Page 17 of On Thin Ice

That earned me a sigh. Not quite a groan. Progress?

I grabbed the luggage rack out of the closet and hoisted my bag onto it before leaning against the wall behind me. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to appear casually indifferent. I didn’t know what it was about this guy, but he always made me feel like I had to try harder, be more.

More what, I didn’t know. Just …more.

“Some of the guys are hitting the bar downstairs. Want to join?”

Ethan unzipped his bag and removed what looked like a t-shirt and a pair of gray sweats, tucking them under one arm. He dove back in and pulled out a toiletry kit.

“I don’t drink with the team,” he said, his expression not giving away what he thought about the invitation one way or the other.

“What, like ever?”

“Not really.”

I tilted my head. “You allergic to fun or something?”

He shot me a flat, unreadable look. “They’re my colleagues. Not my friends.”

“Damn,” I said, letting out a low whistle as I moved to the foot of my bed and plopped down onto it. “That’s bleak.”

He shrugged. “It’s how I keep my work life and my private life separate.”

Separate. Right. I’d picked up on that. Before, I’d wondered why that was, but his comment just now made me insanely curious.

But before I could ask a question he probably wouldn’t answer anyway, he set his clothes and toiletry kit in a neat little stack on the vanity just outside the bathroom, and slipped off his tie and unfastened his cufflinks.

“You know,” I said, leaning back on my elbows and crossing my feet at the ankles, “you’re kind of an enigma.”

His eyes flicked up to meet mine in the mirror. “Not really.”

“No, you are. I mean, you don’t really give off that whole ‘give me a reason to fuck you up’ vibe, but you kind of also do, man. At least facially.” I circled my hand in front of my face, adopting the kind of fierce scowl he often wore. I expected him to direct it at me now, but his reflection simply rolled his eyes, his mouth quirking fractionally to the side.

“But you also carry Marjorie’s groceries in for her, and I saw you playing catch with the little boy across the street the other day. You’re simultaneously the grumpiest asshole I’ve ever met, while also somehow being the sweetest. But not to me—never to me. So what gives?”

Ethan shook his head and let a long, slow breath out through his nose. “Go get your drink, kid.”

I grinned. “Nah. I’m good. Figured I’d hang here, annoy the shit out of you instead.”

For a second, I thought I saw something that looked suspiciously like amusement flicker in his eyes, but it was gone before I could call him out on it.

“Suit yourself,” he said, grabbing his clothes and heading toward the bathroom. “I’m gonna go shower.”

“Wait. Didn’t you shower at the arena already?”

I could have sworn I saw him toss a wet towel into the caddy by the showers, though I wouldn’t ever tell him that. The first rule of being a queer person in professional sports was you never let your eyes wander in the locker room. If any of your teammates got even the slightest suspicion that you were checking them out, you were as good as ruined.

He batted the question away and kept moving toward the bathroom. “Just enough to get the stink off. I hate locker room showers, and Colorado’s is especially rank.” The door clicked shut behind him, and the soft rush of running water followed a few seconds later.

Since I knew he was going to be in there for a few minutes, I kicked off my dress shoes, yanked off my slacks, and swapped my dress shirt for a worn Thackeray T-shirt. As I pulled on my sweatpants, I tried not to think about the fact that Ethan was naked just on the other side of the wall, but it was hard.

Ugh.

And now so was I.

Behave,I scolded my unruly, misbehaving dick.

The second rule about being a queer man in professional sports was not to get a chubby thinking about your teammate, though I’d already failed miserably in that regard since I’d been jacking it to thoughts of Ethan Harrison since I was a pimply-faced twelve year old discovering how good it felt to touch myself.

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