21. Ethan
ETHAN
The air inside the rink is sharp with cold and rubber and that faint chemical sting of the Zamboni. The kind of familiar that settles in my bones.
I move through my warm-up like I always do—methodical, focused, efficient. Tight circles first, edge control sharp and clean, carving into the ice like I’m drawing lines around the chaos in my head. My shoulders stay loose, stick gripped light in my hands, eyes ahead, locked in.
Then crossovers, forward and backward, knees bent, stride compact. I count the beats in my head—four forward, pivot, four back. Again. Again. It’s not about speed. It’s about precision. Repetition. Getting every part of me firing the way it’s supposed to.
Pivots next—open hip, dig in, rotate, explode out. Then transitions. Tight feet, quick turns, shoulders squared. Balance steady, blade to blade, motion into stillness and back again.
Stops and starts. Accelerations. Sharp turns.
Everything drilled into me through years of routine and discipline .
It’s not purely about getting my body ready—it’s about switching on. Blocking everything else out.
Tuning in to the rhythm.
Control.
I’ve always needed it more than most.
I’m halfway through my routine when I hear it—soft at first, then sharper, brighter.
A laugh.
Hers.
It slices through the ambient noise of blades scraping and pucks hitting boards, straight into my bloodstream like a shot of adrenaline.
She flashes a grin at Jax as they stretch at the boards, her lips moving, forming the words of what I imagine is some cocky little comment or teasing dig at his expense. Jax volleys right back with something that has her throwing her head back.
Watching them together, the easygoing camaraderie, sets something off in my chest. She’s coming out of her shell.
Slowly. Cautiously. But it’s there.
I’ve been watching it unfold over the last week—since that night at The Stanley, when I told her she needed to give us a chance. I hadn’t expected her to actually listen. Honestly, I thought she’d keep her distance, keep to her little bubble of steel and solitude.
But she has showed up.
She has tried.
She came out with us after the game, even spent a large portion of the night talking to some of the juniors on the team.
She’s made an effort to talk to players after practice.
And the cafeteria today? That was a first. Seeing her and Wren walk toward our table took me by surprise.
I’d been mid-conversation with Leo and completely lost my train of thought when I caught sight of her moving through the cafeteria, shoulders back, chin up, that same focused intensity she wears on the ice.
Her hair was down for once, the brunette locks loose around her shoulders, and even dressed in simple leggings and a hoodie, with the Converse she’s always sporting, she still managed to pull every inch of my attention.
I hadn’t expected to get pulled so far into her orbit that I didn’t want lunch to end.
Typically, I spend my lunch hour managing egos or helping someone sort out their latest crisis. Or worse, stuck in my own head, running through drills or schedules or everything that could go wrong with this season.
But today was different.
She made it different.
The way she needled me, challenging me with that sharp wit and sharper grin. It got under my skin in the worst way. Or maybe the best.
I hadn’t meant to flirt with her when I’d told her I was capable of a lot more than she knew of. It had just…slipped out.
And the look on her face? Not rejection. Not annoyance.
Surprise. Interest.
A spark that lit up something in me I’ve spent weeks trying to suppress.
And then there was the way she stood her ground with Finn’s puck bunny, not even breaking a sweat. I shouldn’t be surprised—Dylan Carter is nothing if not fierce. She’s relentless on the ice. Of course she’d be the same off it.
She’s going to be a pain in my ass, though.
That much is clear.
I knew it from the moment I came face to face with her in the locker room that first day. But now, after watching her go toe to toe with myself, Kyle, Finn, and now some airbrushed girl with fake lashes and claws? Yeah, I need to keep an eye on her .
And not just on the ice.
All the damn time.
“Bring it in!” Coach’s voice booms from the bench, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Hell, I just wasted the last ten minutes, daydreaming about a fellow teammate instead of finishing my warm-ups.
Shaking my head at myself, I skate toward the group, jaw tight, eyes forward.
Don’t look in her direction, I mentally chastise as I feel her and Jax come to a stop nearby.
I force my focus on Coach as he explains the first drill of practice, nodding along even though I already know it. I’ve known it since I was twelve. That’s the point—repetition, discipline, precision. The structure that keeps everything in line.
The structure that Dylan’s presence is threatening to ruin.
She doesn’t follow rules. Not really. She pokes and pushes and questions, and worse—she enjoys it. She enjoys getting under my skin.
And lately, I’ve been letting her.
God knows why. I wouldn’t tolerate the shit she’s pulled from any other player. If any one of them spoke to me the way she has, called bullshit on my decisions, I’d be sending them to skate suicides. But not her.
Dammit, there I go thinking about her again.
Except, even when I focus on the ice in front of me, she’s there . Sliding into the drill line across from me. Her braid is a little messy, and catching my eyes she flashes me a grin that is all teeth.
“Try not to eat ice this time, Captain,” she says low enough that only I hear.
My jaw tics.
I should shut it down. Tell her to focus. Set an example.
Instead, my mouth moves without permission .
“Worry about your own edge control, Carter.”
Her smile deepens like I’ve just proven her point.
And damn it, I like it. I like the way she fights back, the way she challenges me without crossing the line. I like that she doesn’t defer to me the way the others do.
I like it too much.
She flies through the drill with that fast, aggressive grace of hers. Sharp turns. Quick hands. Reckless as hell. And when she stops beside me, cheeks flushed from the exertion, she tosses a smug glance my way.
It should annoy me. Instead, my chest tightens.
I look away again.
I can’t want her. She’s a player on my team. She’s under my leadership. And after what she’s hinted about her last team—the betrayal, the lack of safety—I know what I represent. I know what crossing that line would mean.
