8. Chapter 8
A day off was always good. A chance to sleep in, get a really restful night without setting an alarm in the midst of the insane schedule of the NHL and a chance to catch up on the mundane shit that fell by the wayside because of the aforementioned schedule.
Hank slept in. Took his time getting his laundry together.
Hauled it to the laundromat down the street.
Grabbed lunch while it spun in the machines.
On his way home, if he’d been back in Syracuse, he’d have stopped by the grocery store, stocked up on the essentials, too, to supplement his meal service.
But he was still unsure if he was staying up here—less sure than he’d ever been, despite the goal last night—and the bare little kitchenette in his long-term hotel was not really set up for actual cooking.
So instead, he headed back to his room with his laundry basket overflowing, with every intention of folding it, but instead flopped down on the couch and let the softness and a sleepy midafternoon of nothing better to do carry him off into sleep.
It was honestly surprising that he drifted off, because all day Hank had been carrying an anticipatory buzz under his skin.
Tonight, it crooned to him, nonstop. Tonight tonight tonight.
Yeah, he was taking Ethan out. Maybe it was a date, maybe it wasn’t, though Hank was pretty sure Ethan thought it was, and the only reason he wouldn’t classify it like that in his head was the remnants of his fear.
Though Hank wasn’t sure it was really fear anymore, not exactly.
It was just so different, feeling this way about Ethan, about a guy.
It wasn’t like he’d dated a lot of girls, either, but he’d done it enough that he knew how it was supposed to go.
The pattern he was supposed to follow. But he and Ethan were already diverging, had already done that, from the very beginning, and it made the ground under his feet uncertain and a little wobbly.
What if he stepped wrong? Ethan probably wouldn’t care.
Wouldn’t judge. But Hank was too used to wanting to do things right.
Wanted to do this right, and not just because he always had.
But because Ethan was important. So fucking important that it made nerves crawl up his spine.
Still, despite all that—the circular conversation he kept having with himself, the it’s just dinner, it’s no big deal reminders—Hank actually did manage to fall asleep.
His phone ringing jolted him awake suddenly, and from the way the sun had dipped down below his blinds, he was pretty sure he’d been out at least a few hours.
Hank’s first instinct was panic. Maybe he’d be late for his date, but no, he wasn’t picking up Ethan until six. A glance at his phone told him it was only five.
Still plenty of time to take a shower.
His second instinct was to glance at who was calling, and it took a moment for the name to register.
And then for his stomach to fall, right to the fucking floor.
“Hey,” Hank answered, trying really hard to keep the inevitable dread out of his voice.
To swallow hard around the sudden lump in his throat.
Give me more time, I can be better, I can be as good as Niko, I swear to God, he wanted to beg Inverness, but he already knew it wouldn’t matter what he said.
He’d been doomed to this by his own slightly slow start and Niko’s white-hot one.
“Hank,” Inverness said kindly. “Glad I got you on a day off.”
Hank supposed he should be grateful that Inverness was doing this over the phone and not in person. Didn’t wait until tomorrow, when he came in for practice and Inverness pulled him into his office, instead.
It was going to be humiliating and awful and agonizing, no matter how it was done, but this felt less, at least.
“Yeah,” Hank agreed, still trying to swallow that lump away, but it was stubbornly sticking around.
Inverness sighed. “We talked last spring about how there was going to be a spot on our fall roster for you, Hank, but sometimes, things don’t work out the way we want—or that we need—them to.”
Hank could barely get his agreement out, but the silver lining was that Inverness seemed to understand how shitty this was and he didn’t drag it out, either.
“I want to reassure you that whatever happens now, you are the future of the defense on our roster. Niko . . . well, the hope that if he keeps this up, he might be a good trade piece at the deadline.”
It was a sentiment clearly designed to make this whole thing more palatable, and even if Hank believed it—which he did, actually, because Inverness wasn’t the kind of guy to prevaricate or to make shit up—it didn’t change anything about how shitty this felt.
How he was going back to Syracuse, even though he’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t. And even worse, that he was going to leave Ethan here, because it was looking more and more like Ethan was going to make it.
Oh, God. Ethan.
Inverness was going over some logistical details like when he’d be expected to report to Syracuse, and how the team could help him facilitate the move back to his old apartment, but all Hank was thinking of was Ethan Ethan Ethan.
He was supposed to be taking Ethan out tonight.
