narrow. "What the fuck are y'all doing here? And how do you know where I live?"
"We followed you home," Noah says casually, like it's no big deal.
"Great," I mutter, rolling my eyes. "Not only do I have to worry about y'all fucking up my playoff chances, now apparently I have to worry about you becoming stalkers."
Noah smirks. "You're not my type."
Liam cuts in smugly, "His type is auburn-haired reporters with hazel eyes."
I clench my jaw but step aside to let them in. They settle on my worn-out couch like they own the place. I grab three glasses from the kitchen and drop them on the coffee table before flopping into an armchair.
Noah cracks open a beer and pours it into his glass. "So, this is where the infamous Ethan Reynolds broods."
"Yeah, welcome to my lair," I say dryly.
Liam leans back, beer in hand. "Look, Ethan. We're here because we need to figure our shit out. For the team."
I snort. "Oh, so now it's about the team?"
"Always has been," Noah says quietly.
"Could've fooled me," I mutter under my breath.
Liam leans forward, his blue eyes piercing mine. "We can't win this without you playing at your best."
"And vice versa," Noah adds.
"Fine," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "Let's hear it then."
Noah takes a swig of his beer before speaking. "We're all dealing with...complicated feelings regarding Olivia."
"No shit," I reply, my tone sharper than intended.
"But it's affecting our game," Liam continues. "And that's unacceptable."
I nod slowly. "So what's your solution? Because ignoring it sure as hell isn't working."
"We need boundaries," Noah says firmly. "We agree that until playoffs are over, we keep things professional."
"Agreed," Liam says immediately.
I hesitate but nod. "Fine. But if one of you crosses that line?—"
"We won't," Liam interrupts.
"And neither will you," Noah adds pointedly.
I take a deep breath, feeling some of the tension ease from my shoulders. Maybe this could work—if we all stick to it.
Noah raises his glass. "To winning the Cup and keeping our heads straight."
Liam and I clink our glasses against his.
"To winning," I echo.
As we drink, an uneasy truce settles over us. For now, it's enough.