Page 21

CHAPTER 20

ETHAN

The mall was a mistake. I realized that immediately after walking through the automatic glass doors into a festive hellscape of fake snow, flashing lights, and what looked like a thousand stressed-out people clutching shopping bags like they were filled with toilet paper at the outset of the pandemic.

Stores to my left and right blared that Mariah Carey song— the Mariah Carey song—though the music was just out of sync enough to sound warped and garbled, like a holiday fever dream. Somewhere nearby, a child was either crying or wailing with joy—I couldn’t tell which.

I stood there gripping my car keys so tightly they dug into my palm.

“You can do this,” I muttered under my breath, shoving my keys into my pocket and moving further inside.

I’d told Bell I was going shopping for my family, but the truth was, I’d ordered all their gifts a couple of weeks ago. My sister had already wrapped everything and sent me a picture showing the haul sitting under my mom’s silver tree, waiting for Christmas morning.

I wasn’t here for them; I was here for him .

And I had no fucking clue where to start.

How did you shop for someone who bought everything he wanted the moment he decided he had to have it? How did you buy something meaningful and important when you were the world’s worst shopper?

How did you find the perfect gift for the man you loved when you hadn’t yet said the words?

Twenty minutes later, I was staring at a wall of pastel bath bombs with names like Sweater Weather , Snow Angel , and Frosted Elixir , whatever the fuck that was. I picked one up and smelled it.

Immediately gagged.

Lavender, citrus, and … vomit? Yeah, definitely vomit.

“Need help finding something for your girlfriend?” a sales clerk asked me, her smile so wide it looked like it hurt her face.

“No,” I said, setting the bath bomb down a little too fast. “He … uh, they… I’m just browsing.”

Smooth .

She chuckled, totally unfazed. “No problem. Let me know if you change your mind,” she said before floating off toward a woman with a toddler chewing on a bar of soap.

I turned on my heel and practically ran out of there, the awful scent sticking in the back of my throat.

Next was a gift shop filled with leather-bound journals, novelty socks with dog faces on them, and tiny stained-glass hummingbird night lights. I walked in, glanced around, and immediately walked out. A stroller clipped my heel. Someone brushed my shoulder and muttered, “Go Aces.” I smiled weakly and kept moving.

I’d barely made it twenty feet past the oversized Nutcracker statues flanking the food court when someone called my name.

I turned, instantly regretting it.

“Dude. I knew it! I told my girlfriend it was you.”

I forced a polite smile. “Hey.”

“You’re, like, killing it in my fantasy league,” the guy gushed. “Do you mind if I?—”

“Sure,” I cut in, already stepping to the side for the obligatory selfie.

“Don’t forget me!” sing-songed a petite woman I assumed was the girlfriend he’d mentioned.

She was dressed head-to-toe in bubblegum pink, right down to her stiletto boots. She skipped up beside me, wrapping her talon-tipped fingers around my bicep like I was her prom date. When she leaned into me, her sweet, flowery perfume assaulted my nostrils. I wasn’t sure anything could be worse than that disgusting bath bomb, but this came a close second.

The guy held up his phone, angling it toward us. “So, like, no pressure, but you’re totally Kayleigh’s hall pass.”

I blinked. “Her what?”

Kayleigh giggled, squeezing my arm tighter. “You know—if I ever had the chance to hook up with a celebrity, you’re my freebie. It’s not cheating when it’s your hall pass.”

For a second, I thought I’d misheard her. When I didn’t respond fast enough, she doubled down by licking her lips in a slow, suggestive way that made my skin crawl.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

I tried to pull away, but her fingernails were still anchored into my bicep, and the sudden movement sent her stumbling back on her heels.

“Ow!” she shrieked, wobbling to a stop. “For fuck’s sake. It’s supposed to be a compliment.”

I raised my hands in a frazzled gesture, fighting the urge to scrub the spot where she’d latched onto me. “Yeah, sorry. That’s a hard pass.”

“Your loss,” her boyfriend said, not even looking up from his phone. “She’s into some pretty wild shit. Would’ve been a good time.”

