Puckless (Hockey Heroes Book 1), page 2
“Hey, Ethan,” I said in greeting and raised an eyebrow. “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, I was just, um, enjoying the interview,” he mumbled as he brushed his teammate’s shoulder. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck as a timid grin tugged at his lips.
“I’m glad you approve,” Nate said, a note of amusement sneaking into his voice.
“Do you have any insights to share?” I asked.
“N-no, Nate’s got it,” he stammered. He clapped his buddy on the shoulder and chuckled nervously. “He’s got this, and he’s the guy who knows how to talk about all of it—about hockey.”
“Alright then, just let me know if you change your mind,” I said, turning my attention back to Nate.
I kept one eye focused on my interview subject, but I found it impossible to ignore Ethan, intrigued by the unexpectedly vulnerable side he was showing me.
“Where was I?” Nate asked.
“Something about fine-tuning skills.”
“Oh, yeah—and how we relate to and support each other is important. Chemistry is crucial, and we need to nurture it.”
“Sounds like a familial bond,” I noted, my smile softening the atmosphere.
He responded with a good-natured chuckle, “Well, I suppose it is, in a way.”
It was next to impossible to fully concentrate on the interview. Ethan wasn’t in our faces, but he hadn’t left either. He lingered several steps behind Nate, occasionally joking with other teammates but always turning back to look at me.
“Alright, Nate, that’s a wrap. Thanks for your time,” I said. I finished the interview with a firm handshake.
“Anytime, Ryan. You know where to find me,” Nate replied with a grin as he headed off toward his locker.
When Nate disappeared, Ethan seized the moment. He stepped forward and leaned against the lockers next to me. Next, he scanned the room, ensuring the coast was clear before he spoke.
“Hey, so, um—“he began, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his jersey. “I, uh, really enjoyed reading some of your articles recently.”
“Thanks, Ethan. I appreciate that,” I replied as I observed him. His cheeks flushed, and he seemed almost embarrassed by his own words. At first, I thought it was merely amusing to see his vulnerable side, but as he lingered, his presence started to tug at my heart.
“Especially, uh, that one about the, um, rookie goalie,” he continued, struggling to find the right words as he glanced down at the floor. “You really captured his—spirit, y’know?”
It had been nearly a year since I wrote about any rookie goalies, but I decided to play along. Ethan was pushing for something, and I wanted to hear him out. “I try my best to do justice to the stories behind the players,” I said. “Is there something specific you wanted to talk about?”
My question gave him the little nudge that he needed. “Uh, y—yeah, actually.” He stammered a bit, but he didn’t fail to maintain eye contact with me.
Ethan looked both hopeful and nervous.
“I was wondering if, uh, maybe we could, like, grab coffee sometime? Just, you know, talk about stuff?”
I blinked. Was he asking me out? I was well aware of the ethical quandary surrounding personal involvement with an article subject, but I couldn’t bring myself to dismiss his invitation outright. He had mustered the courage to ask, and it felt wrong to ignore his efforts.
“Stuff?” I asked teasingly and raised an eyebrow. “What kind of stuff are we talking about here?”
I noticed a player watching us out of the corner of my eye. A few seconds later, he turned away, shaking his head like he wasn’t surprised by the exchange taking place.
“Um, well, like—life, I guess,” Ethan suggested. He rubbed his neck again. “I don’t know. I just thought it might be—nice.”
He was so nervous and allowed himself to be so exposed that I couldn’t turn him down. “Sure, Ethan. I’d love to grab coffee with you sometime.”
His reaction was priceless. His eyes widened, and he blinked in surprise as though he’d been expecting a polite rejection. A clumsy “thank you” slipped from his lips.
His joy was infectious and sent a thrill coursing through me at the thought of spending personal time with the charismatic, handsome hockey forward. If I were lucky, perhaps I’d even figure out the source of the sparkle in his eyes.
Before he could escape earshot, I thought about a better idea. “Hey, Ethan!”
