13. Chapter 13
January
Ethan wasn’t hungover, but he couldn’t say the same about Charlie.
“Fuuuuuck,” Charlie groaned, only lifting his head about an inch off the kitchen counter. “Can you like . . . make way less noise, please?”
Ethan was currently in the middle of making oatmeal and slicing up some fruit—two generally pretty noiseless activities. He wasn’t sure he could do either of them any quieter.
“I wonder how Max is doing?” Ethan asked, instead of defending his nearly silent oatmeal creation.
Charlie needed to eat something to combat the hangover; a something that was probably loaded with fat and sugar, but he’d freak out if Ethan even suggested it, because the further into the season the Bandits got, the tighter he seemed to be wound.
Of course, all that anxiety had to overflow at some point, and it had done it last night in spades.
They’d had a big blowout New Year’s Eve party at Danny’s house, and Ethan had made the mistake of looking away for twenty minutes so he could have a quick, hushed conversation with Hank, and look what had happened.
Charlie had apparently decided that doing shots with Max was a good idea. Who had suggested it, he still didn’t know, because Charlie had wanted to talk about everything else but the origin of his sudden drunkenness, and he was even more close-lipped this morning.
Understandable; he kinda looked like death warmed over.
“If he’s doing shitty, it’s his own damn fault,” Charlie mumbled into the counter. “It was his idea.”
Ethan wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he just grunted as he poured the oatmeal into two bowls.
Setting the pan down as gently as possible, he added a few spoonfuls of brown sugar to his own and considered adding one measly half spoonful to Charlie’s, but he’d probably lose his shit if Ethan did.
Again, that hadn’t exactly stopped Charlie last night.
Fuck it, Ethan decided and added a whole spoonful, mixing it in so Charlie couldn’t see it.
Not that Charlie was really seeing much right now.
He was kind of half glaring, half squinting out of a partially opened single eye.
He had come out of the bedroom wearing sunglasses, but Ethan had snagged them right off his face, making Charlie screech so loud it was amazing Mrs. Hunzinger, who lived next door, hadn’t called in a complaint for noise.
“You don’t wanna be hungover, don’t drink so much so fast next time,” Ethan said reasonably, setting the bowl in front of Charlie. “Come on, eat up.”
“Are you going to tell me I’m a fucking idiot again if I say you should’ve stopped me?” Charlie complained.
“Yes,” Ethan said. “I walked away for like ten fucking minutes to talk to my—to talk to Hank.”
His little stumble had Charlie raising his head the furthest it’d been since Ethan confiscated his sunglasses. “How’s Hank?”
“In Syracuse, and not as hungover as you,” Ethan said.
“Fuck, nobody is as hungover as me,” Charlie said and slumped back down to the counter, nearly upsetting his untouched bowl of oatmeal in the process.
“In the history of the world, probably not,” Ethan agreed.
He slid onto the next barstool over and began to shovel his own breakfast into his mouth.
Unlike Charlie, he was going to make it to optional morning skate, which Coach had kindly scheduled for noon, because he assumed that everyone would be feeling a bit worse for the wear this morning.
Ethan figured that was the only way anyone was going to show up, anyway.
“You’re mean.” Charlie pouted. “Avery would be nice to me. And Livvy? She’d be the nicest.”
“That’s because Livvy’s the best of us,” Ethan said cheerfully, not feeling even the slightest bit upset by Charlie’s declaration. “I still argue that you’d have felt better if you threw up last night.”
Charlie’s face turned green. “Please, please stop talking,” he begged.
“If you’d gone to college, this would be amateur hour,” Ethan said.
“I went to skate plenty of times hungover.” Okay, not that many times, but enough times.
Charlie was just like one of those celebrities who’d gotten famous young, like he was stunted forever at the age he’d been drafted at.
Eighteen and stupid and forever obsessed with everyone’s vision of what kind of player he could be.
Honestly, college would’ve done him some good.
“Not this hungover,” Charlie muttered. “Can’t I have my sunglasses back?”
“No. Only assholes wear sunglasses inside.”
“I’m going to tell Avery—gonna tell Livvy—that you’re mean.”
“I bet you will,” Ethan said placidly. He shoved more oatmeal into his mouth and then popped a big strawberry in. He’d only had a few beers last night and had wisely stayed away from the shots.
“I’m gonna tell Hank,” Charlie said next, like he was trying to escalate here. And normally, Ethan might give him a little credit for the effort, but the words came out so weak and insincere Ethan knew that Charlie wasn’t going to do it.
