Chapter 3 #4
Then he’d probably ask Hank if he wanted to watch gay porn, now.
“No,” Hank argued, probably not well. “It’s just . . . just a friend.”
“A friend you want to be more,” Bo said, waggling his eyebrows stupidly.
“No,” Hank repeated. He didn’t sound convincing to his own ears, even.
“Sure,” Bo said. “Then explain why you haven’t been going out with the guys, after games. Or before games. Or at all.”
Hank shot him a look. “I never really did that.” Though he had made a tiny bit more of an effort than he was making now.
It just wasn’t much of a competition—he could go out and make stupid small talk with the idiots on his team and watch them try to pick up women, all while sipping on shitty cheap beer, or go back to his room and talk to Ethan. Honestly, it was a no-brainer.
“You haven’t been either,” Hank pointed out.
“Yeah, ’cause I’m meditating instead,” Bo said. “Don’t you know getting off ruins your edge?”
Hank raised an eyebrow. He didn’t want to talk about this—not with Bo; frankly not with anyone—but a horrible curiosity motivated him to ask. “You don’t get off at all?”
He definitely still was. In the shower, in the mornings. It was good for maintenance. He just cleared his mind, put his hand on his dick, and tried very hard not to think of anyone or anything at all. Mostly that was a system that worked.
He’d see how tomorrow morning went, now that he’d gotten Ethan’s bruise selfie.
“Nope,” Bo said, sounding very proud of himself.
Hank hated how he was kind of fascinated by this, in spite of knowing better. “And that’s working for you?”
“Dude, you play with me. We’re killing it.” They were, actually. Both of them were playing both sides of the ice well, their plus-minus in really good territory, and Syracuse was even winning games, which was hardly ever a given.
“Sure, yeah, but that’s ’cause we’ve put the work in,” Hank said slowly.
At least he had been. Worked his ass off over the summer to put on more muscle and weight, to stop looking quite so gangly out there.
To be able to muscle his way through some of the board battles that he’d lost the season before.
“Yeah, ’cause we’re not getting off,” Bo insisted.
Hank thought this was in the top ten dumbest things he’d ever heard, and he spent his life around hockey players, which was saying something.
“That’s bullshit,” Hank said, but Bo just gave him a shrug and slipped his earbuds in, like he was going to meditate himself to some Zen place where blue balls didn’t exist.
But speaking of blue balls, Hank’s hand tightened around his phone as he flicked open his convo with Ethan again.
you need someone to kiss it better
Hank swallowed hard. Knew what Ethan was trying to do—or at least he’d guessed what Ethan was trying to do; he’d never been blatant enough for Hank to be one hundred percent sure—and he still wasn’t sure about it.
No, that was not true. He was sure he’d be into it if he let himself.
The problem was the letting himself.
just bo here, listening to his stupid meditations, Hank typed back, and apparently those are to keep his dick in check so not sure he’d be willing to help
Reading back the message, Hank thought he’d done a good job of maybe meeting Ethan’s flirtatious energy without encouraging it too much. Without giving himself the hope of something that wasn’t happening now, or anytime soon, or maybe ever.
Totally possible that by the time they both made it to New York, this fizziness in the base of his stomach whenever Ethan reached out would eventually fade. Maybe Ethan would get bored or tired or find someone else.
And maybe, on top of all that, this was such a bad fucking idea, because Hank—and Ethan, too—was supposed to be all-in on hockey. Both figuring out how to make the Bandits’ roster.
wait whaaaaaat
I know. he’s so fucking weird. weirder now that I know why he’s blasting these into his ears.
you, Ethan sent, are a fucking saint
Hank told himself not to. Told himself not to and did it anyway. except i’m not always good, he texted back.
god i hope not *smiling devil emoji*
He knew he should pull back. Pull them both back.
But it was hard, because so much of his life felt like a slog.
The constant rotation of different cities, different arenas, the never-ending travel, but the sameness of it all.
Ethan was a breath of fresh air that made Hank want to keep doing it all, a reason completely apart from his usual motivations.
They were usually plenty good enough—he’d worked for too many fucking years to make it—but there was something about Ethan that sharpened his edge, that little bit of extra.
But before Hank could pull them back, Ethan sent another text.
well if bo’s not gonna kiss it better, keep icing it, ok?
Hank sent a thumbs-up and then leaned over, plugging his phone in before getting up to get more ice and then pull out his tablet so he could watch some tape of their next opponent.
There was no rest for the weary. Not for the guys in the AHL who were still trying to make it.