42. Ethan
ETHAN
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A relentless pounding on the door drags me from my thin veil of sleep. My head throbs, the dull ache of exhaustion pressing against my skull. I groan, rolling over, but the knocking persists, loud and insistent.
“Fuck’s sake. Does no one answer the goddamn door in this house?!”
With a grunt, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, barely registering the fact that I’m only in my boxers as I shuffle barefoot down the hall. Fuck it, if some asshole insists on banging on the door at the ass crack of dawn, then they can deal with me wearing fucking boxers.
Stomping down the stairs, I swipe a hand through my mussed-up hair, probably only messing it up more. What I need is a shower.
And five more hours in bed.
And for my brain to stop replaying images of Dylan kissing her old fucking teammates.
“Ugh.”
Still feeling groggy, I yank open the door, intent on telling whoever is on the other side to piss off. Except the words lodge in my throat.
“Uhh…Coach?” Confusion slams into me. I glance past him, although I have no idea who the fuck I’m looking for, before snapping my gaze back to his. “Umm…what are you doing here?”
His arms are crossed over his chest, his expression carved from stone. I’d say it’s a typical stance for Coach except, he looks about as fucked in the head as I feel. His eyes are bloodshot, day-old stubble darkening his jaw. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him anything other than clean-shaven.
Astute, yet dulled with fatigue, eyes sweep over me once, lips flattening in clear disapproval. Well, fuck, now I wish I’d taken the two seconds to pull on a pair of sweatpants. Maybe a T-shirt, too.
“Where is she?” he all but demands in his typical no-nonsense, do-as-I-say tone.
I cringe. Shit .
Scrubbing a hand over my face, I mutter, “She’s not here.” He tenses immediately. “She stayed the night at Wren’s.”
I don’t know if he knows who Wren is, but he doesn’t appear overly concerned at the news, so I’m guessing he’s at least heard of her.
Except, isn’t that weird as fuck? If Dylan was just another player , he wouldn’t have a clue who her friends are outside of the team.
Just like he’d have no idea who my friends are outside of the team. Same for any player.
Fuck, my headache is back.
I just can’t make sense of any of this.
I’m scrutinizing Coach’s face, trying to piece it all together, to understand, so I notice the way his lips press together—in concern?
Irritation? I can’t fucking tell. He nods once, the motion sharp and curt.
I expect that to be the end of this awkward interaction, however, he makes no move to leave.
There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he asks, “Can I come in?” For the first time in years, I hear hesitancy in his voice.
Surprised, I blink at him, but I find myself stepping aside to let him in. “Yeah, sure.”
Coach steps through the doorway, his presence making the hall feel smaller, heavier. “How is she?” His voice is gruff, but there’s something in it—guilt or worry—that catches me off guard.
It’s just so…out of character for Coach.
Not to mention showing up at a player’s house.
It sends my thoughts spinning again…
But then I glance sideways at him, and seriously ? Dylan and Coach? Maybe I’m too close to the entire situation, but I just don’t see it.
There was a moment last night, when my emotions where high, anger and confusion were clouding my judgment, and Finn had just added more wood to the bonfire by telling me she’d fucked her old coach, where I assumed it to be the truth…but in the stark light of day, I just don’t fucking get it.
“She was upset when she left the arena,” I finally answer, watching him closely, trying to get a read on what he’s thinking.
If the jumbotron stunt happened to any other player, he wouldn’t be on their doorstep with the first streaks of daylight.
So why is he here? What makes Dylan different?
Is it just because she’s a girl? He’s been preaching all season about how we shouldn’t treat her differently, but maybe seeing her hurt or upset got his instincts all screwed up.
Or could it be something more?
Silence stretches between us, thick and awkward. I don’t have the first fucking clue what to say or do, so I blurt out the only thing that comes to mind. “Want a coffee?” I sure as hell need one .
He exhales, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “Yeah.”
With a tilt of my head, I lead him toward the kitchen.
