Page 56 of They All Puck Me

Liam glares at me. "You think this is that simple?"

"Yeah, it can be." I say bluntly. "We're here to win the Cup, not participate in high school drama."

Noah leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. "You think you know everything don't you?"

I smirk. "Pretty sure I know how to win games, which is more than I can say for you two right now."

Liam slams his drink down on the table, making the glasses rattle. "Ethan, you don't get it. Life doesn't always revolve around hockey."

"Oh I think I get it," I snap back. "Go on, give me a try."

Silence stretches between us like a taut wire ready to snap.

Noah finally speaks up, his voice tight. "Fine. I'm pissed because Liam's been acting like a goddamn territorial robot ever since Olivia showed up."

Liam's eyes flash with anger. "And you're any better? You're just as fucking whipped."

"Guys," I interrupt, my patience wearing thin. "Who or what Olivia does should be irrelevant. This is about the team."

"Easy for you to say," Liam mutters.

I have bite back the laugh, if they only knew. I lean forward, fixing him with a hard stare. "You think I don’t have shit to deal with? We all do. But we’re professionals first."

They exchange glances but neither speaks up.

"You know what fuck this," I say, standing up abruptly and tossing some bills on the table for my drink. "I knew this was a bad idea from the start. I'm not here to babysit you pussies while you wallow in your own pathetic bullshit. I tried."

As I walk out of The Tavern into the cool night air, frustration boils within me. These guys are supposed to be leaders, yet they're letting personal crap fuck with our chances.

I kick at a loose stone on the pavement, watching it skitter away into the darkness before heading back to my place.

Sitting alone in my apartment, I stare at the darkened screen of my phone, my agent's contact info glaring back at me. The idea of starting over with a new team looms large, a monstrous unknown. I've done it once, and look where it got me—alienated and pissed off.

My finger hovers over the call button. The thought of leaving, of not dealing with Liam’s constant leadership crap and Noah’s infuriatingly laid-back attitude, has its appeal. But there’s Olivia. The complicated knot she’s tied around all three of us is part of the reason things are so screwed up, but she’s also the reason I hesitate.

I sigh and drop the phone on the coffee table. Trading would be a cop-out. A fucking coward's move. I've lasted this long, the hell If I'm going to punk out now.

A knock on the door startles me, the sound jarring in the silence of my apartment. I glance at the clock—it's late. Who the fuck would be visiting me now? I get up, cracking my neck and stretching out the tension.

Opening the door, I'm met with Noah and Liam, each holding a six-pack of beer. My eyes narrow. "What the fuck are y'all doing here? And how do you know where I live?"

"We followed you home," Noah says casually, like it's no big deal.

"Great," I mutter, rolling my eyes. "Not only do I have to worry about y'all fucking up my playoff chances, now apparently I have to worry about you becoming stalkers."

Noah smirks. "You're not my type."

Liam cuts in smugly, "His type is auburn-haired reporters with hazel eyes."

I clench my jaw but step aside to let them in. They settle on my worn-out couch like they own the place. I grab three glasses from the kitchen and drop them on the coffee table before flopping into an armchair.

Noah cracks open a beer and pours it into his glass. "So, this is where the infamous Ethan Reynolds broods."

"Yeah, welcome to my lair," I say dryly.

Liam leans back, beer in hand. "Look, Ethan. We're here because we need to figure our shit out. For the team."

I snort. "Oh, so now it's about the team?"

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