“Whatever,” Kayleigh drawled, brushing invisible lint off her coat sleeve. “You’re probably shit in bed anyway.”

I spun on my heel and high-tailed it out of there as fast as my feet would take me, wondering what the actual fuck had just happened.

Who said shit like that to someone they’d just met?

By the time I made it back down to the first floor, I’d been approached by several more fans, including a woman pushing a stroller who asked me to record a birthday video for her husband where I was supposed to call him Bronco. I obliged, even though I wanted nothing more than to leave this hellscape.

Unfortunately, the crowd kept growing until a circle had formed around me.

“Are you here with Bell?” a woman wearing a blinking holiday sweater asked.

I stiffened. “Not today.”

“Aw, that’s too bad,” her friend jumped in. “You guys are fun to watch. He’s hilarious on the bench, and you two’ve got like, serious chemistry. I loved the videos the team was doing of the two of you. Why’d they stop?”

Ugh. Those fucking videos.

Was that why this was happening? I used to be able to go out in public and make it home relatively unscathed, but this was madness. Had I inadvertently opened myself up to this with those videos?

Dante had claimed they were a great way to connect with our fan base, but this wasn’t connection. It was a complete disconnect—from reality, from politeness, from acceptable behavior. One tiny glimpse into who I was off the ice, and all reasonable boundaries had ceased to exist.

A guy in a red ball cap and camouflage jacket scratched his chin and asked, “You and Bell still bunking together? That kid’s gotta have dudes over all the time, right? Can’t be easy sharing a place with that much traffic.”

And there it was. The implication that men like Bell—men like me —were sex-crazed deviants who couldn’t control our dicks. That all we cared about was getting off and it didn’t matter who that was with.

Before I could tell him to shut his fucking mouth, a woman standing beside him snapped, “Fuck, Jethro. You can’t say shit like that.”

He held up his hands. “What? I’m just saying I’d be annoyed is all.”

I was two seconds away from showing him what I looked like when I was annoyed when another guy in painted-on skinny jeans and a black polo that looked like it’d been purchased in the kids’ department crowded into the circle. “Seriously, though,” he said, his kohl-lined eyes gleaming, “what’s he like? Off the ice, I mean.” His lips curled into a knowing grin. “He’s very much my type, if you get my meaning.”

I fought the urge to growl.

These people were talking about the man I loved like he was a piece of meat. Like he wasn’t a human man with human emotions and dreams.

I fucking hated it.

“He’s a good teammate,” I said, making sure to keep my tone flat and disinterested.

When a kid in a Santa hat shoved a little girl out of the way and asked for an autograph “for my dad,” I took that as my cue to get the hell out of there.

* * *

I sat in my car in the parking garage with my hands clenched around the steering wheel, my heart thudding dully in my chest. I stared through the windshield at a green EXIT sign glowing in the distance.

I could just go home. Skip Bell’s gift altogether.

Except I couldn’t.

Not because he expected anything from me, but because I wanted to give him something. Something that would convey what I didn’t yet have the guts to say out loud.

I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly, then reached for the ignition with fingers that weren't quite steady.

As I backed out of the spot, I told myself I just needed to keep going. I wasn’t a quitter, and Bell was worth it.

Cafe lights were strung between lampposts in one of Austin’s more upscale outdoor shopping areas, casting a soft glow over storefronts with perfectly curated holiday window displays. The sidewalks were busy but not packed, and a saxophone player on the corner was belting out a jazzed-up version of “Run, Run, Rudolph,” which certainly beat the cursed Mariah remix.

I pushed a nondescript black knit beanie down over my hair, adjusting it nervously before stuffing my hands in the pockets of my jacket. My shoulders hunched instinctively, an old habit of trying to make my 6’2” frame less noticeable. A group of laughing teenagers brushed past me, oblivious, as I turned toward my first stop—a boutique that sold “modern accessories for the modern man.”

Apparently, this meant a lot of wallets and key rings, items Bell already owned and which communicated absolutely nothing about my feelings for him.

