Puckless (Hockey Heroes Book 1), page 11
Ethan whispered, “Thank you. I’m starting to think I’d be lost without you.”
“I could say the same.” I leaned forward and shared a gentle kiss. “Now, let’s take care of the remains of this food, and we can move forward.
Ethan’s gray mood lifted as we cleared away the debris left from our dinner. When the last takeout boxes were in the trash, we sank back onto the sofa, wrapping each other in a now familiar hug. The whisper of my miniature fan I kept running for the air plants added a gentle backdrop to a quiet moment together.
“Your apartment is really nice—comfortable,” Ethan said. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before.”
“It’s my refuge—where I find peace.” I hoped he’d soon see it as a sanctuary for both of us, but I was still determined not to push anything between us faster than it should go.
We kissed once more, but the raw passion from earlier evolved into something more gentle—it fit the new level of our connection.
Ethan pulled back from the kiss and gazed into my eyes. “Thank you for listening and for trusting me.”
“Of course—we’re in this together. Is that how you see it?”
“Yes—we’re a team.”
“And a damn fine one, too,” I said.
Ethan laughed softly, and we kissed again. The outside world faded away as our hands began to explore.
Suddenly, Ethan pulled back, his eyes wide. I had no idea what it could be. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this yet. I mean—I am ready, but…”
His voice faded. My heart was racing as I stared into his eyes, trying to read what was going on behind them. “It’s okay,” I said softly. “We can take things at whatever pace makes you comfortable.”
He took a deep breath and leaned back against the sofa. His face contorted in a kind of pain. After a moment, he spoke again. “I just—I haven’t been in a serious relationship with a guy before,” he admitted. “I’ve hooked up with men for overnights. Most of the guys on the team can tell you that. They keep what I do quiet for me, but this—“
I reached out and ran my fingers through Ethan’s hair while I listened.
He spoke again. “I worry that if I move too fast, this might turn into another one of those things where I wake up in the morning, and you’re gone.” His jaw clenched. “Fuck—that came out all wrong. You would never do that, but I want this to be real. I know it’s real, but with the Nate stuff—the threats—it’s all so much.”
“Breathe,” I whispered. “I understand,” I said calmly, reassuringly squeezing his hand. “And it’s okay. We don’t have to rush things. We can take all the time we need.”
Ethan nodded slowly and let out another deep breath. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For being so understanding. I feel like I’m such a fucking mess tonight.”
“All I’ve seen is a fantastic friend and the best boyfriend I can remember.” I smiled.
“You think so?”
“I would never ever lie about anything like that.”
Ethan smiled and leaned in for a soft kiss. As our lips met, I felt a new sense of tenderness from him. It was as if he were trying to convey every emotion he had in that one kiss.
When our lips separated, he took my hand again. “Can we just lay here together tonight? I feel like I need to be close to you.”
“Of course,” I replied. “Whatever you need.”
We settled back onto the sofa, Ethan’s head resting on my chest as my arms wrapped around him. His breathing became slow and even as he drifted off to sleep.
I stayed awake for a while longer, watching the rise and fall of his chest while listening to the fan’s quiet hum. I contemplated the threats against Nate and how we could end them, but for the rest of the night, all that mattered was being there for Ethan.
I whispered softly to him, “You’re safe with me,” before drifting into a peaceful sleep on the sofa beside him.
SEVENTEEN
ETHAN
As luck would have it, the next time I had a long break from hockey games, Ryan had to be away at a family event in New York City. We weren’t yet ready to introduce each other to our parents, so I decided to stay in Madison with the team. I was worried I’d have to spend the time alone in my apartment, but it didn’t take long for teammates to suggest other ideas.
“Come on, guys, it will be a thrilling adventure! I didn’t even know you Americans did biathlon.” Marek was practically bouncing off the locker room walls with excitement. He read an advertisement online about a place in the Wisconsin Northwoods that offered biathlon beginner lessons. “We’ve got four glorious days off—let’s seize the opportunity.”
