Semua Bab Hockey Rivalry: Bed first, game later : Bab 81 - Bab 89

Ethan Oliver Harrison’s POVThe jet doors hissed open and New York shoved its way in. It smelled like hot concrete, jet fuel, and sweat. My gut said Kane was already here. Somewhere past all that glass and noise. He was probably getting ready to welcome me. I smiled at this thought.Mr. Rogers waved at me, and I forced a smile. Fake it till you make it, right?Rogers was problem number one, but if I let him live rent-free in my head, I’d miss everything else. The good parts. If there were any left. Daniel shifted beside me, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes scanned the skyline past the tarmac. “New York feels different,” he said, quietly. “Like this is my first time visiting.” I opened my mouth to reply.Derrick beat me to it with a snort. “Yeah right. Just admit it’s your first time here. You don’t have to act like you’ve got frequent flyer miles. No one is handing out pretentious medals here.” His lip curled as he took in the private terminal, like the marble under

Ethan Oliver Harrison’s POVThe car that picked me up in front of Kane's estate wasn't a taxi. I knew that the second the driver stepped out and opened the door for me like I was somebody who mattered. The car was black and long, and when I got inside, the windows were tinted so dark that the streetlights turned into smudges. I ran my hand over the leather seats without meaning to. They were soft in a way that made me feel like I should apologize for touching them. We didn’t drive to some little apartment in Brooklyn. The car went underground into a garage that was all concrete and quiet, and then I was in an elevator that needed a keycard to go up. Kane was waiting when the doors opened on the forty-second floor. His place opened straight from the elevator. There was no hallway. Just a huge room with windows that showed the entire city spread out below us. The Hudson River was a black ribbon with lights on it. I’d never seen New York like that before. From up here it didn’t loo

Ethan Oliver Harrison’s POVI didn’t go to the lobby. I went to the pool. It was closed for the night, but the door to the stairwell wasn’t locked. Nobody used it after ten. The chlorine smell was stronger down here, mixed with that damp hotel air that never really dries. The water was still, black glass under the blue lights. No one around. I needed quiet. I needed to breathe. My phone was upstairs. On purpose. If Kane texted again, I wouldn’t see it. I couldn’t lie to him if I didn’t know what he said. I sat on a lounge chair. Didn’t take my shoes off. Just stared at the water. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The door opened. I didn’t have to look. I knew the footsteps. “Thought I’d find you here,” Rogers said. He didn’t sound angry. That was worse. When Rogers was angry, he yelled. When he was calm, he’d already decided what was going to happen. He sat in the chair next to mine. Not touching. But close. Too close. The chlorine

Ethan Oliver Harrison’s POV:Room 2104 wasn’t a room. It was a suite. Of course it was. Bigger than my place in Toronto. Dark wood. Low lights. A bar in the corner with bottles I couldn’t afford. The curtains were open. Twenty-first floor view of nothing but other windows. People watching people. Rogers was already pouring a drink. Two glasses. Amber liquid. No ice. “Close the door, Ethan.” Not Captain. Ethan. I closed it. Didn’t lock it. My hand stayed on the handle for a second too long. “Sit,” he said. Nodded at the couch. I didn’t sit. “What do you want to talk about?” He smiled. Took a sip. Didn’t offer me the other glass yet. “Everything. Your attitude. Your performance. Your _distractions_.” He sat down, slow. Comfortable. Like he owned the furniture. Like he owned me. “We need to get on the same page. Professionally. Personally.” The word personally hit like a slap. “I’m tired,” I said. “Can we do this tomorrow? Before practice?” “No.” He set his glass

Ethan Oliver Harrison’s POVI didn’t knock. I couldn’t. My hands were too messed up. Shaking, scraped from the stairwell railing, wet from rain and whatever was on the hotel floor. I just stood there. In front of Kane’s penthouse door. 2:14 AM. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of rich-person quiet where the carpet eats sound and the doors are thick enough to hide anything. I’d walked here. From Midtown. Twenty-seven blocks. In the rain. No jacket. No phone. No plan. Just his address in my head. Burned there. Forty-second floor. I raised my fist. Let it drop. Couldn’t do it. The door opened anyway. Kane. He was wearing black sweatpants. No shirt. Hair messed up like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. He had his phone in one hand. Like he was about to go out. Like he was already on his way to find me. He saw me and stopped breathing. Not a figure of speech. I heard it. The inhale that didn’t finish. I must have looked bad. Worse than bad. W