Page 30 of Ethan

“I’m meditating, I’m not dead,” Bo said, grinning.

“I don’t even know how you’re meditating when it’s that fucking loud,” Hank grumbled.

“Bud, this is important,” Bo said very seriously. “It’s better than what I used to do after games.”

Hank was almost afraid to ask. He knew Bo had been at Syracuse for a year longer than him, and they’d been put together almost immediately because Hank could sleep through anything. But unlike Hank, Bo never seemed anxious about making it to the Bandits permanently. Maybe it was the meditating.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Hank finally said.

“But notthatafraid,” Bo said. “It was porn.”

“God, please stick to the meditations,” Hank said with another groan as he shifted on the bed. The ice was helping, and so were the painkillers he’d popped after the game, but the truth was, nothing was helping more than the soothing-yet-exhilarating new part of his routine, which was talking to Ethan.

Bo could keep his porn and his meditations; Hank had something better.

His phone buzzed and he glanced down.

ouch,Ethan had sent back.looks like it hurts.

Hank was not going to be a fucking hero.it does.

“See,” Bo said, interrupting again. Hank wished he’d stick his earbuds back in and go back to the night forest walk or whatever the fuck he’d been doing before bothering him. “There’s that look. You like this girl.”

Hank wondered what Bo would say if he admitted it wasn’t a girl. If it was Ethan Barnes.

Bo had been at camp, too, though hadn’t exactly been around Ethan and him during their time together. If Hank told him, he’d probably get a knowing look on his face and ask how he managed to seduce the baby Barnes right under his brother’s nose.

Then he’d probably ask Hank if he wanted to watch gay porn, now.

“No,” Hank argued, probably not well. “It’s just . . . just a friend.”

“A friend you want to be more,” Bo said, waggling his eyebrows stupidly.

“No,” Hank repeated. He didn’t sound convincing to his own ears, even.

“Sure,” Bo said. “Then explain why you haven’t been going out with the guys, after games. Or before games. Or at all.”

Hank shot him a look. “I never really did that.” Though he had made a tiny bit more of an effort than he was making now. It just wasn’t much of a competition—he could go out and make stupid small talk with the idiots on his team and watch them try to pick up women, all while sipping on shitty cheap beer, or go back to his room and talk to Ethan. Honestly, it was a no-brainer.

“You haven’t been either,” Hank pointed out.

“Yeah, ’cause I’m meditating instead,” Bo said. “Don’t you know getting off ruins your edge?”

Hank raised an eyebrow. He didn’t want to talk about this—not with Bo; frankly not withanyone—but a horrible curiosity motivated him to ask. “You don’t get offat all?”

Hedefinitely still was. In the shower, in the mornings. It was good for maintenance. He just cleared his mind, put his hand on his dick, and tried very hard not to think of anyone or anything at all.Mostlythat was a system that worked.

He’d see how tomorrow morning went, now that he’d gotten Ethan’s bruise selfie.

“Nope,” Bo said, sounding very proud of himself.

Hank hated how he was kind of fascinated by this, in spite of knowing better. “And that’s working for you?”

“Dude, you play with me. We’re killing it.” They were, actually. Both of them were playing both sides of the ice well, their plus-minus in really good territory, and Syracuse was even winning games, which was hardly ever a given.

“Sure, yeah, but that’s ’cause we’ve put the work in,” Hank said slowly. At leasthehad been. Worked his ass off over the summer to put on more muscle and weight, to stop looking quite so gangly out there. To be able to muscle his way through some of the board battles that he’d lost the season before.

“Yeah, ’cause we’re notgetting off,” Bo insisted.