7. Chapter 7 #3
Ethan knew that Avery and Charlie were close—maybe the closest of all of them—and he hoped that Charlie would talk to him, later.
Would keep talking to him about it. Even if Avery never played on the same team as them, they all wanted Avery to play for a team that he wanted to play for. That wanted him to play for them.
Though Avery was really fucking good; probably all thirty-two NHL teams would want him to play for them.
“Sure,” Charlie said, making a face. “Now you’re just—”
“It’s fine. Just let it go,” Avery interrupted, and Charlie actually did, because Avery was like the one person on earth that Charlie would listen to. Besides Max, of course.
“I gotta go,” Livvy said apologetically. “I’m at the airport, and we gotta get on this flight. Good luck in your game today, guys. You too, tomorrow, V.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie said, rolling his eyes, but he looked pleased.
“Love you,” Ethan said.
“I know that’s what you really meant, Barney,” Livvy teased Charlie.
She, too, was one of the best at seeing through Charlie’s bullshit. Ethan wondered sometimes if he was the worst of the three of them to end up in New York with Charlie. He felt like he understood him the least.
Charlie flushed and nodded that yes, she was right.
Because naturally she was. Livvy was by far the smartest of the four of them.
“I’m gonna go take a nap,” Charlie said to Ethan when the call ended. Avery might’ve stayed on, Ethan thought, but he had to go to practice.
“You mean huddle under the covers and text Max and pretend like you’re sleeping,” Ethan said, but illustrating his earlier point, Charlie just made a face and got up from the couch, piling up their trash without saying anything.
Not even bothering to correct him.
Ethan sighed and got up after him, heading into his own bedroom. Shucking his sweatpants and sweatshirt, he settled into bed too, checking his phone before he put it on the charger.
Hank hadn’t texted.
Well, that was okay. They didn’t get lunch together every time. They didn’t text before their nap every game, either. It was fine. Everything was fine.
Nothing was screwed up because Ethan had suggested the bet.
The Bandits were up three to zero going into the third period.
Ethan was still on the fourth line, playing less minutes, but at least for this game, Coach had switched some of the more offensively minded guys to his line. Sasha had scored again, and Ethan had felt like his assist had actually been something to be proud of.
But even more than that, Hank was playing better. Looser. More confidently.
Coach had paired him with Keegan Bennett today—Benny, the team liked to call him—and not having to be on the ice with Niko seemed to be helping Hank get his skates under him better. Get his mind clearer.
There were a lot of things to be happy about, going into the third period, and not just the score.
Ethan took his spot on the bench, between Sasha and Jonas, the wingers he was centering today, and watched as Charlie skated around the middle of the ice, getting ready to take the opening faceoff.
He expected to glance down the bench to see Hank there. Meet his eyes, at least.
They’d greeted each other and played sewer ball with the rest of the guys like they usually did. Like Ethan hadn’t suggested anything at all last night. But he was thinking about it. He was still thinking about it. And he hoped Hank was thinking about it, too.
They didn’t even have to call it a date, even though in Ethan’s head, it was going to be a date.
But Hank wasn’t on the bench. Niko and Brock were, though.
Ethan looked out, and sure enough, there was Hank on the ice, with Benny. A good sign, Ethan decided, something inside him lightening. Coach was giving Hank more opportunities. More chances. Maybe there was a window where he could still change his fate.
And in the same breath, change Ethan’s, too. He already knew it wouldn’t be the same if Hank got sent back down again and Ethan stayed on the roster.
Hank locked in tight when he was on the ice, so Ethan wasn’t expecting any acknowledgment, but to his surprise, Hank looked over at him and tilted his head slightly. Enough, Ethan thought, maybe a little delusionally, that Hank might have done it for him. Just for him.
Laughter bubbled out of him. Hank was such a dick sometimes. Leaving Ethan hanging like that and not even saying it. Not even saying it now, really.
The ref dropped the puck, and Charlie won the faceoff, flicking the puck behind him in an easy, practiced motion. Right back to Hank.
Normally, Ethan wouldn’t be entirely sure if Hank would keep it or not—he changed it up, depending on the play, on the opponents’ forward line and the d-pair, though in the last few games, Hank had barely even hesitated before flicking it to one of the wingers or back to the center.
But not today.
