19. Chapter 19
Hank was a hockey player but he liked to mentally separate himself from those guys that just wanted to play hockey as an excuse to beat the shit out of someone. That wasn’t his game, and wasn’t ever going to be his game, even after he’d grown and put more muscle on.
He could take a check, could give a check, sure, and he’d gone out of his way to get bigger so he could win the board battles he hadn’t won early on after he’d been drafted.
In a scrum, where there was just grappling and way less actual fighting, sure, he’d be fine.
He was strong. If someone got too close to the goalie crease, he’d absolutely shove them out of the way.
But he’d never, not once, been tempted to drop gloves.
Before this moment, Hank would’ve even argued, maybe even fervently, that you didn’t need to fight to intimidate other players into falling in line. That just the threat of it was often enough.
They were midway through the game against the Sens—the second period ticking by, Hank alternatively watching Avery and Brock try to get used to playing together and Ethan adjust to being Max’s winger—when everything he thought he knew about keeping his fucking temper on the ice blew up in his face.
Personally, Hank wasn’t sure who Avery should be paired up with, but he didn’t really feel like it was working out with Brock. Jonesy was a good d-man, solid and dependable, but over the last few games, they just weren’t clicking.
Hank wasn’t sure who else Avery might click with better, but obviously it wasn’t going to be Niko, who’d just been traded, or Willy, who it was beginning to look like might be out for the rest of the season.
So much for the trade improving the Bandits’ d-core.
Hank watching as Benny took the puck behind their goal as he held the middle so the forwards could do a shift change, but was thinking about the next play.
But more urgently he was actually parsing through the various options of pairings still, considering himself briefly before dismissing the idea as fucking fantasy, when out of the corner of his eye he saw it.
One of the Sens guys—he didn’t even catch the number—intercepted Ethan on his way to the bench. Sent him sprawling to the ice in an ungainly heap.
Hank’s heart sank like a fucking stone and panic lit up every nerve in his body. Max was already off, one leg up on the bench, and couldn’t come back, and even if he could, he was big sure, and could take a punch and give one out, but he wasn’t a fighter either.
And anyway, that didn’t matter. Hank wouldn’t have even cared if Max was on the ice, because Ethan wasn’t Max’s. He was Hank’s.
He turned before he even registered he was doing it and moved hard and fast, and even as Ethan—thank God—lifted himself up off the ice, he collided with the guy who’d hit Ethan.
There wasn’t a single thought in his head.
Okay, no. That was a lie.
There was a single overriding thought.
Fucking guarantee that if anybody ever pulled this shit again, they’d know that Hank would have their ass.
That Ethan Barnes was not just a rookie you could fuck up because you felt like it, and if you did, there’d be consequences.
Hank wasn’t sure if he pushed his own gloves off or they just came off, but he was grappling on the guy’s jersey, pushing him around and then, using all his bulk, took him down to the ice.
The guy was getting a few swings in, here or there, but Hank was in control.
Well.
Not in control. Not really. He was really fucking out of control, to be honest, but at this moment, he didn’t give a crap.
What he was in control of was pummeling this guy into the fucking ground.
He just wanted to make sure that next time someone considered giving Ethan a bruise that Hank would be making sure he iced later, that they thought twice about it.
Someone pulled him off, but not before he’d gotten at least half a dozen good blows in. Some to the chest, a few to the jaw, and even one that Hank thought might actually end up being a black-ish eye later.
He wasn’t sad about that at all.
“What the fuck,” the guy spit up at him, angry still as Hank tried to take one last swing at him, even though the ref was slowly but surely pulling him away.
“Just try that fucking shit again,” Hank threatened in a low, angry voice.
A minute later, the refs had officially broken up the fight, and Hank leaned down to pick up his gloves, his stick, his helmet. Barely registering as the ref announced to the arena his very first five-minute major for fighting.
It was worth it though, when Hank skated over to the box, and he saw Ethan staring at him from the bench, eyes wide and lips parted, like he couldn’t quite believe that had just happened.
Well, he should believe it. Ethan had been whining for ages about not wanting to be protected, but fuck that noise. Hank was never going to let him go unprotected. Nobody on the team would choose that, honestly, but Hank cared more—and in a different way—than the rest of the guys.
Hank loved him.
Sometimes he thought he might not be that great at showing it, but today, he could. Today, he could show Ethan that the next guy who went for him? He’d think twice.
