Chapter 3 #3
Ethan wouldn’t have even believed it if it wasn’t right there in black and white on his screen.
what a sick fucking game, dude
Oh, so they were doing this now? Ethan was annoyed, even as he still felt an undeniable thrill. He could play hard to get, but that ship had already sailed, hadn’t it? He’d texted Hank first, after all.
Originally, he’d come in here just to grab a new drink but instead of going back to the makeshift dance floor, Ethan headed out the back door. It was usually quiet here, because not many people knew about the porch at the rear of the house.
Sure enough, there were only two people in the corner, talking quietly, and the wide staircase was empty. Ethan sat and kept staring at the screen.
Obviously he needed to say something, but what?
Maybe the second text he’d sent had been a shade too flirty.
Thinking of what Dean had told him, maybe that had been too much for Hank.
Maybe Ethan needed to pull it back. Make friends, first. Or make better friends, because Ethan would’ve already considered them friends, after their time together at camp.
It had been short, but they’d easily fallen in together, like they’d known each other so much longer than that.
Ethan wanted more, but he could be patient, too. A lifetime of being the youngest had guaranteed he could pull that trait out when he needed to.
Finally, he typed back. was a pretty easy goal, the goalie read my initial move wrong.
Typically he wasn’t the self-deprecating type, but that felt like the right choice here.
People were always talking about his hockey IQ, how he could see the play unfolding almost before it began, but Ethan thought what they really meant was that he was smart.
Strategic. Could wait if the eventual outcome justified the pause.
He wasn’t even really expecting Hank to text back. He’d just been trying to open up some kind of communication between them.
But to Ethan’s surprise, Hank texted back almost immediately. yeah the OT goal was good, but that move in the third? fucking slay
He’d felt good about Hank’s compliment before, but now he felt damn good, because yeah, as showy as the goal had been—and it had won them the game, so it was hardly nothing—Ethan knew the way he’d stopped Andrews from scoring in the third had been the real stellar move.
thx, he texted. Stretched out his legs and tipped his head back.
It was hard to see the stars here, even though Portland wasn’t that big of a city.
Nothing like Michigan, at the house his brothers owned that they lived in during the summers.
He already missed the way the sky looked bright with them.
Still, hard to be disappointed. Maybe he hadn’t gotten everything he’d wanted, but he’d won the game for the Evergreens tonight and Hank had texted back.
Ethan would take the win.
December
It had been a mistake, texting Ethan back initially, and at least Hank could blame the three beers he’d drunk and the way he’d been haunting their brief message thread, like somehow Ethan might keep trying even though Hank had done nothing to encourage him.
But there was no excuse for the way he’d texted him three and a half weeks ago, or three weeks ago, or two weeks and six days later, or really, any of many times he’d done it since.
Hank had told himself that despite the fact that Bo, his roommate, was always around, listening to his stupid meditation podcasts so loud it seemed impossible they could actually do jack shit, the room was too quiet.
He was always too restless after a game, or before a game. But the more this went on, the more he was pretty sure it was all one big excuse.
And not even a good one.
Even though Hank knew it, and he’d made himself a promise, concrete and sacrosanct, that he’d focus on hockey and not on whatever this thing was with Ethan, he’d not been able to resist.
Which was why he was lying on his bed in Canada somewhere, wondering how Bo could possibly be meditating when the noise from his earbuds was so fucking loud, texting with the youngest Barnes again.
Ethan had texted him first, tonight, had apparently managed to catch Hank’s game, even though it was a Thursday and Ethan had study group on Thursday afternoons.
No, he was not examining the fact too closely—or at all—that he knew that now.
good moves in the second, Ethan had sent, that block was brain-melting.
That block was why Hank had a makeshift ice pack on his ribs, but somehow Ethan thinking it was good made it hurt less. Or hurt good, or something equally fucked up like that.
We’re friends and we’re gonna be on the same team, eventually, Hank justified to himself, for the hundredth time. It’s cool that we’re talking. Right, even.
But somehow that wasn’t quite convincing, probably because when Ethan said he did something brain-melting, Hank wanted to throw all caution and good intentions to the wind and ask if what he really meant was that it made him hot.
Not just his brain, but his dick.
But even as stupid as Hank had gotten—and he’d gotten plenty stupid—he wasn’t that stupid and definitely never that reckless.
yeah, I got the bruise to prove it, Hank sent back.
sick, lemme see
Hank had been pretty careful to not start exchanging any kind of photos with Ethan that could be interpreted as having anything other than a friends vibe.