I exchanged a dubious glance with Nate. The prospect of embracing something new was enticing, but we were unfamiliar with the sport. “Biathlon?” Nate inquired, scratching his head. “What precisely does it entail? It sounds like a decathlon for lazy folks.”
“Ah, my dear friends,” Marek replied, stretching his arms wide, “it combines cross-country skiing and rifle shooting. It’s not a real gun, of course—biathlon rifles have cartridges that plunk a target. It’s enormously popular in Europe.” He grinned, proud—as always—of his Czech heritage.
“Shooting? That sounds intriguing,” I muttered. I silently wondered how adept I would be at maintaining my balance on skis while simultaneously handling a rifle that shot blanks. Regardless of my lack of enthusiasm for it, I was up for it if it meant spending more time with Nate outside of our customary hockey environment. An adventure with the guys would also help keep me distracted while Ryan was gone.
“Alright, Marek, count us in,” Nate agreed, his smile infectious. “It’s an adventure.”
“Fantastic!” Marek clapped his hands together. “We’ll all share a room up in the Wisconsin Northwoods to make it cheaper. Biedler’s coming too!”
The budget hotel we found ourselves in left much to be desired. The wallpaper was peeling near the window, the lamps were dim, and it had only two queen-sized beds for the four of us. I scanned the room looking for a fold-out sofa bed and came up empty. We all stared at the cramped space until Biedler started to laugh.
“Well, how shall we navigate this, boys?” he asked.
” Shall we conduct a rousing round or three of rock-paper-scissors?” Nate asked. We all nodded in agreement. After a few games, we reached a final settlement. Nate and I would share one bed while Marek and Biedler would squeeze together in the other.
When I wedged myself under the blanket beside Nate, I noticed our bodies barely fit. My arm brushed against his, and his foot pressed against my ankle. If it were Ryan, I would have welcomed the closeness. With Nate, I worried that he would snore in my face.
“Hey, Nate,” I ventured softly as the room descended into darkness. “Are you doing alright?” I didn’t need to elaborate on the question—we both knew I was referring to the threats he’d been receiving.
Nate let out a soft sigh, but then he reassured me with a pat on my arm. “I’m fine, Ethan. Don’t worry about me. Get some sleep.”
“Hey, no whispers,” said Marek from across the room. “I don’t understand English in whispers.”
Nate and I both laughed so hard that we snorted. When the room was silent again, I closed my eyes and silently vowed to continue watching my best friend’s back—both on and off the ice.
The sun peeked over the horizon and cast a soft glow on a layer of freshly fallen snow the next morning as we gathered at the biathlon course. I glanced around with trepidation while our instructor, a weathered older man named Lars, expounded upon the fundamentals of skiing and shooting.
As Lars went into more detail, I felt a sense of unease settle in my stomach. Biathlon was going to be far more complicated than I imagined. I’d never felt as comfortable on skis as on skates, and trying to shoot a rifle while fighting to stay upright sounded impossible.
I raised my hand. “Can we always do the lying down thing and shoot that way?”
Lars grumbled. “No, you must do it both ways—standing and prone.”
I glanced over at Nate. He looked equally overwhelmed, but I watched him set his jaw. He was determined to tackle the task at hand.
“Alright, let’s give it a whirl!” Marek exclaimed, his breath visible in the crisp air.
“Piece of cake,” Biedler said, although I knew he was trying to make it sound easy to convince himself. Shooting on skis in the Northwoods was about as far away from catching a wave in Southern California as he could get.
As we set off onto the ski trail through the woods, it swiftly became apparent that the new sport was anything but a piece of cake. The snow was fresh and powdery, making it difficult to get any traction on our skis. I felt like I was floundering around like a fish out of water.
My skis seemed to possess a mind of their own, incessantly crossing each other’s path. In one attempt to adjust my balance, I leaned too far and ended up sprawled face-first in the snow.
