Page 28 of Ethan

Oh, so they were doing this now? Ethan was annoyed, even as he still felt an undeniable thrill. He could play hard to get, but that ship had already sailed, hadn’t it? He’d texted Hank first, after all.

Originally, he’d come in here just to grab a new drink but instead of going back to the makeshift dance floor, Ethan headed out the back door. It was usually quiet here, because not many people knew about the porch at the rear of the house.

Sure enough, there were only two people in the corner, talking quietly, and the wide staircase was empty. Ethan sat and kept staring at the screen.

Obviously he needed to say something, butwhat?

Maybe the second text he’d sent had been a shade too flirty. Thinking of what Dean had told him, maybe that had been too much for Hank. Maybe Ethan needed to pull it back. Make friends, first. Or makebetterfriends, because Ethan would’ve already considered them friends, after their time together at camp. It had been short, but they’d easily fallen in together, like they’d known each other so much longer than that.

Ethan wanted more, but he could be patient, too. A lifetime of being the youngest had guaranteed he could pull that trait out when he needed to.

Finally, he typed back.was a pretty easy goal, the goalie read my initial move wrong.

Typically he wasn’t the self-deprecating type, but that felt like the right choice here. People were always talking about his hockey IQ, how he could see the play unfolding almost before it began, but Ethan thought what they really meant was that he was smart. Strategic. Could wait if the eventual outcome justified the pause.

He wasn’t even really expecting Hank to text back. He’d just been trying to open up some kind of communication between them.

But to Ethan’s surprise, Hank texted back almost immediately.yeah the OT goal was good, but that move in the third? fucking slay

He’d felt good about Hank’s compliment before, but now he felt damn good, because yeah, as showy as the goal had been—and it had won them the game, so it was hardly nothing—Ethan knew the way he’d stopped Andrews from scoring in the third had been therealstellar move.

thx,he texted. Stretched out his legs and tipped his head back. It was hard to see the stars here, even though Portland wasn’t that big of a city. Nothing like Michigan, at the house his brothers owned that they lived in during the summers. He already missed the way the sky looked bright with them.

Still, hard to be disappointed. Maybe he hadn’t gotten everything he’d wanted, but he’d won the game for the Evergreens tonight and Hank had texted back.

Ethan would take the win.

December

It had been a mistake, texting Ethan back initially, and at least Hank could blame the three beers he’d drunk and the way he’d been haunting their brief message thread, like somehow Ethan might keep trying even though Hank had done nothing to encourage him.

But there was no excuse for the way he’d texted him three and a half weeks ago, or three weeks ago, or two weeks and six days later, or really, any ofmanytimes he’d done it since.

Hank had told himself that despite the fact that Bo, his roommate, was always around, listening to his stupid meditation podcasts so loud it seemed impossible they could actually do jack shit, the room was too quiet.

He was always too restless after a game, or before a game. But the more this went on, the more he was pretty sure it was all one big excuse.

And not even a good one.

Even though Hank knew it, and he’d made himself a promise, concrete and sacrosanct, that he’d focus on hockey and not on whatever this thing was with Ethan, he’d not been able to resist.

Which was why he was lying on his bed in Canada somewhere, wondering how Bo could possibly be meditating when the noise from his earbuds was so fucking loud, texting with the youngest Barnes again.

Ethan had texted him first, tonight, had apparently managed to catch Hank’s game, even though it was a Thursday and Ethan had study group on Thursday afternoons.

No, he was not examining the fact too closely—or at all—that he knew that now.

good moves in the second,Ethan had sent,that block was brain-melting.

That block was why Hank had a makeshift ice pack on his ribs, but somehow Ethan thinking it was good made it hurt less. Or hurtgood, or something equally fucked up like that.

We’re friends and we’re gonna be on the same team, eventually,Hank justified to himself, for the hundredth time.It’s cool that we’re talking. Right, even.

But somehow that wasn’t quite convincing, probably because when Ethan said he did somethingbrain-melting, Hank wanted to throw all caution and good intentions to the wind and ask if what he really meant was that it made himhot.

Not just his brain, but his dick.

But even as stupid as Hank had gotten—and he’d gottenplentystupid—he wasn’t that stupid and definitely never that reckless.