Chapter 1 #3
“Shit, no. It’s okay. You’re just trying to help me. Get me going on the right path,” Ethan pointed out, and Charlie’s face finally relaxed a fraction.
“Exactly,” Charlie said knowingly, and Ethan ignored the part of him that wanted to tell him it was pointless to apologize if he was still going to be a patronizing dick.
Maybe he wasn’t so annoyed after all that he’d be going back to the West Coast, back to school. Maybe the year apart would help Charlie adjust to this new situation, and when he showed up next year, he’d be normal about everything.
Of course, that was a pipe dream because this was Charlie and the list of things he was not normal about was getting longer by the minute, but Ethan could still hope.
But as frustrating as Charlie was, it was still incredible to watch him once they made it to the ice.
As good as he’d been at such a young age, he’d gotten even better during his last two years in the NHL.
Ethan had seen it because he’d watched it on TV when Charlie was in the US development program and then the NHL and even in a handful of games in person, but it was entirely different to be together on the ice with him.
Ethan had always felt good, confident even, about his own skills.
But as they took the different drills, it was hard not to compare himself and the effort he was putting in to the nearly effortless way Charlie skated through everything, like he’d been born with skates on his feet and a stick in his hand.
Halfway through, they took a break, Ethan skating over to the boards to grab his water bottle. He felt Charlie’s eyes on him, but to his relief, Charlie didn’t come over.
He didn’t see Charlie say anything to Max either, so he was fairly confident Charlie hadn’t sent Max, either, but Max did eventually make his way over to where Ethan was leaning against the boards.
Or maybe the two of them had learned to communicate without even speaking. That wouldn’t surprise Ethan at all.
“Hey,” Max said in that quiet, kind way of his. He pulled his helmet off and pushed his dark hair back from his face, sweaty and even darker around the temples.
Ethan didn’t usually think guys were hot—apparently Hank was the exception to this—but he supposed his brother could’ve picked worse.
“Hey,” Ethan said. “Before you even ask, I’m fine. I’m good.”
Max had the nerve to actually look a little wounded by this, his honey-brown eyes softening even further. “I wasn’t going to ask.”
It only took one semi-hard glance to get Max to cave. He was an only child—a fact that Ethan only knew under duress, because Charlie was incapable of shutting up about him—and clearly he hadn’t been forged in the fires of a four-child household.
“Okay, I was going to ask, but only because I give a shit,” Max said. “Not because of Barney.”
“Right,” Ethan said, squirting more water into his mouth. He still wasn’t used to everyone calling Charlie Barney.
Not that Max said it like everyone else. The way he said it, in his accented English, was so much softer and sweeter, like he could barely stand to let it out of his mouth.
Disgusting, really.
“NHL pace is faster. Tougher.” Max shrugged. “You’re gonna need time to adjust. I just don’t want you to think you can’t, because you clearly can. It’s just different.”
“I know I can,” Ethan said. He’d been training during the summers—on the ice and off it, too—with Charlie and Avery and they’d been in the NHL for two and four years, respectively. He knew what it took. Maybe he was just a little tight. Nervous, even though he’d tried so hard not to be.
“’Course you can.” Max patted him on the shoulder and skated off. Right over to Charlie. Naturally.
Maybe he was nervous. He’d shake it off, though. He’d always shaken it off. Not worn the pressure like a mantle, like Charlie. Clinging to it, even, like he actually liked it. Nope, Ethan was different. More laid-back about it, more relaxed.
He needed to remember that. They were different players.
He didn’t need to be Charlie. He needed to be Ethan.
Setting his water bottle down, he turned and nearly ran right into six foot three of built defenseman.
“Oh,” Ethan said, nearly stumbling.
Hank put a hand out and steadied him, amusement turning his mouth up. “You good?”
“Fine, yeah,” Ethan said. He wanted to pretend that he wasn’t though, and see what Hank would do if he put a hand right in the middle of his practice sweater, dug his fingertips in. Grabbed him harder. Pressed in. But he wasn’t going to do any of that. Not here. Not now. Not ever.
He shook his head, clearing it.
“Still waiting for you to show me you can dish it back,” Hank teased. “’Cause that wasn’t it.”
“Oh yeah?” Ethan gave him a little shove, right to Hank’s solar plexus, and skated off, fast and evasive, before Hank could recover and try to catch him.
But Hank was fast, too. Smooth. Long, easy glides on those long legs.
They circled behind the empty net, and Ethan was pretty sure that was Hank laughing behind him. But that didn’t matter, because Hank was behind him, trying to catch him.
Attention focused right where it should be. On Ethan.