Nate snorted beside me and struggled to contain his amusement.
“Smooth move, Puckless,” Marek teased as he skied past us like he was gliding on skates.
While I struggled to right myself, Nate developed his own problem. He realized he dropped his shooting cartridges somewhere in the snow while trying to adjust the rifle on his back. “Damn it,” he muttered, frantically scanning the ground for any trace of them.
“Keep going, guys!” Marek called out from ahead. He glided along smoothly, his inherent athleticism shining through. A pang of jealous envy coursed through me.
Meanwhile, Biedler had managed to veer completely off course. “Uh, guys? A little help?” he bellowed from somewhere deep in the woods.
“Looks like you’re trying to find the shortcut, Biedler!” Nate hollered back, finally discovering his cartridges buried beneath a mound of snow.
Nate didn’t realize until several minutes later that he’d been right about Biedler and the shortcut, although it wasn’t on purpose. When we arrived at the shooting range several minutes later, we found Biedler calmly waiting for us. “What took you guys so long?”
“A prodigy in the making,” Lars murmured under his breath as he watched Marek effortlessly transition from skiing to shooting. “I haven’t witnessed someone grasp biathlon this swiftly in years.”
“Did you hear that, boys? I’m a prodigy,” Marek boasted, his grin wide and contagious. We all smiled and shook our heads at his boundless, infectious enthusiasm.
“Let’s go, one more round!” Marek declared after we had all completed the course, each with varying degrees of success.
“Uh, I think I’ll pass,” Biedler stated, shaking his head.
“Same here,” Nate chimed in, rubbing his sore muscles.
“Count me out, too,” I added, my legs and back both aching from the exertion.
“Suit yourselves.” Marek shrugged and embarked on another lap with determination etched across his face.
We stood together at the edge of the course, observing as Marek expertly navigated the turns on the ski course and easily hit every target at the shooting range. While cheering him on, it was impossible not to be excited about his enthusiasm for the sport.
“Who would have thought Marek would be a biathlon prodigy?” Nate pondered, applauding as our friend crossed the finish line with a triumphant grin.
“One never knows what hidden talents people possess,” I said.
“Is anyone else ravenous?” Biedler asked as we piled into the car, leaving the biathlon course behind.
“Absolutely,” Nate agreed. “I could eat an entire horse.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” I jested.
We pulled up to a quaint tavern, its warm light spilling onto the snowy street. As we entered, the aroma of wood smoke and hearty cuisine swirled around us. A fire crackled in the corner, casting dancing shadows on the rustic wooden walls. We settled around a sturdy table beneath a pair of snowshoes mounted on the wall.
“Man, this place is perfect,” I remarked, rubbing my hands together to ward off the cold.
“Isn’t it?” Marek beamed. “Lars said it’s the finest eating spot around.”
Our server appeared—a cheerful woman with a kind smile. She took our orders—burgers for Nate and Biedler, fish and chips for Marek, and a thick beef stew for me. We clinked pint glasses of beer together, toasting to new experiences, and eagerly dug into our meals as soon as they arrived.
“Didn’t realize I was so famished,” Nate mumbled between bites, a smear of ketchup slashed across his cheek. The rest of us nodded in agreement, too engrossed in our food to reply in words.
“Can you pass the salt, please?” Biedler asked, leaning across the table. Marek handed it over with a wink.
“Careful there. Wouldn’t want to spill anything on your fancy skiing outfit,” he teased.
“Hey, at least I didn’t lose my cartridges in the snow,” Biedler said. His comment prompted a good-natured eye roll from Nate.
“Alright, alright,” I interjected, playing the mediator. “We all had our moments today.”
“True.” Marek raised his glass for a toast. “To many more moments, on the ice or in the snow.”
“Cheers,” we all joined in.
Back at the hotel, we sprawled out on our respective beds, exhaustion finally catching up with us. Biedler seized the remote, flipping through channels aimlessly.
