Page 56 of Ethan

“Alright.” Charlie sighed. “But I wanna go to sleep soon . . .” He didn’t need to look pointedly over at Hank, because he was already moving, getting up.

“It’s cool, I was just leaving,” Hank said.

Ethan pouted. “But—”

“We both need to get some sleep,” Hank said gently. Reached out and put his hand on Ethan’s shoulder. Ignored the way even the simple touch rolled through him like a fucking earthquake.

He squeezed a little, warmth from Ethan’s skin leaking through the fabric. “You got this, okay?”

Ethan’s smile was even warmer. “Yeah. So do you.”

“I’m touched,” Charlie bitched behind them.

“Hey,” Ethan retorted pointedly to Charlie. “I have to tolerateso muchwith you and—”

“Fine, fine,” Charlie said hurriedly. Like it might be some kind of fucking mystery whose name Ethan was about to say. Newsflash: Hank and everyone else on the team—probably everyone else on theplanet—knew about how Charlie was with Max.

Hank squeezed Ethan’s shoulder one last time. “I’ll see you at breakfast, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ethan agreed, and Hank took his last smile—warm, still, and sweet, and a little private, even—back to his room with him.

Bo was still “meditating.” The soothing-voice woman was now directing Bo to dip each toe into the pool.

Next morning, Hank was gonna give him shit about what kind of foot-fetish meditation he was doing now.

Easier, anyway, to focus on that, as he tugged his sweatshirt off, than what had almost happened in Ethan’s room.

Chapter 7

“It’sjustbadluck,”Ethan reassured Hank. Hank, who currently had his forehead pressed to the table in front of him. Every once in a while he’d let it bounce up and down, and Ethan knew how tough Hank was, but he didn’t need to be giving himself a concussion on top of everything else.

“Bad luck?Bad luck?” Hank mumbled against the fake-wood-grain surface.

Ethan also considered pointing out, gently, that they really weren’t sure when that table had been cleaned last. But that wasn’t going to solve anything.

“Bad luck, yeah,” Ethan said. “The defense is still . . . um, gelling. You know?”

“Yeah, I fucking know,” Hank said, head still pressed to the table.

Maybe Hank knew, but it wasstillthe best thing Ethan could say. The Bandits had lost their first three preseason games—not the end of the world, certainly—but the defense had looked sluggish, and even worse, Hank the worst of all. Like he was spending too much time trying to be good, instead of justtrusting in his own instincts. He was overthinking in a big way, wanting it too bad and not just letting itcometo him.

And worse than that, Niko Laine, who the Bandits had made no secret of considering shipping back to Finland to play there for the season, was playing likeHankshould’ve been playing, and now the big rumor was that Niko would end up taking Hanks’ spot, and Hank would again start the season in Syracuse.

Hank hadn’t even wanted to come out tonight, had insisted in a text to Ethan that he wasn’t interested.

But Ethan wasn’t going to let him sulk in bed, thinking of all the ways he’d possibly failed.

He hadn’tfailed; he just hadn’t succeeded yet. But Ethan knew he would. Believed it with every fiber of his being.

Hank was fuckinglitin practice. Had never played better. But then he got into a game, and it was almost like the moment overwhelmed him. Odd, because that had never been something Hank had struggled with. Ethan had watched him play in so many games over the last year, and he’d never seen Hank seem at all fazed by whatever situation he was tossed into.

“You want another beer?” Ethan asked instead. Not that he could actually go and buy it, technically, but he could bat his eyes, a little similar to his brother’s, and probably get Max to buy one for him.

Hank lifted his head, meeting Ethan’s eyes. “What?”

Nudging Hank’s mostly empty bottle with his own, Ethan raised an eyebrow. “You want?”

“Nah,” Hank said, and returned his head to the table. He said something next that Ethan was suspiciously sure was, “I want to be fucking better.”