7. Chapter 7
“It’s just bad luck,” Ethan reassured Hank. Hank, who currently had his forehead pressed to the table in front of him. Every once in a while he’d let it bounce up and down, and Ethan knew how tough Hank was, but he didn’t need to be giving himself a concussion on top of everything else.
“Bad luck? Bad luck?” Hank mumbled against the fake-wood-grain surface.
Ethan also considered pointing out, gently, that they really weren’t sure when that table had been cleaned last. But that wasn’t going to solve anything.
“Bad luck, yeah,” Ethan said. “The defense is still . . . um, gelling. You know?”
“Yeah, I fucking know,” Hank said, head still pressed to the table.
Maybe Hank knew, but it was still the best thing Ethan could say.
The Bandits had lost their first three preseason games—not the end of the world, certainly—but the defense had looked sluggish, and even worse, Hank the worst of all.
Like he was spending too much time trying to be good, instead of just trusting in his own instincts.
He was overthinking in a big way, wanting it too bad and not just letting it come to him.
And worse than that, Niko Laine, who the Bandits had made no secret of considering shipping back to Finland to play there for the season, was playing like Hank should’ve been playing, and now the big rumor was that Niko would end up taking Hanks’ spot, and Hank would again start the season in Syracuse.
Hank hadn’t even wanted to come out tonight, had insisted in a text to Ethan that he wasn’t interested.
But Ethan wasn’t going to let him sulk in bed, thinking of all the ways he’d possibly failed.
He hadn’t failed; he just hadn’t succeeded yet. But Ethan knew he would. Believed it with every fiber of his being.
Hank was fucking lit in practice. Had never played better.
But then he got into a game, and it was almost like the moment overwhelmed him.
Odd, because that had never been something Hank had struggled with.
Ethan had watched him play in so many games over the last year, and he’d never seen Hank seem at all fazed by whatever situation he was tossed into.
“You want another beer?” Ethan asked instead. Not that he could actually go and buy it, technically, but he could bat his eyes, a little similar to his brother’s, and probably get Max to buy one for him.
Hank lifted his head, meeting Ethan’s eyes. “What?”
Nudging Hank’s mostly empty bottle with his own, Ethan raised an eyebrow. “You want?”
“Nah,” Hank said, and returned his head to the table. He said something next that Ethan was suspiciously sure was, “I want to be fucking better.”
“You are fucking good, okay?” Ethan said, leaning in towards him, slinging an arm around his broad shoulders.
Hank didn’t say anything.
“Stop overthinking it out there,” Ethan said. “Stop trying to be good and just be good.”
“Oh, that’s all?” Hank said, voice still muffled. He lifted his head again. “Fucking pointless in three games.”
Three games wasn’t that much. All Ethan had was a measly single point—an assist for a halfway decent feed to Sasha.
But it was one thing for Ethan to be out there, on the third and fourth lines, trying to get his feet under him for the first time on NHL ice, and another entirely for Hank, who had plenty of experience, to go pointless especially when Niko was tearing it up. Two goals and three assists so far.
“How about this? Let’s make a bet, on whoever scores the first goal.”
Hank turned his head slightly, one eye now visible.
He looked skeptical, like he was only a moment away from telling Ethan it was a stupid idea.
And it was, Ethan wasn’t going to deny that, but he needed Hank to think of something that wasn’t just Niko stealing his roster spot with every shift he took.
But to Ethan’s surprise, Hank just gave a slight movement that might’ve meant, go on. Well, Ethan wasn’t going to sleep on that.
“Like, if you score a goal, you can buy me dinner.”
“What?” Hank fully lifted his head now, and Ethan knew he had him.
“You heard me,” Ethan said impudently. “You score a goal, I’ll let you take me to dinner.”
“I’m confused. If I score a goal, I’m buying you dinner?”
“Not everyone gets to take the rookie out,” Ethan said keeping his voice earnest.
“You’re not that special,” Hank blustered, but it wasn’t that convincing, really. Ethan still thought he had him—not quite where he wanted him, but close.
“Oh?”
Hank rolled his eyes. “And what if you score a goal?”
“Oh, that’s something good.” Ethan hesitated and then decided he was going for it. “I’ll bring you breakfast. And something good, too. Like one of those breakfast sandwiches we both like so much, from that little deli down the street.”
Hazel eyes met Ethan’s. Went wide and surprised. “Got it all figured out, huh?”
Ethan nodded. He nearly added, and if you score a goal, it’ll be a date, too. But he didn’t want to freak Hank out. Turn him into even more of a neurotic mess.