“Hey, I wanted to watch that,” Nate protested when Biedler skimmed past a sports recap.
“Too slow, buddy,” Biedler taunted. He tossed the remote in Nate’s direction. Nate snatched it out of the air, reclaiming control with a triumphant smirk.
“Today was a fun thing, not hockey, right?” Marek mused, observing the battle for the remote unfold.
“Definitely,” I agreed, my mind drifting back to the exhilaration and frustration of the biathlon course. “It’s good to venture into new territory.”
“Even if we’re not all prodigies like you, Marek,” Nate added. We all chuckled.
“Hey, speaking of trying new things, who’s still hungry and up for pizza?” Biedler asked, his stomach growling audibly.
“Always.” We’d exerted a lot of energy, and it didn’t take long after dinner for our hunger to return.
And so, with a shared pizza warming our bellies and the camaraderie of dear friends filling the room, we settled in for a night of laughter and cherished memories—a welcome respite from the pressures of the rink.
EIGHTEEN
RYAN
“Son of a bitch!” The curse slipped from my lips, barely audible, as my eyes fixated on the harsh glare of the computer screen. I read vicious words that amounted to a digital onslaught against Nate. Fueled by ignorance and bigotry, they made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
I read a typical one—“Bacardi should go back to Rico. There’s not even a patch of ice there”—and I shook my head while I growled. It was a petty jab at his heritage and a shameful discredit to his prowess on the hockey rink.
Ignorance ran like a blazing red thread through the comments, curling cold, cruel fingers around my heart. However, as I read, I realized my task lay beyond the ridiculous ramblings of a band of faceless internet trolls. I needed tangible, concrete information about the more severe threats.
Whispering a silent mantra to steel myself, I plunged deeper into the shadowy recesses of the online hockey forums.
More ugly discoveries awaited me. The rancid rot in the dark corners was worse than I anticipated. The nature of the comments shifted away from Nate’s heritage to zeroing in on his friendship with Ethan. Their demands, likely those communicated directly to Nate, were clear. They wanted a public renouncement of his ties to a supposedly closeted gay player.
I hissed under my breath as I absorbed the vile threats. Some posts urged forum members to send violent warnings to Nate, targeting his family. Each word was like a punch to the gut, fueling a white-hot flame of anger inside me.
I growled and barely stopped myself from uttering my own string of obscenities. The threats were cowardly and cruel. Why should it matter who Ethan held close to his heart? Why should Nate become an innocent victim of the misguided prejudice of others?
I forced myself to stop reading. I couldn’t afford to lose control. Not now. But neither would I be silenced. The fight had just begun.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t dig any deeper despite having access to the threats. The specific origins of the comments eluded me. I didn’t know how to uncover the specific sources, and I didn’t know what to do with the information I’d already gathered. I needed to hear a fresh perspective.
“Arlo,” I whispered to myself as I dug my phone out of my pocket.
“Ryan—what’s happening in your little bailiwick?” he asked when he answered the phone.
“I believe I’ve walked into a hornet’s nest.”
“And you got stung?” I heard a hint of alarm in Arlo’s voice. “What’s happening?”
“I’m wading deep into more about Ethan and his friendship with Nate.”
“A new angle on an old story?”
I sighed heavily. “This is different. It’s not for published writing. Ethan asked me to do a little searching on his behalf, and I’ve unearthed a fetid swamp.” I took a deep breath. “It’s infested with wicked threats against Nate—against his heritage and his friendship with Ethan. Some go so far as to suggest violence against Nate’s family.”
“Damn.” A moment of silence passed between us. “Do you have a plan of how to counter this?”
“That’s where you come in, Arlo. I need your perspective and possibly even your advice. The perpetrators are ghosts, impossible to trace. I want to know whether I should bring Ethan into the loop of what I’ve uncovered so far.” My heart pounded a rattling rhythm against my ribs. My anxiety threaded its way through my words. “Bringing this to his attention could shatter his focus or, worse, make him want to retaliate.”
