Chapter 1
One year ago
Ethan kind of hated his brother.
It wasn’t enough for Charlie to be an annoying know-it-all, but it was even worse when it was shit that Ethan actually needed to know.
“Today’s just going to be real casual,” Charlie said, as he flicked on his turn signal so they could pull into the parking lot of the New York Bandits’ practice facility, just outside the city.
“Maybe some drills. Meetings. Some social media bullshit. That kind of thing. But it’s still really important to be serious about it. To take it seriously, okay?”
Like Ethan wasn’t going to take his very first day as a drafted NHL player seriously.
The thing was, Ethan loved his brother. When he’d been drafted to the Bandits in June, it had been one of the very best days of his life.
His agent, Barty—who was also Charlie and Avery’s agent—had sat him down a month before the draft, after the combine, and had told him what he could expect.
He’d been very honest. Maybe even brutally honest. “Not top five, but probably top ten,” Barty had told him.
The Bandits had the eighth pick, and Ethan hadn’t even had to say it out loud for Barty to know exactly what he was thinking. What he was suddenly hoping for.
“I can’t guarantee the Bandits are gonna want to draft you,” Barty had said, blunt as always. “They already have Charlie and Max Meier and Matt Daniels. And I’m not sure the brother thing is going to be something they see as an advantage.”
Later that night, Charlie had flopped down onto Ethan’s bed and they’d talked about it. “I don’t know what they’re gonna do,” Charlie had said. “But they’d be crazy not to take you. Barty’s not wrong often, but he’s wrong about this. I really hope they do. I wanna play with you.”
It was something they’d dreamed about forever—the three of them playing together. It probably wasn’t happening anytime soon, though. Avery wore an A, a defenseman for the Los Angeles Mavericks. And Charlie, obviously, was one of the Bandits’ top forwards, like Barty had said.
But Ethan had hoped anyway. Knew Charlie had hoped, too, because it was always obvious to Ethan when Charlie felt one way but didn’t want to say it out loud. He thought he was subtle, but Charlie had never been subtle a day in his whole freaking life.
When they’d called his name, the Bandits’ GM leaning into the microphone, Ethan had never been that happy in his whole goddamn life.
And he’d been just that happy about it—him and Charlie playing on the same team!—all the way up til flying into New Jersey with his brother for development camp.
The Bandits had already told him that after camp, he’d be going back to Portland U, for his second year, to “further his development,” which should’ve alleviated any pressure and made this whole thing way less terrifying.
But it turned out that wasn’t true at all. Mostly because of Charlie.
Charlie, who never stopped talking. Who never stopped thinking and searching and working towards a way to be even better at hockey than he already was.
Who had apparently turned into a neat freak during his two years on the Bandits, yelling at Ethan about leaving his stuff everywhere, annoyed when Charlie tripped over a pair of shoes that Ethan had put next to the shoe rack instead of on it.
And that wasn’t even going into the whole list of superstitions Charlie had apparently developed in the last two years. They weren’t even playing today, not in a game, not even in a preseason game, and Ethan had lost count of the number of weird things Charlie had done.
Sure, Ethan wanted to be good too—even better than Charlie—but Charlie’s single-minded focus was a little insane and a lot annoying.
Basically, Charlie.
In all the excitement of them getting to be on the same team, Ethan had momentarily forgotten just how intense Charlie could be.
He pulled out his phone and texted his brother. Just Avery. Not the group chat the three of them shared. charlie is so fucking obnoxious.
But it was just past eight a.m. and Avery was already in LA, training and prepping for the beginning of his season, and even though Avery could be overly serious about his preparation, even he wasn’t up at five in the morning.
Ethan took a deep breath and tried really hard not to snap at his brother.
This was supposed to be fun.
“Charlie, take a fucking breath. I’m gonna take it seriously, and whatever happens today, or this week, I can handle it,” Ethan said, trying not to whine or sulk or sound like he was approximately ten years old.
Charlie shot him a look. “I didn’t say you couldn’t but this is a whole other level, bud. This isn’t NCAA. This is the NHL.”
“Really, I had no idea,” Ethan retorted sarcastically as Charlie pulled into the parking lot outside the practice rink.
Charlie parked the car and smacked Ethan on the arm. “I mean it.”
“So do I.”
Barty had told him that the Bandits’ biggest concern about drafting him hadn’t been his skill or his size, but instead, if he’d treat Charlie like a security blanket.