I watched as he turned and blinked. “Yeah?” I heard the clatter of equipment and the rustle of his jersey as he stepped forward again.
“Actually, how about we skip the coffee and grab a drink at O’Malley’s in a couple of days? It’s a bit more—lively.”
I saw surprise at the invitation flickering in his blue eyes. “You mean, like, at a bar?”
“Yep—is that okay with you?”
“Uh, yeah,” he said. “That sounds great—yeah—I haven’t been to O’Malley’s in a while.”
“Good,” I said. “It’s a date, then. Let’s meet there two days from now, around eight?”
“Date?” Ethan repeated the word like he wasn’t quite sure what it meant. I detected a slight blush creeping up into his cheeks.
“Figure of speech,” I clarified. “Unless you want it to be a date?”
“Um—,” he stalled, shot a quick glance around, and then, in a hushed whisper, said, “Sure—yeah—let’s call it a date.”
“Great,” I replied, doing my best to offer a friendly smile. I had a bad reputation for smirks and scowls. “I’ll see you there.”
“See you,” he said. He looked directly at me, and our eyes met briefly before he turned to leave.
I watched as Ethan walked away, his stride simultaneously assertive and tentative. He held himself back, suppressing the urge to pump his fists in triumph or let out an exuberant whoop. Instead, he settled for a small hop and a quiet, almost imperceptible “Yes!”
His excitement was contagious, and I smiled to myself as I thought about our upcoming date. It might be an opportunity for me to peel back some of the layers of Ethan’s guarded exterior and reveal the man hidden beneath.
If fortune favored me, we could forge a connection that boosted us past shallow talk about the weather and pointless gossip about other players in the league.
I tapped my notebook with my stylus and repeated, “O’Malley’s, eight o’clock, two days from now,” The words left a peculiar taste on my tongue. I could already imagine the smell of worn leather booths, the sound of clinking glasses, and the taste of whisky, warm and biting, trailing down my throat.
Regardless of what transpired between us at O’Malley’s, one thing was sure. My curiosity about Ethan Underwood was high enough that I’d push aside concerns about friendly interactions with an interview subject. I was kicking the can way too far down the road, but if necessary, I knew that I could always write about something else.
After all, it was far easier to find a new article subject than to encounter a hockey player who captivated my personal interest so profoundly.
THREE
ETHAN
Nate’s jubilant, celebratory exclamation thundered through the confined space of Marek’s living room, ricocheting off the walls like a victorious war cry.
“Eat dust, fucker!” he bellowed.
He’d employed the game controller ruthlessly to deliver the coup de grace to Marek’s hapless onscreen character. “Damn you, Nate,” he grumbled. “How many times is this?”
While Marek growled, I marveled, as always, at his command of the English language. Although he grew up in a small village more than half an hour outside Prague, he spoke English more clearly than many native-born Americans I knew.
“I think I stopped counting last week at fifteen.” Nate chuckled as he handed his controller to me.
“Aww, come off it. It’s just a game, and it’s not the real world. Channel some of that energy onto the ice,” I said.
“Jealous much, buddy?”
We all locked our gazes onto the pulsating heart of the room—a large flat-screen TV whose electric glow cast long, eerie shadows around the room. The sound of our fingers pounding buttons echoed around us as the three of us leaned forward expectantly—waiting for the next round of rapid-fire attacks.
We huddled in Marek’s apartment, a small corner of the world that bore silent witness to his humble roots. He’d rented an apartment wedged into the upper reaches of an aging commercial brick building. Its facade was worn and weathered, but it offered easy access to Madison’s Capitol Square and the vibrant energy of State Street on Saturday nights.
Marek’s rented sanctuary was austere, mirroring his paycheck, a modest salary earned in the ruthless world of the professional hockey minor leagues. He survived by living a minimalist lifestyle.
The walls mainly stood bare except for a sparse collection of memorabilia. Marek shipped a small display of old trophies, pucks, and worn-out jerseys encased in modest frames all the way from his family’s house in Czechia. Each one had a story to tell, and together they mapped his rise in professional hockey.
