Chapter 3

Robert never ended up sending it to Ethan.

Which was, of course, completely fine. It was safer, Ethan thought, that they’d recorded it on Robert’s phone anyway.

Ethan realized what a bad idea it was minutes afterward, once Robert was gone. He snuck out while Ethan had gone to grab a washcloth, intending on cleaning them both up. No matter, Ethan thought; his heart was so wild in his chest he could barely register anything else.

He knew that it was a mistake, that they had crossed some line then, and he worried that maybe things would be weird between them going forward, but in the end, it never came up.

Like clockwork, a few months later, at the next Pleasantville versus Lakewood match-up, Robert texted Ethan his hotel and room number. He hadn’t mentioned the recording. Ethan assumed Robert deleted it.

Things hadn’t suddenly become weird—of course, Ethan knew that their whole arrangement was weird, that ICL players don’t fuck their decade-long archrivals, but the recording hadn’t changed anything. Things were normal-weird. A part of Ethan forgot it happened, and no matter—the few hours he would have with Robert every few months kept him going. They didn’t keep him sated—instead, they kept him starved and wanting throughout all the months between—but they were enough. When he closed his eyes, he could see it—he’d seen it enough in real life have it burned into his retinas, saved into his memories: the vision of him, splayed out before Ethan, freckles spattering his flushed cheeks, his mouth curled over him, the ripping muscles of his back when Ethan took him, and the sweet, embarrassed look in his eyes when he asked Ethan for more.

And then Robert became Kyle. And then Ethan’s father died. And then Kyle got a concussion at one of their fucking games and Ethan was terrified that his fucking teammate had turned Kyle into a fucking vegetable. I love you, Ethan thought, but couldn’t say, in that moment, standing there on the ice. I love you, he thought, and maybe there has never been a moment where I haven’t loved you, not in all the years since my mouth met yours for the first time, and I hate myself for not telling you. I want to tell you this all the time. I want to be with you even though we cannot be together. I love you, and I cannot love you. I maybe love you more than I have ever loved anything else. This thought terrifies me. Because it means that we’re doomed. Because it means I might never return home to Norland, even though there is nothing to return to.

It wasn’t fun anymore, what they were doing. They had gone too far. **I have ruined you,**Ethan once said. But he hadn’t told Kyle the whole truth: **You have ruined me too.**

But you know what? Ethan thought in the hospital, sleepless from scouring the internet for news on Kyle’s condition, sleepless because each time he closed his eyes he saw Kyle’s unmoving body on the ice—it struck fear throughout his whole body, the thought that maybe he might actually lose this, that they would never have this again. He thought this to himself: You might be worth it. I love you so much that this all might be worth it. I would risk my fucking life for you. I would give everything up for you. I want to come to your cottage. I want to make you tuna melts and I want to watch hockey with you and I want to kiss you on your lovely mouth—everyday, and all the time. I want more time with you. I want you, and I have always wanted you. I want you forever. I want a whole fucking lifetime with you. I want everything with you. But I cannot have you.

In the hospital, Kyle asked him to come to the cottage and looked at him like his heart would shatter if Ethan said no, so he took the coward’s way out and said **maybe,**even though he knew it was the worst idea in the world.

**Get well soon, Robert,** Ethan finished, ignoring every instinct in his body telling him to **stay, stay, stay,** even though he knew it was impossible and that their whole fucking **thing**was impossible, and left the hospital room.

This was the last time they saw one another.

On the plane:

Ethan can barely hear his voice over the beating of his heart, but he feels his mouth moving. “Who sent this?” he asks, eardrums muffled. He’s going to be sick.

Daniel gives him a look. “Dude, it’s all over the internet.”

Ethan freezes. “What?”

Another teammate chimes in. Ethan can’t tell who it is. He doesn’t bother turning his head to look, and his brain can’t tell left from right right now.

“Heard he got hacked, or his phone got stolen.”

“Is—” Ethan’s throat might close up. “Is **fake.** Obviously,” he lies.

He knows that his teammates are looking at him weirdly. He can’t bring it in himself to care.

Ethan taps around his pockets. His phone, he thinks. He needs to call Kyle.

Are they still in the fucking air?

Benjamin smirks. “Doesn’t look fake. I’m not surprised. Robert always struck me as a—”

---

After the flight, Ethan drives straight back to his penthouse. His knuckles are starting to bruise, but he managed to clean up the blood off his hands during touchdown. Benjamin was so shocked by the punch to his cheek that Ethan had enough time to go for a second hit—aiming straight for his mouth this time—but Daniel grabbed Ethan and held him back before his fist could make impact. Murray held Benjamin back before he could retaliate.

No one spoke to him for the rest of the flight. Good, he thought, as the rest of them mumbled on the other side of the plane about what a psycho he was. Ethan halfheartedly heard Daniel telling the rest of them that Ethan must be taking the loss to Kevin Murphy hard. **Fuck you,** Ethan thought. **You don’t know anything about me,**but he chose not to say anything. He just needed to get service.

He called Kyle as soon as he got a single bar—no answer. He calls Kyle again three times during the drive from Harborside back to his flat—the calls go straight to voicemail. Ethan nearly crashes his damn car, but he manages to get back to his flat. He paces around his room, terrified to check the news. Was it really all over the internet?

He thinks of the last night they spent together: he thinks of Kyle’s knuckles, brushing Ethan’s bare chest and golden crucifix. He thinks of when he pressed his mouth to Kyle’s fingertips, to the warmth of his palm.

An hour later, after driving himself crazy trying not to look, Ethan looks.

It’s the first story that comes up on SocialNet. GSN hasn’t broken it yet—how would they even go about it? Ethan never pays attention to sports gossip like that, and he doesn’t know if it’s something that reputable outlets actually cover.

Regardless, it’s all over social media.

After ten minutes of sleuthing, Ethan figures out that it was posted by a blank SocialNet page earlier this afternoon, while the Wolves were flying back from Fairview, and though the video’s been taken down dozens of times, it keeps circulating. It looks too real to be fake, or someone who just looks exactly like Kyle Robert.

Ethan has only watched it the one time. He can’t stomach another watch. One of the tweets reposting the video has over twenty thousand likes.

It’s all anyone’s talking about.

Ethan does not like the things that people are saying. He also recognizes just how bad this is for the league, and for Lakewood. Neither have put out official statements, but Ethan doubts they’ll let this be swept under the rug.

He searches around online, even asks Daniel privately if anyone has a clue who the other participant in the video is, but no one knows, and no one has speculated wildly enough that it would be another **ICL** player, let alone an All-Star, let alone Kyle’s rival, Ethan Clark.

Secretly, a part of Ethan wishes everyone knew it was him in the video, that it was **his** cock that Kyle Robert was sucking. It would make this impossible situation even worse, but at least then they’d be in it together.