Page 12 of Ethan

Hank rose to his feet, gaze flicking to the next person in the room, like he’d only come over here because Ethan was just another box he needed to check off.

Ethan wouldn’t have liked that, even if Hank wasn’t . . . well, whatever he was. He didn’t want anyone catering to him, deciding he was important just because of his last name. Just because he was Charlie’s younger brother and Charlie wore an A.

“You played up some last year, yeah?” Ethan said.

Hank paused, those light hazel eyes returning to Ethan. “Yeah, some,” he said.

“And in the playoffs the year before that.”

Ethan had a brain that picked up insignificant details and hung on to them. And then there was the near-constant recital Charlie had been performing since June, telling Ethan everything about every single one of his future teammates. Sure, Charlie’s favorite subject was Max Meier, but there’d been other guys in there, too.

Notably, the “up and coming offensive d-man” that was Hank Tucker.

“Yeah,” Hank said. His face had settled into stiff lines. Bored, maybe? Already tired of bothering with the guy who wasn’t even going to be the rookie, yet?

“Hot shit, huh?” Ethan teased.

That startled a laugh out of Hank, who reached out and shoved at his shoulder. “You’re kinda a brat, aren’t you?”

“Nope,” Ethan said, grinning back. “Just call it like it is. Too good for the rest of us. Too good to slum it.”

Ethan had been around hockey players forever. He couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t been. His mom had played in college, and for the US women’s team. Won two gold medals with them at the world championships. His dad worked for one of the biggest hockey equipment manufacturers. Charlie and Avery, obviously, who’d both been drafted in the first round, just like Ethan. Then there was his sister, Olivia, who was coaching in the AHL now, rumors flying that Seattle would eventually bring her up to coach for them. The first female coach in the NHL.

So yeah, Ethan knew hockey players.

Knew exactly what to say to get their attention.

And he’d grabbed Hank’s now.

Didn’t really know what to do with it, but hehadit, and that was the most important thing.

“Oh, yeah? That’s what you think?” The corner of Hank’s mouth tilted up. “That I’m too good?”

“First-round big-shot draft pick.” Once he’d started, he didn’t want to stop. Wanted to keep Hank’s eyes on him all the time. Just like this. Like Ethan was an unknown entity that he couldn’t quite quantify but was dying to pick apart.

“Says the first-round big-shot draft pick.” Hank rolled his eyes, but he still looked amused. “Says the first-round big-shot draft pick namedBarnes.”

“Hey,” Ethan retorted. It wasn’t like he’daskedto be named Barnes.

Hank cackled. Straightened again. “Can dish it out, but can’t take it?”

“Oh, I can take it,” Ethan promised. He was the youngest, right? He’d been taking it forever, until he’d figured out exactly how to return it, in spades, to his brothers. Not Livvy, but then Livvy was a sweetheart. She’d never really given Ethan shit. Not like Charlie and Avery, anyway.

“Guess we’ll see about that,” Hank said.

He walked away then, continuing to make his rounds, but Ethan felt the unmistakable weight of a gaze on him more than once.

Finally, Ethan finished up stretches and was warming up on the bike when Charlie walked in, Max only half a step behind him.

Ethan did not say anything about it, though it was hard not to be tempted, considering how it turned out that as weird as he’d assumed Charlie was about Max, Max was actuallyevenweirder about Charlie.

“We’re just about ready to start practice. You ready?” Charlie asked.

“You know there’s a clock like, right there?” Ethan pointed to the one on the gym wall, right above the double doors.

He had fifteen minutes to get his gear on, which was plenty of time.

“I just . . .” Charlie made a face. “I don’t mean to micromanage you—”