Today, he kept it, sliding into the offensive zone, taking it himself.
When Ethan had first watched footage of Hank playing, he’d been struck by Hank’s deft offensive touch—hardly normal in a d-man.
But he’d been focusing more the last few games on his defense.
Or maybe letting Niko get into his head, make him think that the best offensive defenseman out there was from Finland, not from Canada.
But Hank deked one guy and then the other, his long legs moving with confidence and speed.
He passed the puck over to Charlie, pulling the focus of the opponents’ d-pair, but then Charlie passed it back, a quick flick of his wrist.
Hank barely got the puck back on the blade of his stick before he shot it, far enough out that nobody had managed to get in his shooting lane yet, and before the goalie was expecting the shot.
It sailed right over the goalie’s left shoulder and hit the net.
The Bandits’ goal light flashed and Ethan might’ve been embarrassed at the yell he made when the puck went in, but it was hard to be embarrassed when Hank was beaming too, and even harder to be embarrassed when right after the celly, Hank turned towards the bench, right before he skated towards it for the traditional line of fist bumps after a goal, and he didn’t just meet Ethan’s eyes,
He lifted his stick, pointing it right at him.
Undeniable.
Something warm and big swelled inside Ethan’s chest.
That goal had been for Hank, sure. Instrumental in helping him gain his confidence back, absolutely. But Ethan knew now that Hank had also scored for him.
To win the bet and to take Ethan out to dinner.
Max leaned over. “What was that?” he wondered as the third line went over the boards to get set for the faceoff.
“Uh, nothing,” Ethan lied, badly, flushing a little at how poor he was at even trying to pretend Hank’s move hadn’t meant everything.
“I get it,” Max said, kindly. “You tell me, and you think I’ll tell Charlie.”
“Won’t you?”
“Who’re you kidding?” Emil asked. “You tell Charlie everything.”
Max huffed out a frustrated breath but he was smiling too, like he enjoyed that the whole team knew just how ridiculous he was about Barney.
“Just a little bet Tuck and I had going,” Ethan said, brushing it off, even though it was not little. Not at all.
Fifteen minutes later, Ethan got the empty netter, sealing the victory, and also his two-point night.
There was a lot to celebrate, no questions.
The Bandits had finally gotten their first win of the preseason.
Ethan was feeling like he was really playing well, at least as well as he knew he was capable of, getting his feet under him finally.
And then there was Hank, who was actually smiling in the locker room as he pulled off his sweater and tossed it into the laundry bin.
Ethan got changed, taking his time, even though Charlie hated it when he dawdled. He wanted to give Hank plenty of opportunity to come over. To say, let’s go out tomorrow night.
He was just pulling on his sneakers, making sure the laces were tied, when he saw a shadow loom over him out of his periphery.
When he glanced up, Hank was standing there, shifting from one foot to the other, looking both pleased and vaguely anxious.
“Hey,” Hank said.
“Sick goal, man,” Ethan said, standing up and pulling Hank into a bro hug. He wanted to make it a regular sort of hug. He and Hank did that, now, since coming to New York a few weeks back. But he could sense how nervous Hank was, and he didn’t want to push.
Okay, Ethan didn’t want to push too much.
“Guess you owe me a breakfast sandwich, too,” Hank said, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smile. “The good kind. From the deli down the street.”
He started walking towards the door out of the locker room and what was Ethan supposed to do? Not follow? Not fucking likely.
“An empty netter gets you a breakfast sandwich? Really?” Ethan pretended disbelief.
He wasn’t sure where Charlie had gone, but they’d driven in together. He could follow Hank out to the parking lot and wait by Charlie’s car if he had to. And that seemed to be where Hank was headed.
Ethan was also fine not giving the whole locker room an audience to them settling their bet.
“A goal’s a goal,” Hank said, slanting a look over at Ethan. Like he hadn’t just scored a goal of his own, winning him a dinner with Ethan.
Ethan wanted to bring it up so badly he nearly ached with it, but he knew Hank would get to it.
Hank was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a coward—and Ethan knew he wanted it, deep down.
“Yeah,” Ethan agreed.
Huffing out a breath, Hank turned to him, pausing. They were in one of the winding corridors that headed out towards the player lot from the locker room, but there were multiple routes, and it hadn’t been lost on Ethan that Hank had taken one of the quieter ones.