Neutral Zone - bxb

Bruises

William Harrington - February 23rd

By the time I got out of the shower, my skin was pink and raw from the heat. The mirror was fogged over, which was probably a good thing. I didn't really want to see the bruises I already knew were there.

The game had been brutal — elbows flying, shoulders slammed, Ethan getting checked so hard into the boards I thought his ribs cracked. He'd popped up like it was nothing, though, skating off with that same stupid grin he always wore when he was bleeding.

I threw on a hoodie and sweatpants, running a towel through my hair, and headed downstairs.

The living room lights were dimmed, the TV glow flickering across three half-dead bodies and a war zone of takeout containers.

Dom and Nick were planted on the floor, surrounded by empty chip bags and two untouched protein shakes. Ethan was stretched out across the couch like he owned it — one arm draped over his head, the other pressing an ice pack to his bare ribs.

His hoodie was tossed over the armrest.

I stopped halfway down the stairs before I could help it.

His skin was pale in the TV light, except for the constellation of bruises painting his torso — deep purples, fading yellows, angry reds. There was a jagged scar cutting across his left shoulder, just above the bicep.

Long, thin, ugly.

Not hockey-made.

Dom glanced up from his argument and grinned. "Oh hey, look who survived the ice bath."

"Barely," I muttered, stepping down and moving toward the couch.

Nick pointed at the screen. "Okay, but tell me you wouldn't pick Bella over Gigi. Like objectively."

Ethan groaned without opening his eyes. "Can we not do this every week?"

Dom shoved his shoulder. "It's a valid debate."

"Valid brain damage," Ethan said, voice low, a lazy edge of sarcasm coating it.

I dropped onto the opposite end of the couch, still towel-drying my hair. He shifted to make room — or maybe just to stretch — and the motion pulled his arm back, giving me another clear view of that scar.

It wasn't small. Looked deep, like something that had healed wrong.
A slash, not a scrape.

I tried not to stare. I really did.

But there was something about it — about him, sitting there unbothered, half-watching the movie with a ribcage that looked like it had been through a car crash — that made my chest twist.

He caught me looking.

For half a second, our eyes met — his slightly glazed from exhaustion, but sharp underneath. Like he noticed everything.

"What?" he said quietly.

I blinked, pretending to be unfazed. "Nothing. You're just... covered in bruises."

He smirked. "You should see the other guys."

"I did," I said. "They're walking."

That made him laugh — soft, rough, and tired. He pressed the ice pack harder against his ribs, winced, and sucked in a breath through his teeth.

"Still hurts?" I asked before I could stop myself.

He shrugged. "Only when I breathe."

"Great. You'll survive."