Besides, he’d already texted Hank all about the fun experience of dragging a drunk Charlie and Max home in an Uber, and then making sure Max got up to his floor okay. And then making sure Charlie didn’t just follow him.
He wanted them to get their collective heads out of their asses, but not when they were so blackout drunk they had no freaking clue what they were even doing.
Ethan pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked his convo with Hank. He hadn’t imagined them. There they were, a whole string of texts, with no reply underneath.
It wasn’t entirely unusual for Hank to sleep in on a day off, but still, it was surprising that it was past eleven, and he had yet to hear from the guy.
His guy.
There was a knock on the door.
“That’s probably Max,” Charlie said from his prone position on the counter. “Go answer it and tell him to fuck off. We’re all dead in here.”
“I’m not dead,” Ethan said. “You’re just dead.”
“Yes, and it’s all his fault,” Charlie whined.
Ethan slid off the barstool and headed towards the door, sure that it probably was Max, and Max, despite having drunk just as much as Charlie last night, was likely dragging his hungover ass to practice, anyway, because he was the most responsible guy that Ethan knew.
Whoever was on the other side of the door knocked again, louder and more impatiently this time, and yeah, despite that Max had never been loud or impatient a day in his life, Ethan was pretty damn sure it had to be him.
Probably Charlie had finally told him he was skipping the optional practice, and Max was here to drag him in, anyway.
Well, Max could do that. Ethan wasn’t going to participate but if Max had a death wish, he could do whatever the heck he wanted with his brother.
Ethan opened the door and froze.
It wasn’t Max.
It was Hank.
Hank looking all happy and bashful and a little bit nervous. Like he wasn’t one hundred percent sure of the reception he’d get; maybe only ninety-nine percent sure.
But Hank never needed to worry another day in his life. Not about any way Ethan was ever going to react to him. Not about Ethan’s feelings. And definitely never Ethan himself.
“Hey—” was all Hank got out before Ethan was wrapping his arms around Hank’s middle and forcibly dragging him across the threshold.
Ethan pushed him against the wall and Hank just went—he was bigger, but he was also not expecting Ethan to do any of this, which was crazy, because Ethan had thought about this probably a million fucking times, and his response the first moment he saw Hank again was always going to be the same.
Leaning in, Ethan gave him a split second to turn away or to change his mind, but Hank only tilted his head down in obvious and complete surrender, and Ethan kissed him.
Gentle and sweet at first. But then deeper and harder, like if Ethan could get his tongue far enough into Hank’s mouth, he might have some comprehension of just how much Ethan had fucking missed him.
Hank’s hands buried themselves in Ethan’s hair, pulling him in even tighter to his body, and by the time they broke apart, Ethan was nearly gasping.
“Best third kiss ever,” Ethan panted into the miniscule space between their mouths.
Hank’s lips tilted up in one corner, amused. A little smug. “Yeah? You wanna go for the best fourth kiss ever?”
Ethan didn’t need another invitation. He was framing Hank’s face with his palms, diving in again, joy simmering inside him at the thought that Hank was here, here, here. Finally.
When all of a sudden that perfect bubble with just the two of them burst. Abruptly.
“Tuck.”
That was not Ethan’s voice. That was definitely not Hank’s voice either, because why would he greet himself?
Very reluctantly, Ethan removed his mouth from Hank’s mouth. When he turned, he came face-to-face with his brother, who’d retrieved his sunglasses and shoved them back on his face. Like he needed as much protection as possible before he stumbled into the entryway.
“Oh, hey, Barney,” Hank said. Ethan hadn’t stepped away from him, but he’d felt Hank’s whole body tense, and now his face was flaming hot, the rising temperature unmistakable.
“Tuck,” Charlie repeated blandly. “I see you’re back up.”
“Yeah. Um. Yeah. Happy New Year?”
Charlie made a half-disgusted sound in the back of his throat.
“Ignore him,” Ethan said. “He’s hungover as fuck.”
“Oh, just like Max,” Hank said. “I actually just came from up there. I’m . . . um . . . staying with him? At least for the first little bit.”
That was . . . not ideal.
Not that Ethan wouldn’t have sex in his own bedroom if his brother happened to be around, but he had a feeling that was going to be a hard sell for Hank.
Having sex in Max’s apartment while his captain was around? Going to be an even tougher sell.
Ethan mentally sighed.
“Let me guess, he told you to come down here to drag me to practice,” Charlie said.
Ethan wanted to roll his eyes and didn’t. “No, you dummy, he came here for me.”
“Well, yeah, the kissing kind of gave that away. Congrats, by the way.”