As we step over the threshold, my gaze lands on Finn, my footsteps slowing.
He’s sitting at the table, dark circles staining the skin beneath his eyes, a scowl twisting his face.
I didn’t even notice him sitting there when I came downstairs.
Shows just how in my head I am. He’s not looking at me, though.
Finn’s glare is locked on Coach, his ire focused and burning. He doesn’t even acknowledge me as I move toward the coffeepot.
“What are you doing here?” he sneers, lip curled in obvious disgust.
It’s so unlike him—unlike anyone on the team. No one talks to Coach that way. Not only because he’d flay us alive but because we each respect him. At least, we used to. If that footage we saw yesterday is true, Finn’s respect isn’t the only one he’ll lose.
Coach arches a brow, his expression cooling into something sharp. “Mind your tone, O’Rourke.”
Finn doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch at Coach’s uncompromising tone. If anything, his gaze only narrows further on the man we all unquestioningly obeyed—until today.
“So, it’s true then.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question. It’s a statement of fact. “You are sleeping with Dylan.”
Coach blanches so hard that I’m surprised he manages to stay on his feet.
He physically recoils from Finn’s accusation, color draining from his face as his expression morphs into one of absolute horror.
All thoughts of coffee are abandoned as I turn to face him fully, cataloging his reaction with interest and more than a few questions of my own.
In the next second, Coach’s face is red with fury, and he plants his feet before staring Finn down. “Are you drunk, O’Rourke?” He practically vibrates with rage. “How dare you so casually throw around such an accusation. Do you have any idea of the consequences of such lies?”
Unperturbed, Finn fires back, “Are they lies, though?”
Spluttering, Coach’s gaze flashes to mine. “Maddox, what is the meaning of this?”
“I think he’s talking about the fact you and Dylan seem particularly…
comfortable with one another,” Jax explains, rubbing a hand over his face as he steps into the kitchen.
Sweats hang low on his hips, and his hair is an absolute disaster.
Behind him, I notice the mess of blankets on the sofa in the living room.
Apparently he distracted himself with video games until he passed out last night.
Better than Finn, I guess, who doesn’t look like he has had a wink of sleep all night.
He went out with Kyle and the team after Griffin dragged Dylan out of the locker room, and I didn’t hear him come home, so it must have been super late—or early, I guess.
“And the fact she’s been seen leaving your house late at night,” Jax tacks on, looking more awake now as he leans against the kitchen counter, eyeing Coach in the same shrewd way I am.
For the first time in as long as I’ve known him, Coach is speechless. His mouth opens and closes a number of times before he manages to spit anything out. When he does, what he says leaves all of us reeling.
“Dylan is like a daughter to me!”
Those words, along with the intensity behind them, nearly knock me off my feet. I’m not the only one blown back by his unexpected response. Jax rears back, and Finn’s mouth drops open in surprise.
“I’ve known that girl since she was little more than a baby,” he fumes, the words tumbling over one another. “Whoever is spreading such disgusting rumors, they are baseless, and frankly, they are wrong . ”
My ears ring in the pursuing silence. My thoughts spin in a dozen different directions, trying to make sense of any of this and coming up empty.
“A daughter?” Finn asks, quizzical. Sounding just as confused as I feel, as Jax looks.
“I don’t understand,” I add, watching Coach’s shoulders rise and fall with his heavy breaths. “You knew Dylan before she came to BSU?”
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face.
I’d put Coach in his mid-fifties. Despite the lines that have started to appear on his face, his salt-and-pepper hair that becomes more abundant every season, I’ve never considered him as old until now.
In the span of thirty seconds, he’s gone from being the strong coach I’ve known since freshman year to looking… old. Tired. Human .
Wrapping his hand around the back of a chair at the kitchen table, he sinks into it, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Her parents were college freshmen with a baby.”
“Her dad was a Steelhawk.” Even if I hadn’t figured out exactly who her dad was, his teammates said as much that night at the bar.