Chapter 1

**May 2017—Pleasantville**

Daniel Harris’ booming laughter forcibly pulls Ethan from sleep.

Brows furrowing together, he rubs at his eyes and squints toward the noise, collected at the other side of the cabin. It isn’t just Daniel, but the whole team, Ethan discovers, raucous laughing and shouting about something on their phones.

Ethan is about to ask what the hell everyone’s being so loud for, only for Daniel to meet his eyes, noticing he’s awake, and shout, “Holy **fuck**. Clark, come look at this.”

In between everyone’s comments—**Jesus fucking Christ,**Daniel says, *he’s really going for it—*and laughter, Ethan hears something… dirty coming from someone’s phone.

It’s probably porn, or something, he thinks sleepily, and a bit annoyed that his teammates are all doing this in public. It might be a private plane, but Ethan considers the poor stewardesses.

“No.”

Ethan crosses his arms over his chest. The sting of getting knocked out of the playoffs by Kevin Murphy is annoying enough—Ethan doesn’t need his own team setting him off. He rarely thinks about hockey when he doesn’t have to, but the disappointment is visceral. With Lakewood out of the running this early, he knew this was his best chance at a second Cup.

Oh well, he thinks. There’s always next year. Spilled milk, or whatever the Union people say.

It’s only an hour flight from Fairview to Pleasantville, give or take. Ethan wanted to get as much sleep as he could before landing. He had poor sleep last night, and his flat is over an hour away from the airport. He needs this time to himself.

Benjamin’s clutching his stomach, nearly bent over in laughter. “Clark, you gotta see this. It’ll cheer you up. Promise.”

Ethan clenches his jaw, sighing in defeat.

Being the captain, he’s figured out that with these guys, it’s usually better to give in than to argue. It’s a waste of time either way, but giving in is usually faster.

“Fine,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and shuffling over to the other side of the cabin, toward the club seating. He ignores the scattered empty champagne flutes on the table.

Murray is sitting at the center, and the guys are all sitting around him, peering at his phone.

“Fucking knew it,” Daniel says, as Ethan stands before his team, still unable to see what they’re all watching.

He can hear it, though.

Ethan was right. It’s porn.

“Fucking knew what?” Ethan asks.

Murray grins, pauses the video, scrolls to the beginning, and hands the phone to Ethan.

It’s a black screen. Ethan looks at the team and asks, “What is this?”

“Just press play, man,” Benjamin says, clapping Ethan on the shoulder.

Ethan frowns. He’s too fucking asleep for this, but he presses play, ignoring how his teammates are all clearly watching his face for his reaction.

The video takes a few seconds to get going. It’s fuzzy, hard to make out, warm-lit and dim. Sheets rustle. Ethan lifts his eyes, shooting Daniel a look that means, **What am I supposed to be watching?**

And then the footage becomes clear. Ethan drops the phone.

But the video keeps playing. Now, Ethan understands the noises he’d been hearing before.

White noise. A ringing in his ears. Tinnitus. Ethan feels bile rise up his throat.

“What the fuck?” he asks, too rattled to care about how his voice cracks.

The crowd around him all boom with more laughter. Benjamin reaches down to grab the phone, trying to hand it back to Ethan. Ethan shoves his hands in his pockets. He furls them into fists. They’re shaking too much for him to try holding it. He purses his mouth. Had he given anything away? Had they seen it on his face?

Benjamin gives up and just holds the phone in front of Ethan. He squeezes Ethan’s shoulder. He presses play.

And maybe Ethan had it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t actually—

“Look at him,” Daniel laughs, and it takes everything that Ethan has to look. He fights the urge to run. He fights the urge to vomit when Daniel says, “You can see it on his face. Robert fucking loves it.”

It was stupid.

Ethan doesn’t even really remember when it happened. He recalls it was some time two years ago, after Hillcrest, after he led the Wolves to Commissioner’s Cup victory, and after he won MVP at the ICL awards, but he can’t place it in time.

He recalls that he had been drinking. the Wolves had just humiliated the Explorers 6-1. Ethan scored a hat trick: his first goal off Daniel’s assist, the second one-handed over the goalie, and the third—thirteen seconds left and beautifully ran from one net to the other, down the ice, through the heat, a fucking roofer. He had something to celebrate.

Robert didn’t, but it was one of the rare few times that he had been drinking too. He played a terrible game that day, had about four scoring opportunities and made none of them.

That night, they were at Ethan’s flat. Ethan was itching for a smoke but settled with a glass of vodka. It was cold in his flat, so he tossed his sweatpants back on, forgoing his underwear.

Robert was beside him, still naked, no signs that he was wanting to leave. Ethan tried not to let his surprise show on his face. Usually Robert was in a rush to throw his clothes back on and run out as soon as possible, especially when they were at Ethan’s place.

Each time, Ethan ignored the impulse to ask Robert to stay.

But this time, Robert’s eyes kept dropping to Ethan’s hands, at his glass, so Ethan asked, “Do you want?”

He shook the glass in his hands slightly, enough that the liquid slid around the interior, leaving a wet sheen. This was good vodka—Sally had brought it over three weeks prior, the last time that she was around. They hadn’t actually fucked, then, is the thing. They had made out, a little, but Ethan hadn’t been able to get into it. the Explorers had been 3-3 against the Commodores; Ethan knew they were in the midst of playing the final game in Garden Arena that night. Ethan had kept wondering if they would be knocked out of the playoffs. Sally had sighed, crawled off his lap, and turned on the TV. Over her very nice vodka, they’d simply watched Robert bring his team closer to their first cup in decades. She had left the mostly full bottle there that night, waving her hand, saying that they’d just enjoy it the next time she came over. Ethan knew she wouldn’t mind if the bottle was a little less full the next time she visited.

In Ethan’s apartment, he was expecting Robert to shake his head and say no, and Ethan was prepared to use one of the new words he’d learned from Daniel. **Buzzkill**, he wanted to say, because when Robert wasn’t on his knees and begging for it, he really was a buzzkill.

Instead, Robert bit his lip. His cheeks were all flushed. His eyes were all open and easy in that way he only ever got after Ethan was done with him.

“Maybe a little?” he said, and he looked shy.