I’m not that guy. I won’t be that guy.
She deserves better from a captain. And I’d rather rip this interest out of my chest with a skate blade than risk being someone she can’t trust.
So I put blinders on, ones I’ve been donning for every practice recently. I tune her out. When she says something else, something that earns a low laugh from another player, I don’t turn. I stare straight ahead, counting my breaths, biting the inside of my cheek.
I have a job to do. And it’s not getting distracted by the girl who’s been a thorn in my side since day one.
And it works…almost.
We’re nearly done with practice for the day, and I’m about to pat myself on the back for managing to avoid looking in her direction, to shut down all thoughts of her when they started to creep in, when a thump against the boards catches my attention.
I turn in time to see Dylan skating away from Fletcher, rolling her shoulder out like it stings. My brows dip low, my stomach knotting.
“You good?” I call.
She shrugs, not looking back. “Yeah. It’s nothing.”
I watch her a moment longer, before ripping my gaze away and pulling those blinders back on once more.
The last few minutes of practice blurs, all of it running on autopilot while I force my brain to stay in the lane I’ve carved out. No distractions. No slipping.
By the time Coach blows the final whistle, my shirt clings to my back with sweat and my lungs burn. The guys start peeling off toward the benches, the air thick with the usual end-of-practice chatter, but there’s a weight pressing down on the back of my neck that won’t shake loose.
I coast toward the boards, falling in beside Jax, who’s unusually silent. His jaw’s tight, brows pulled low, like he’s one wrong look away from snapping.
“You look like you’re ready to murder someone,” I mutter, half a breathless joke as I push my helmet up and glide toward the tunnel with him.
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even glance at me. Just mutters something under his breath and skates a little harder, like the ice might be able to take what he’s holding in.
What the hell crawled up his ass?
I wait near the back hallway, just outside the rink. The others have long since cleared out—bags slung over shoulders, gear rattling, loud voices fading into the night. But I stay.
Griffin didn’t get off the ice after practice, staying on to skate drills like he wasn’t already dripping with sweat.
Typically, I’d admire his dedication. He’s the most driven player on the team— at least, he was until Dylan came along.
Now, they’re neck and neck, each vying for the top spot of who is the most devoted Steelhawk.
However, tonight, I just want to go home.
It’s been a long day in a sea of long days, each one marked by the same silent, exhausting battle. Fighting off thoughts I shouldn’t be having about my teammate. My roommate.
Dylan is everywhere. She’s in my space, under my skin, and every time I think I’ve put enough distance between us, she says something or smirks at me, and the fucking challenge in her eyes nearly snaps my self-control.
But I always regroup. Rein it in. Shore up my defenses and remind myself why I can’t want her. Why I shouldn’t .
She’s a player. I’m her captain. It’s a line I don’t get to cross.
Tonight, though? I’m too damn tired of all of it.
Every muscle in my body aches. My brain’s fried. I just want to drag myself home, climb into bed, shove in my earbuds, and let some mindless podcast drown out the noise in my head.
The thud of skates hitting rubber pulls me back to the present, reminding me why I’m still here, still standing in the damn rink after hours. His gaze latches on to mine. I suspect he’s known I’ve been here the whole damn time, and deliberately kept me waiting. He’s an ass like that.
“We need to talk,” I tell him.
He doesn’t respond as he stomps over, peeling his jersey off. His hair is damp, stick tucked under one arm, his sharp gaze focused on me, stare cool and unreadable.
“Yeah? What about?” His words are a near grunt.
“You know what,” I clip. “Unicorn tape. Glitter bombs. Spamming micropenis photos. Ring any bells?”
That gets a flicker of something—satisfaction, maybe. He tries to smother it, but it’s there.
“You think that’s funny? ”
He shrugs, like none of this is worth getting worked up over. “I think the punishment fits the crime.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s not your place. You’re a goalie—your job is to stop pucks. You don’t get to decide how this team runs.”
He finally meets my gaze, all trace of a smirk gone.
“No, you’re right. That’s supposed to be your job.” His eyes are hard on mine. “But from where I’m standing, you’re too busy looking the other way, ignoring the one person on the team who needs you most.”
My teeth grind. The silence crackles between us. Loud. Heavy.
Shuffling on his skates, his lips curl in a cruel sneer.
“Hate to break it to you, Cap, but ignoring her isn’t going to make her go away, and it isn’t going to do a damn thing to extinguish those feelings you have.
All you’re doing is leaving her vulnerable.
Unprotected.” His shoulder shoves against mine as he steps past me, but he stops before moving down the hall toward the locker room.
“You do your job, and I won’t have to do mine. ”
Fisting my hands at my sides, I ignore the urge to shove him into the wall. I want to scream that I am trying, that every decision I’ve made is about keeping this team from falling apart—that I’m doing what I was trained to do. Keep your distance. Lead from above. Stay objective.
But Dylan isn’t just another player, and maybe that’s the fucking problem.
I listen as he stomps away, but even after he’s gone, his words hang in the air, clinging like smoke I can’t clear.
The one person on the team who needs you most.
Is that true? Have I missed something? Digs Kyle’s aimed at her when I wasn’t looking? Hits I didn’t question because she got back up?
I don’t know .
And that’s what’s eating me.
What I do know—what I hate knowing—is that ignoring her isn’t working.
Not for this team.
Not for me.
She’s in my head more than I want to admit, and the more I try to shut it down, the worse it gets.
I’m supposed to lead.
To protect.
To hold everything together.
But right now, I feel like I’m failing at all of it.
And I don’t know how to fix it.