“It’s your turn,” Marek declared. He handed his controller over to me and headed for his tiny kitchen. “I’ll get us some food. I went shopping so I could make some treats from back home.”
I knew that I’d likely suffer the same fate at the hands of Nate, if not worse. It was good that what we saw on the digital screen didn’t echo the events that took place when we hit the ice. I was more than a match for my best friend there.
While I was doing my best on the screen to hide around corners in dark alleyways, Marek returned. He carried a humble wooden platter filled with mouth-watering treats.
“We call these jednohubky,” he said with obvious home-town pride in his voice. “It’s mainly rye bread, cream cheese, and smoked salmon.”
My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten since lunch, and it was already 7:30 p.m. “What’s not to like about that?” I asked as I reached out for one of the delectable morsels.
Marek selected one for himself and held it poised in front of his mouth while he waited for me to eat first. “Take the whole thing,” he said. “One bite.”
“Aww man, that’s good—yum—it’s like somebody’s mom made it,” I gushed.
“Her recipe, and that’s not all,” he said as he disappeared back into the kitchen. I held out the wooden platter so Nate could grab a bite.
“Fuck—the man can cook,” murmured Nate with his mouth still half full. He called out toward the kitchen, “Did you ever consider being a hockey player’s wife, Marek?”
“Ha ha, is that your American kind of funny?” he asked as he returned with another platter balanced on his right hand.
“Oh, man—those look even better,” I drooled.
He presented the platter like he was holding a precious treasure. “Ethan—meet the belle of Czech cuisine, chlebicky.” Each delicate little sandwich bore a smear of a kind of ham salad, a little roll of salami, a slice of hard-boiled egg, and a tiny pickle slice to top it off.
Next, Marek pulled a frosty bottle of imported beer from behind his back. “And this—is her gallant knight.”
I was impressed enough that I applauded.
Marek set the chlebicky down on his coffee table and retrieved two more beer bottles. We clinked them together, and all three of us swallowed healthy mouthfuls of the tasty brew.
It was only a brief respite from onscreen annihilation for me. The game resumed amid the playful atmosphere. Nate lured me into the open in a perfect storm of digital warfare and friendly rivalry.
“Keep your eyes open, Ethan,” he taunted. His character prowled around mine like a lion stalking gazelle on the savannah. He chuckled under his breath with barely restrained glee.
“Absolutely,” I responded, my gaze fixated on the screen. The exhilaration of engaging in a lighthearted competition while enjoying the comforting embrace of friendship and the refreshing coolness of the beer cascading down my throat created a fleeting moment of perfect harmony. Yet, as I basked in the moment of peace, Ryan’s handsome face intruded upon my tranquil thoughts.
I could almost see him sitting across from me at a dimly lit bar, bathed in the warm amber glow of a small lamp. Our laughter would punctuate the air as our hands reached out in unison for the same glass. Our fingers would brush together in a fluke moment of intimacy, and we would laugh.
Then, in my imagination, I found myself tilting my head toward him until our lips met in an impulsive, electrifying kiss. The mere thought of it sent a jolt through my veins and made my heart pound out a snare drum cadence in my chest.
“Ethan, come back down to Earth. I don’t know where you are, but it’s not on this planet.” Nate’s voice tugged me back to reality. I blinked and realized that my character had been standing idle, easy prey on the digital battlefield.
“I’m here. Sorry, I just zoned out a bit.” I mumbled my apology while I gripped the controller and tried to reorient myself in the game. Nate and Marek shared a knowing look but decided not to dig any further for an explanation.
While Marek’s words of encouragement surrounded me as the game progressed, the ghost of Ryan still lingered in the recesses of my mind.
Nate’s sly voice cut through my thoughts as we transitioned from one match to another. “Ethan, seriously, you’re not really with us tonight. What’s with the head-in-the-clouds act?”
His comment loosened Marek’s tongue, and Marek soon echoed the sentiments. “It’s like you’re here but not really here, you know?”