And who’d he been kidding? It would’ve been their first date. What Hank had been hoping, deep down, would be the first of many, and now it wasn’t going to happen after all.
Or, it could, Hank supposed. He’d earned it. He’d scored the goal. He could show up in an hour to pick Ethan up, and he could take him out anyway.
Inverness ended the call by saying, “Hank, I want to promise you again, this isn’t forever. First spot on the roster for a d-man? You’re our call. You’re playing better hockey than the AHL needs you to, and we want you here.”
Not enough to pick me over Niko, Hank didn’t say, though he was painfully tempted to give a middle finger to the whole fucking situation and do it anyway.
“Thank you, sir,” Hank said. Because he wasn’t stupid, and he did want to be Inverness’ first call, and pissing off the Bandits’ general manager would be the worst way to guarantee that.
Inverness’ voice softened even more. “I know how shitty this is. But I know you’ve got this, Hank.”
The lump was impossible to swallow, so Hank had stopped trying. He made some noise that might be, I agree with you, even if he wasn’t sure he did.
And then the nightmare phone call was finally fucking over.
Hank sat there for a very long moment.
Part of his brain stuck on the list of things he’d need to do to head back to Syracuse. He wasn’t due there until noon tomorrow. He could pack later. Could leave early in the morning and make it there in plenty of time.
Could still take Ethan out to the little Italian place Dom had recommended. Watch Ethan’s smug pleasure in his pretty blue eyes shining in the candlelight.
Could still lean over and take the kiss he knew they both wanted when he drove Ethan back to the apartment he was sharing with his brother.
But Hank already knew he couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t be able to stomach it. Wasn’t sure Ethan would be able to, either. But still, fuck, he couldn’t bail on him entirely, and the idea of going back to upstate before seeing him again?
Absolutely the fucking worst. This already sucked enough, he wasn’t doing that, too.
Decided, Hank dragged himself off the couch. Took a shower. Debated on what to wear. If he showed up in shorts and a T-shirt, Ethan would probably think something was up. Of course, the moment he showed up and Ethan got a glimpse at his face, he was going to know something was up, anyway.
In the end, he put jeans and a T-shirt on. It wasn’t that different from what he’d probably have worn if this was going to be a date.
He drove over to Charlie’s apartment building. Parked in a visitor spot and, taking a deep, resigned breath, headed up in the elevator to the right floor.
Ethan opened the door on Hank’s first knock, like he’d never gotten the memo about looking too eager.
Hank froze.
Goddamn it.
Ethan looked so good. Smelled so good.
Fate was such a fucking bitch.
It didn’t take Ethan very long to figure out something was wrong. Maybe a second. Maybe two.
In those two seconds, Hank stared at him and imagined what this would’ve been like if Inverness hadn’t just called him an hour ago.
Wondered what would have happened. If Hank’s hands would’ve ended up tangled in Ethan’s curls, finding out if they felt as soft as they looked. If his blue eyes went hazy and pleased when Hank leaned in to kiss him.
“What’s wrong?” Ethan asked, frowning.
That lump was still there, despite all of Hank’s best efforts. Despite Hank practicing saying it out loud half a dozen times as he’d driven over.
The moment came, and Hank couldn’t quite get it out.
Ethan stared at him expectantly, and then his expression shifted. It was worse than he’d dreamed, Hank being front and center for the moment he figured it out.
“Oh, shit, not really? Fuck,” Ethan muttered. He put a hand out and wrapped it around Hank’s arm, tugging him over the threshold and into Ethan’s embrace.
Hank didn’t know how long they stood there, holding each other, but it was long enough. Long enough for the lump to finally, finally dissipate, and he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Ethan was the magic ingredient that made all the difference.
Finally, he pulled back. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he said in a voice that sounded too rough to be his. “I didn’t—”
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Ethan reassured him.
“I don’t—”
But Ethan shot him another look. “Come in. We don’t have to go out.”
“But isn’t Barney here?” he asked, before he could overthink the question.
It was embarrassing to admit it—honestly, humiliation piled on more humiliation—but he didn’t want to see Charlie now.
Charlie wouldn’t be shitty about this. He wasn’t a bad person, not by any means, but Hank felt too raw.
Ethan was just the right kind of soothing and reassuring, but anyone else?
Hank didn’t want to see them. He just wanted to sit in the quiet and let his wounds close over.