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Good, with an undercurrent of complex difficulty, and he kind of hoped that they wouldn’t ever have to deal with any of that.

Charlie pulled into the garage of their apartment complex. “I’m gonna bet,” he said dryly, definitely not changing the subject, “that you’re gonna call Tuck the moment we get in.”

“Maybe,” Ethan said coyly.

Charlie rolled his eyes. “Don’t even bother pretending. And don’t worry about the noise. I’ll put my noise-canceling headphones in and try to ignore the fact that my baby brother is trying to seduce his . . . whatever Tuck is to you . . . into phone sex in the next room.”

“Not cool,” Ethan retorted.

“That’s supposed to make you feel better,” Charlie pointed out.

Ethan didn’t know how he was supposed to feel about the whole thing. That Charlie had correctly identified that he was going to try to convince Hank to have phone sex tonight, or that theyhadn’tyet.

“Sure,” Ethan said.

“Just don’t forget the ice,” Charlie ordered.

“Thanks, Mom,” Ethan said, shooting his brother an annoyed look.

Five minutes later, they were up in the apartment, and Ethan was shutting the door behind him. He had a brief debate about whether he should strip down now, if that would help convince Hank they should do it, or if he’d want to see a slow striptease after Hankfinallyagreed that Ethan deserved a really good FaceTime orgasm for his first NHL goal.

Before Ethan could decide, his phone buzzed, Hank calling him first.

Settling down on the bed, Ethan answered. “Hey,” he said.

On the screen, Hank was positioned similarly, leaning back against his pillows, no shirt and his chest flushed, even in the dim light of the room. Ethan had seen him look exactly like this so many times last spring, and he’d thought, maybe stupidly, maybe optimistically, that he’d be seeing it in person this year.

“How’re you doing?” Hank asked. “You bruised to hell?”

Ethan wanted to make a face. Asking about his bruises wasn’t sexy, unless it was Hank causing them, and he definitely hadn’t.

“Um, probably.”

Hank shot him a look. “Lemme see,” he said.

It wasn’t telling Ethan to strip down slow or to make it hot, but it wasstillHank telling Ethan to take his clothes off, and he wasn’t going to pass upthat.

He pulled his shirt off, and Hank made a soft sound—concerned and worried and yet Ethan was so primed eventhatwas fucking hot—in the back of his throat.

“Shit, Eth,” Hank said, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “I wish I’d been there.”

“I know,” Ethan said. He’d have to be a lot dumber to not know just how desperately Hank had wanted to stay in New York.

On the team. And withhim.

“It’s just . . .” Hank gusted out a long, unsteady breath. “I fucking hate this. You being there, getting your ass kicked—”

“Nope,” Ethan interrupted. He hadn’t gotten hisass kicked. He’d held his own, pretty fucking well, all things considered.

“And me not getting to do a fucking thing about it,” Hank continued like Ethan hadn’t said anything.

“You weren’t going to do anything about it,” Ethan insisted. Hank wasn’t a fighter. Could he hold his own in a scrum? Absolutely. But he wasn’t the type of player always gunning for other guys.

“I sure as fuck would,” Hank muttered. “And why didn’t anyone else?”

“I didn’t want them to,” Ethan protested.

“They should’ve at least put Gabby or Costa on your line,” Hank said, referring to two of the forwards who were bigger, more defensive. And yeah, Ethan had been a little surprised that Gabby hadn’t ended up on his line, but he wasn’t going to draw attention to it, either.