“Nothing’s up,” I lied smoothly, wearing an expression of nonchalance like a well-fitted suit. “There’s just a lot on my mind—that’s all. You know we’ve got some major challenges ahead in the season.”
I couldn’t tell them about Ryan. They knew about my sexual orientation and occasional one-night conquests and helped me keep it all secret for now. They were firmly supportive, and I knew they would encourage my pursuit of a great partner when the time came, but I had no idea how they’d react to my growing interest in the notorious journalist.
Nate wasn’t buying all of my act. “Sure, Ethan—yeah, I guess so, but isn’t this supposed to be an evening for us to set the hockey season aside?”
Fortunately, he let it all slide without saying more, and armed with Marek’s delicious food, we left the gaming behind and shifted to a movie double feature.
As the first flick started, Nate waved an index finger at the screen. “Hey—isn’t that the actor we just saw on that old TV show? He’s aged a decade or so here.”
“I don’t know. Americans—they all look the same,” quipped Marek as he sucked down another mouthful of beer.
I made a valiant attempt to immerse myself in the unfolding plot, but once again, I got swept away by thoughts about Ryan. I wondered about so many things—how it would feel to hold his hand, be wrapped up in his arms, and feel his breath on my neck as we exchanged whispers.
A hard shoulder check from Nate jolted me. “Hey—Ethan—your spaceship’s launched again.”
“Mm, sorry,” I mumbled, my voice barely audible over the movie. “I think I’m just a little under the weather. That’s it.”
“Under the weather?” Marek asked. “That’s sick, right? You don’t look it.”
“I am, I promise.” I raised the back of my hand to my forehead and attempted a gentle swoon. “Probably not really sick. It’s just jitters over the next game. I did fall on the ice at practice. That shakes a guy up.”
“Alright, Ethan,” Nate sounded resigned. He dropped the prodding and turned his attention back to the film.
I nestled into the worn-out comfort of the couch, desperate to engage with the characters onscreen and enjoy the relaxing company of my friends. I successfully pushed thoughts about Ryan to the side and crossed my arms over my chest in triumph.
“Ethan!” Nate’s voice cut through the noise onscreen. I looked up and saw his gaze focused on the solitary chlebíček that lay abandoned on the platter. “Fancy settling this the old-fashioned way?”
“Settle what?” I asked behind an innocent facade.
“Who lays claim to the last yummy che—ble—whatever.” He glanced at Marek with a sheepish expression.
“I’m game.” It was my chance to redeem myself for my distracted evening, and I felt a sudden surge of competitive spirit coursing through my veins.
A playful battle erupted as we both lunged for the platter. We were each unsuccessful, and instead, we rolled off the sofa onto the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. We grunted and swore, fighting to untangle ourselves and reach the food first.
Nate pushed hard against me with raw strength. His muscles were like steel coils, and the carpet scratched at my skin.
“Surrender yet?”
I pushed back with a new burst of energy. “No way!”
I thought I had the advantage and was close to pinning Nate, but he was slipperier than a greased pig. We rolled back and forth, grunting and groaning.
Marek whooped and clapped from the sidelines. “This is like wrestling on TV! Right here at home in front of my eyes.”
“We’re not wrestling,” I playfully protested, pushing Nate off me to move forward another inch toward my goal. “That’s not a sport either of us does.”
Nate grinned and caught me with his legs to attempt one last takedown, but he failed. I let out an exuberant victory cry as we both collapsed onto the floor.
Just as I reached out for the delectable morsel I’d won, Marek snatched the final chlebíček and popped it into his mouth in a practiced act of thievery. He smiled at both of us with a mischievous smirk.
“Must be quicker than that, gents,” he laughed as he elegantly dabbed at his lips with a napkin.
“Traitor!” I growled when I released my grip on Nate. We were left panting, chests heaving like bellows while we laughed like boys on the playground in middle school.
“I guess it was just a matter of seizing the moment,” said Nate in defense of Marek. He extended a helping hand to me.