No selfies. No photos of his face or his body at all. Just stupid shit, really. A cool pattern in the foam of his latte one morning, or the enormous pile of luggage they’d had to empty out of one of the buses, when it had broken down before they’d even gotten going one day.
Friendly shit, only.
Sending Ethan a picture of his bruise, high up on his side, even though it was technically gnarly and hardly sexy, felt dangerous.
its gross dude
But instead of agreeing that yeah, why would he ever want to see one of Hank’s bruises, Ethan sent one of his own.
His chest and stomach still had the remnants of his summer tan, the ridges of his abs clearly visible and making Hank’s pulse accelerate and the lump in his throat big enough he had to swallow it back down.
Also visible was a pretty ugly bruise—purple and blue and sickly yellow around the edges—high up on his right side, blooming right over his ribs.
I can pay to play, Ethan texted next.
Shit, shit, shit.
What was Hank supposed to do but reciprocate?
It’s not your fault, it’s his, Hank told himself, but that argument wasn’t all that convincing, especially when he twisted his body, groaning a little in the back of his throat at the pain, positioning the camera in what he hoped was the most G-rated version of the picture.
But when he looked at it, his shorts riding low, his abs visible, a sliver of a nipple in the upper left corner, Hank was pretty sure he hadn’t gotten there.
Sure, the bruise was there and it was awful, as promised, but that wasn’t all there was.
He could crop everything else out, but Ethan would know.
It was that thought that pushed Hank to just send it, reckless and stupid.
“What are you doing?”
It took Hank a moment to realize that Bo’s meditations had actually stopped, and he looked over to see him with one of his earbuds out, looking at Hank like Hank was the strange one.
Well, Hank had fucking news for him.
“Uh, nothing?” Hank said, hating how guilty he sounded. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was allowed to be friends with Ethan Barnes.
Bo’s eyebrow went up. “Dude, you’re taking shirtless selfies. You gotta tell me who you’re sending them to. Girls on Raya?”
“You’re not rich enough to be on Raya,” Hank pointed out dryly. “And neither am I.”
“I know, it’s such bullshit,” Bo said. “But seriously, who did you send it to?”
Despite the very loud meditations and the general weirdness of Bo, Hank actually liked the guy. They were friends, of a sort. As good of friends as Hank typically made, anyway.
Ethan Barnes notwithstanding.
Hank wasn’t going to think about how he’d been playing with Bo for almost a season and a half at this point, and he’d known Ethan Barnes for three days. And then there was all the texting, but that didn’t count, did it?
“Maybe I’m just recording my injuries for posterity,” Hank retorted defensively.
“Yeah, posterity is the same person you’re texting too. All the goddamn time.”
“Hey.”
“I’m meditating, I’m not dead,” Bo said, grinning.
“I don’t even know how you’re meditating when it’s that fucking loud,” Hank grumbled.
“Bud, this is important,” Bo said very seriously. “It’s better than what I used to do after games.”
Hank was almost afraid to ask. He knew Bo had been at Syracuse for a year longer than him, and they’d been put together almost immediately because Hank could sleep through anything. But unlike Hank, Bo never seemed anxious about making it to the Bandits permanently. Maybe it was the meditating.
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Hank finally said.
“But not that afraid,” Bo said. “It was porn.”
“God, please stick to the meditations,” Hank said with another groan as he shifted on the bed.
The ice was helping, and so were the painkillers he’d popped after the game, but the truth was, nothing was helping more than the soothing-yet-exhilarating new part of his routine, which was talking to Ethan.
Bo could keep his porn and his meditations; Hank had something better.
His phone buzzed and he glanced down.
ouch, Ethan had sent back. looks like it hurts.
Hank was not going to be a fucking hero. it does.
“See,” Bo said, interrupting again. Hank wished he’d stick his earbuds back in and go back to the night forest walk or whatever the fuck he’d been doing before bothering him. “There’s that look. You like this girl.”
Hank wondered what Bo would say if he admitted it wasn’t a girl. If it was Ethan Barnes.
Bo had been at camp, too, though hadn’t exactly been around Ethan and him during their time together. If Hank told him, he’d probably get a knowing look on his face and ask how he managed to seduce the baby Barnes right under his brother’s nose.