The irony being that he couldn’t freaking wait to get away from Charlie right now.
“Come on,” Charlie said impatiently as he got out of the SUV, opening the back and pulling out his gear bag. “Max is waiting for us.”
“Yeah, can’t keep Max waiting,” Ethan said, slinging his own gear bag across his shoulder. He might not have said it like that, but Charlie was annoying him.
“Hey,” Charlie said, stopping in his tracks. Ethan glanced behind him, not entirely surprised at how worried his brother suddenly looked. “You’re not gonna—”
God, Charlie was so dumb sometimes. But he was never dumber than he was about Max. “Of fucking course I’m not gonna,” he said. “I told you I wouldn’t.”
“I know, but—”
“Oh my God, Charlie. Fucking listen to yourself.”
“It’s just . . . that was just a momentary thing, you know. I was drunk. Being stupid.”
“Right,” Ethan said. “Well, I told you not to worry about it, so don’t, okay?”
Charlie nodded.
The thing was, Charlie wasn’t entirely wrong. Charlie had been being very stupid, Ethan wasn’t going to argue about that. Not for a second. But the stupid thing had nothing to do with Charlie being drunk.
When they walked in the front door, after posing for the social media team, Ethan flushing and almost embarrassed at how transparent this whole thing was, he was proven right because Max was waiting for them.
Leaning against the back wall of the front entrance, just under the hand-painted New York skyline.
Maximilian Meier was the Bandits’ captain and Charlie’s best friend on the team.
Probably his best friend in the whole world, Ethan thought.
Max was also the guy Charlie had been weird about from his first day on the Bandits, progressively getting weirder until three summers ago, Charlie had gotten drunk and spent a good twenty minutes waxing rhapsodic about how fucking incredible and amazing and hot and perfect Max was.
One of their friends had videoed the whole goddamn thing, and it kept making its rounds in the group chat, even now.
Charlie hated it.
Personally, Ethan thought what Charlie hated was that there was solid irrefutable proof that he was not normal about Max.
“Hey, Ethan, welcome to New York, or I guess . . . New Jersey?” Max greeted Ethan in his softly accented voice, shaking his hand before pulling him into a quick half hug. Then he turned his attention to Charlie. Because of course.
“Good to see you again,” Ethan said. But he was already forgotten, because of course.
“Barney,” Max exclaimed, and Charlie fell into his arms like they’d been separated by a freaking war, instead of less than twelve hours.
Ethan considered inserting that they’d just had dinner at Max’s condo—five floors up from Charlie’s—last night. But if he had, nobody would have heard him, anyway.
“Max!” Charlie mumbled back, wide smile on his face even as they pulled back from each other.
Last night at dinner, Ethan had texted Avery that it turned out that it wasn’t just Charlie who was weird about Max, but it went the other way too, and turned out that he was still right.
These two, man, Ethan thought as they grinned at each other like idiots, barely holding back the grimace he wanted to make.
Ethan would have asked Charlie again if they were fucking, because surely two people who were that obviously into each other were at least touching dicks at this point.
But Charlie’s reaction when he’d asked the first time—red and then bone-white face, paired with his incredibly defensive negative answer—stopped the words in his throat.
His phone dinged in his pocket twice as Max led them around the facility, showing him where all the offices were, who Ethan would need to go to for which things. Showed him the gym and the training rooms. Introduced him to the equipment manager.
Ethan was being good and didn’t take his phone out of his pocket.
Not until after they’d walked into the locker room, and he’d had a momentary holy shit I did it meltdown as he saw his nameplate above his stall.
Playing for the Evergreens was great, for sure, but it wasn’t the same as being in the NH freaking L.
Not that he really was. He was going back to Portland after this. But for now, for the next week, he was a professional hockey player.
The texts were unsurprisingly from Avery.
what’s he doing now?
And then, don’t tell me he and max are slobbering over each other again.
Ethan chuckled under his breath. Charlie glanced over from his own stall, four down. Right next to Max’s. Because the two of them might die if they weren’t plastered together constantly.
Ethan thought that the Bandits’ front office should’ve been more worried about Charlie and Max using each other as a security blanket than anything to do with Ethan.
But he wasn’t going to say shit, because he’d promised Charlie he wouldn’t.
that’s a constant thing, Ethan texted back. but nah, he’s just so fucking intense.