Page 13 of On Thin Ice

He stepped up onto the porch but didn’t go inside right away, distracted by a voice calling out from next door.

“Evening, Ethan.”

An older woman waved from her porch swing, a wine glass in her hand, one leg tucked up underneath her. She had a head full of long silver curls and a relaxed, easy sort of smile.

Ethan tipped his chin. “Hey, Marjorie.”

“You bringing home strays now?” she teased, nodding toward me.

He let out a long-suffering sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Something like that.”

I shot her my best flirty grin, the one that made little old ladies absolutely melt. “I’m house-trained and everything.”

Her lips quirked. “Oh, I bet you are, sugar.” She took a slow sip of her wine, her gaze flicking over me like she was already entertained.

Not that I could blame her. I was a fucking delight.

Dragging my attention back to my new roomie, I gestured vaguely toward the houses surrounding his. “Kinda surprised you live on a street like this. Whole place feels like a queer utopia.”

His mouth flattened, and for the briefest second, something flickered across his face too quickly for me to catch. Guilt? Panic? Whatever it was, it’d been replaced by his usual blank expression.

Interesting.

I was used to his annoyed glances by now, the scowls, the disapproving glares he seemed to specialize in.

But this hadn’t been any of those.

And fuck, I wanted to press him on it. Wanted to poke at whatever nerve I’d hit and see what happened.

But I didn’t know him. Not really. Didn’t know what he was capable of.

Which was why I’d nearly shit a brick when Coach MacKenzie told me I’d be boarding with Ethan for the foreseeable future. I didn’t think he was a bigot—not overtly, anyway—but there was something under the surface that made me think I wasn’t exactly the kind of person he wanted in his space, either.

You learned to read the signs early. Tight smiles. Sidelong glances. Loaded silences. Not because you were looking for trouble, but because you had to know where it might be hiding. Call it self-preservation. Call it survival. Either way, it was instinct by now.

Honestly, I’d had my doubts about coming to Texas. The state didn’t exactly screamsafefor someone like me. So when I found out I’d be living with Ethan Harrison—a guy who radiated judgment—I figured his neighborhood would match: a gated suburban hellscape with MAGA flags flying from every porch—the kind of place where I’d think twice about grabbing the mail in my favorite unicorn crop top.

But this?

This wasn’t that.

It wasn’t just the pride flags, either. It was the beautifully painted murals, the “All Are Welcome Here” signs, the “Trans Rights Are Human Rights” banners tucked among the landscaping.

The whole street radiated safety. And maybe that shouldn’t have mattered, but it absolutely did.

I could feel the tension in my shoulders start to ease as I realized I’d been wrong about the guy. At least I hoped I was.

Only one way to find out.

“Wasn’t sure what I’d be walking into, y’know?” I said, pushing down my nerves and steeling my resolve. “Thought I might be bunking next to a Trump supporter or some guy who thinks drag queens are the reason for the downfall of society.”

Ethan’s jaw ticked again. “Fuck that noise,” he muttered, unlocking the front door. Then he shot me another one of those indecipherable looks over his shoulder before stepping over the threshold. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”

I set my duffel bag down inside the door, glancing around. The living room had what looked like original trim and molding. Warm-toned hardwood floors stretched out beneath a Persian-style rug, while the walls were painted a soft cream color. Despite the rank stench wafting off our hockey gear, the whole place somehow managed to smell faintly like cedar and something sweet and smoky, kind of like the copal they burned everywhere in Tulum.

A leather couch faced a sleek, wall-mounted TV, and a pair of mid-century modern chairs flanked a coffee table made from reclaimed wood. The whole setup looked grown-up. Like a real home. It was a far cry from the off-campus house I’d shared back at Thackeray, where the furniture came from garage sales, and nobody knew who the blender actually belonged to or who’d brought the toaster with them when we moved in. It had been a party house. Great, if a bit chaotic at times.

On the flip side, Ethan’s home screamed, “I do not throw parties here, and neither will you,” which certainly tracked with some of the things I’d heard our teammates say about him in passing. I got the impression that while most of them liked him, several—save maybe our captain—didn’t actuallyknowhim.

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