The next store I wandered into was filled with houseplants and handmade soy candles, none of which screamed personal or meaningful. Though I did pause at a sign that read “You light my fire” above a display of jars filled with matches, wondering if it was supposed to be ironic.

By the fourth store, I was getting antsy again. Nearly panicking, in fact.

A woman browsing near me glanced up, did a double-take, and grinned. “Hey, Ethan Harrison, right?”

I nodded, offering her a tight smile. “Yeah, hi.”

“My boyfriend’s obsessed with you. Hold on, he’s just—oh, there he is.” She waved, and her boyfriend came trotting over, wide-eyed and already pulling out his phone.

He was chill, friendly. The type of fan who knew the team’s stats and didn’t make it weird.

But the next man wasn’t that type of fan.

“Where’s your partner in crime?” he asked, looking around me like Bell might jump out at any second. “I heard you two are a package deal now.”

“Um,” I said, scratching nervously at my beard, heat creeping up my neck. My eyes darted around, preparing an exit strategy, an automatic response to feeling cornered I’d developed as a teen. “He’s, uh. Yeah, I don’t really know.”

While that wasn’t technically a lie, it wasn’t the whole truth either. I might not know exactly where Bell was, but I did know that he was off getting his hair cut at some fancy ass salon an influencer friend had hooked him up with.

Not too much, thank god—I fucking loved his hair—just enough to keep it looking tidy.

“Aw, boo,” the man pouted. “He’s so adorable,” he added with a wistful sigh. “I know he says he likes the ladies, too, but that’s just because he hasn’t had me yet.”

I was far from an expert on LGBTQIA+ issues, so the concept of bi-erasure wasn’t something I’d ever even considered until Bell had opened up to me about it one night. Over the years, a number of folks had told him that his bisexuality was just a phase, and that he’d pick a lane at some point and stick to it.

I’d been shocked to learn that more than one gay man—like this one here—had even suggested the reason he still enjoyed women was only because he hadn’t been properly fucked by a man yet. That once he was, he’d never touch one again.

There’d even been a guy on his college team who suggested Bell was only pretending to like women so that he’d be more palatable to hockey fans and coaches as the draft approached.

As if every day he didn’t risk his literal fucking life by owning his truth while some of these knuckle-dragging open mouth breathers wanted him dead.

And this guy?

This guy thought he was funny.

“Yeah, I’m gonna stop you right there.”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard.

“You think that’s a compliment? Telling someone they’d stop being bisexual if they just fucked you? That’s not charming, it’s ignorant as hell.” My voice came out steadier than I expected considering the adrenaline surging through my veins, making my fingertips tingle.

The guy’s smile faltered, his eyes widening. “I didn’t mean?—”

“No, you didn’t think ,” I cut in, keeping my tone firm. My hands had balled into fists in my pockets, and I forced myself to relax them, one finger at a time. “And if you think I’m gonna stand here and let you talk about him like he’s some confused kid waiting to be fixed by your dick, you’ve got the wrong guy.”

A few people nearby turned to stare, sensing the tension in the air. A woman loaded down with shopping bags took a wide route around us, her eyes averted.

The man held his hands up, backing off with a muttered, “Chill. It was just a joke.”

“Yeah,” I snorted, nostrils flaring. “Except it wasn’t funny.”

He moved off with a muttered, “fuck you, asshole,” before disappearing into the flow of holiday shoppers.

I stood there a moment longer, trying to settle the adrenaline burning beneath my skin.

I hadn’t planned to say any of that. It had just erupted out of me. A protective reflex. One I’d never felt before.

My pulse was still ticking fast as I turned away from the crowd, heading for the garage. I’d had enough. Of shopping, of strangers, even of the Christmas carols I secretly loved.

Bell would understand if I didn’t get him anything, right? Hell, he’d probably laugh and tell me I was being dramatic. He didn’t need a present. He knew how I felt about him.

Does he, though? came a voice from the back of my mind. Have you told him?

I shook my head to clear the intrusive thoughts. I hadn’t told Bell that I was in love with him. Didn’t think it was fair to say the words when I couldn’t be with him openly.

I was a lot of things, but I wasn’t cruel.