Sitting in the box, though, Hank thought five minutes had never passed so slowly.
He did get a nice, long front-row seat to the slightly jagged pairing that was Avery and Brock, and he kept thinking of who could possibly pair with their new d-man to give him a better shot at both defense and showcasing the offensive skill that Hank had always admired.
He’d never tell Avery, but honestly Hank had modeled some of his game on Avery’s own.
His seamless ability to gracefully flip between defending the puck and creating offensive opportunities?
The way he relied on his incredible edge work and balance to give him an advantage?
Avery was never going to be the biggest d-man out there, or the broadest or the strongest, but somehow he was still the best.
And somehow, also, Avery’s skill made Hank realize just how Jonesy was not playing as well as he had, at one time.
He wasn’t bad, but with Avery out there, it was painfully obvious that Jonesy wasn’t his equal. Not even close.
Hank’s five minutes finally ended, and he hit the ice—Jonesy swapping him out for a shift change, and for thirty seconds, he got to follow Avery into the offensive zone.
It was only thirty seconds. Not even half a shift, but it was enough of a taste, watching Avery take the puck and slide a pass, unbelievable vision honestly, over to Barney, who took it and shot it.
Danny tipped it in, and the Bandits were now up three to two.
When Hank got back to the bench, Max gave him a look, eyebrows rising nearly past the edge of his helmet. “I see you handled that,” he said.
“Yeah,” Hank said. Someone had needed to.
Not that Max wouldn’t. During Charlie’s rookie year, Max had pushed around plenty of guys who’d tried to go for him.
Max had done it too, once or twice, this season, when he could, with Ethan.
But the lesson hadn’t been sinking in the right way. And now, maybe, it would.
Ethan didn’t say anything until the intermission between the second and third period. Hank was on his way into the locker room, but suddenly Ethan’s hand was there, and he was tugging him sideways, past the entrance and down the hall.
“What?” Hank said.
“Are you good?” Ethan asked, his eyes searching Hank’s face like somehow he had visible bruising already, though he didn’t think there was, because Hank was pretty damn sure that idiot hadn’t managed to land any punches where it counted.
“I’m fine,” Hank said. He reached back and wrapped his fingers around Ethan’s forearm and squeezed gently. “Should be asking you that.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Ethan said, which he would say even if it was fucking terrible.
Normally, Hank might hold back, or let Ethan think yes, sure, you’re right, it wasn’t too bad. Just a normal day playing fucking hockey.
But Hank was kind of over pretending that it was okay, or that Ethan wasn’t working overtime to convince everyone that he was tough.
He rolled his eyes. “Nope, it was totally that bad. Nearly blindsided you, and on your way back to the bench? Yeah, it was exactly that bad, and that fucker deserved every punch I gave him, and more, honestly. It was a cheap-ass shot.”
Ethan frowned. Honestly it hadn’t occurred to Hank—though thinking had not really occurred to Hank when the moment had arrived and he’d needed to do something about this bullshit that kept happening—that Ethan might be pissed at him for fighting on his behalf.
Shit. Shit.
Not that he’d do anything differently. He wouldn’t. Ethan’s safety as a player in this league was more important than any argument they might get into over Hank being too heavy-handed about it. Hank would do it again, in a hot second, if he needed to.
“Okay, well, next time you’re gonna go all fucking ninja on a guy, can you give me a heads-up first?” Ethan complained.
Hank shot him an incredulous look. “I wasn’t planning to do that.”
“I know, but . . .” Suddenly Ethan was grinning, the smile overtaking his whole face, lighting him up. “But it was really fucking hot, and I really needed a minute.”
Hank stared at him. Wasn’t sure at first that he’d heard correctly. “What?”
“Oh come on, it was hot.” Ethan gave him a little shove, still grinning. “You know it was.”
Hank knew his blood had been hot. He’d been angry. Pissed off. Fucking furious, if he was really digging deep into it. But hot? Like jump-Ethan’s-bones-over-it hot? Not really.
Though he couldn’t say he was against the rest of the league knowing that if they laid a hand on Ethan Barnes, they’d be answering to him.
That was a little bit hot.
“Um.”
“Yeah,” Ethan said, nodding. “Okay, you get it now. Maybe hotter from my perspective, but you get it.”
Shit, Ethan was right. And they had a whole period of hockey left to play. And then they had to go back to Max’s apartment, where they were sharing a bed, but couldn’t exactly kick their captain out of his own place.