The whole point was to try to get him out of his own head.
“What are you two talking about over here?” A voice interrupted them, and Ethan nearly killed his brother with a mind beam.
He hadn’t gotten Hank to agree to the bet yet, and he needed Hank to agree. To confirm that it was on. But there was no way he’d do that in front of Charlie.
“Nothing,” Ethan lied unconvincingly.
Charlie huffed out an annoyed breath. “You’re a shitty liar.”
“No, I’m not.”
Hank had already straightened up, Ethan’s arm falling away, and Ethan didn’t think it was an accident he’d done that the moment Charlie wandered over.
“Maybe I just know when you’re up to something,” Charlie said, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “Had to develop a sixth sense about it. Call it self-preservation.”
“Maybe,” Ethan said.
“You could be better,” Hank said slyly, which was a little surprising. Hank didn’t usually tease him, not so pointedly. And not ever in front of Charlie.
“See?” Charlie grinned. “Tuck agrees with me.”
“Tuck’s an asshole,” Ethan muttered, but that wasn’t who he was thinking was an asshole. When he and Charlie got back to his apartment, he was going to yell at him for interrupting at the most important moment.
Now, Hank wouldn’t ever agree and the moment would flutter away, like it had never happened. Kind of like that heart-stopping second the night before their first game, when Ethan was sure that Hank had been this close to kissing him.
Charlie hadn’t exactly interrupted then, because Hank had already begun to pull away, but he sure as hell had tonight.
“You guys need anything else?” Charlie asked. “Max was just about to close the tab.”
“Oh,” Hank said and shoved his hand into his pocket to pull out his wallet, but Charlie stopped him with a soft touch to his arm.
“Don’t worry about it,” Charlie said, “it’s on him.”
“Thanks,” Hank said, and Charlie ducked his head before giving Ethan a look that said, without words, we’re leaving soon.
The thing was, Ethan had come to camp this year totally okay with however this thing between them developed.
Okay, not totally okay, but willing to be patient, even though patience was not typically something in Ethan’s regular vocabulary.
He’d thought they’d have so much opportunity, this time around.
But from the way things were going, that wasn’t going to happen at all. Not yet, anyway. A wild desire to just grab Hank’s hand and drag him off and take what they both pretty obviously wanted surged through him.
At the last second, before Ethan just gave in and let the desire take him, he pushed it away. He didn’t need to freak Hank out. Even if it was mutual.
“You good?” Hank asked, nudging him.
“Um, yeah,” Ethan said. Even though he wasn’t. How could he be, when this was so fucking frustrating?
It wasn’t even Hank’s fault, not really. If Niko hadn’t been having a dynamite preseason, it probably wouldn’t have mattered how off Hank had been. Niko would’ve gone back to Finland for the season, and Hank would’ve made the final roster, right alongside Ethan.
But Ethan couldn’t blame Niko either. It felt like at least a dozen factors out of their control, and he did want to rage against how shitty fate could be.
The problem was that wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t make either of them feel any better.
“I think Charlie wants to go,” Ethan said.
“Yeah,” Hank said, standing up and stretching his long frame. Ethan couldn’t help but look at the strip of skin, tantalizingly visible for a moment, as Hank’s T-shirt rode up.
God, he was so tired of wanting with no end in sight. The worst was that he didn’t think it was only him, from the way Hank’s gaze sometimes stuck on his mouth or on his bare chest or even on his face.
“You got this,” Ethan told him, nudging his hand with his fist. He didn’t bring up the bet again, even though it was hard. He wanted to.
But maybe even the vague shape of it would be enough to distract Hank.
“Sure,” Hank retorted, not sounding exactly confident about it.
But the grin he shot Ethan right before he went to find Charlie had some of his regular fire behind it, and Ethan had to believe he was telling the truth.
Hank did have this.
The next morning at skate, Hank was quiet, and Ethan kept to the forwards’ side of the locker room, not wandering over towards the d-men’s side, barely even letting his eyes go where his feet wanted to.
He was being good; he was being focused. And, he was going to fucking score.
Ethan had known it this morning when he’d woken up, sitting big and inescapable and certain inside his chest.
He was going to score, and he was going to bring Hank breakfast. In bed, maybe.
They’d started sharing lunch after skate or practice, but today, Charlie cornered Ethan in his stall as he finished getting dressed. “Hey,” he said, “sibling call this afternoon, before the game. V and I finally got our schedules aligned with Livvy’s.”
“Oh yeah?” Ethan was excited, even though he felt a frisson of disappointment at missing out on lunch. “What are we gonna eat?”