As I neared the corner to turn toward the garage, something caught my eye—a burnt-orange jersey mounted in a custom frame taking up a large section of a store window. University of Texas colors. A little gold placard beneath it read “First Game.”

I stopped walking, my reflection superimposed over the display like a ghost.

For a moment, I just stood there, caught in the hush that seemed to fall around me despite the bustle of the street. My breath created small clouds that fogged the window as lifted a hand to the glass to peer inside.

The shop was small and inviting, the kind of place you might miss if you weren’t paying attention. The kind of place I had missed. Soft wood paneling. Warm lighting. Shadowboxes with military medals and old ticket stubs. A couple of display cases showcasing gleaming gold coins. Framed sports memorabilia and faded concert posters lined the walls. A rainbow flag was affixed to the mirror behind the register beside a hand-painted sign that read “Support Local Artists.”

Something about it made my chest tighten, an almost painful squeeze around my heart. I should probably talk to the team doctor about that because it was happening more and more lately.

These were memories . Moments that meant something special enough for people to want to hold onto them. Preserve them forever.

I hadn’t intended to go in, but my feet were already moving.

A brass bell over the door jingled as I stepped inside, the scent of lemon polish hanging in the air. The warmth was immediate, a quiet contrast to the street outside. Peaceful. My shoulders dropped an inch, the tension I’d carried all afternoon slowly unspooling.

“Give me one second,” called a deep voice from somewhere in the back, followed by the sound of sliding drawers.

A moment later, a man appeared behind the counter. Mid-fifties, maybe. Salt-and-pepper beard, tortoiseshell glasses, and a cobalt scarf draped artfully around his neck. He wiped his hands absently on a cloth tucked into his waistband.

“Afternoon,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. “Just browsing or working on a project?”

I cleared my throat, feeling suddenly awkward about being here. “I think … maybe a project.”

He nodded. “Well, if you’ve got a specific something in mind, I’m all ears.”

I pulled out my phone, scrolling to three photos taken by the official team photographer I’d saved back in October without really understanding why. I hesitated before turning the screen toward him. “Would it be possible to do a custom triptych? These three, all in one frame?”

He leaned in, squinting slightly as he studied the screen, his glasses slipping down his nose.

“Oh, I remember this. What a night for the kid.” He looked up at me with a curious expression on his face and then blinked. His eyes widened fractionally as recognition dawned, his gaze moving from my face to my phone and back again. “You’re Ethan Harrison.” It wasn’t a question, but rather a statement of fact.

I winced, bracing myself for the type of pandemonium that’d happened back at the mall. My shoulders tensed, and I felt my expression close off, my mask sliding back into place. “Guilty.”

He didn’t gush or ask for a selfie. Just offered a crooked smile, his posture remaining relaxed. “Well, damn. You clean up better than you do on the Jumbotron.”

I huffed out a short, startled laugh. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

“Oh, it is,” he said, his eyes raking over me appreciatively for a brief second before returning to the task at hand. “You want the triptych to be sleek and simple or more of a statement piece?”

“Simple. Matte black frame, I think. Maybe a plate with ‘October 13’ engraved on it.”

He nodded, his eyes on a piece of paper as he jotted down the information. “October Thirteenth?”

“His first NHL hat trick.”

He looked up again. “Well,” he said, his tone softer now. “I’m sure he’ll treasure this.”

“I hope so.”

He finished scribbling, then tore off a slip showing I’d pre-paid. “Five days, tops. If I finish early, I’ll call.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Really.”

As I stepped back out into the cold December evening, I tucked the slip into my wallet and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

Around me, shoppers hurried past with bright, overflowing bags and excited chatter. The saxophone had been replaced by a small choir singing “Silent Night.” The twinkle lights seemed to shine a little brighter now, or maybe it was just me.

I still didn’t know what I’d say to Bell when I gave it to him.

Wondered if I’d have to say anything at all, or if the look on my face when I wished him a Merry Christmas would say it all for me.

My fingers brushed against where my wallet rested in my pocket, and for the first time all day, a genuine smile spread across my face.