William Harrington - March 2nd
The bus rolled to a stop in front of the Yale rink, half an hour early, just the way Coach liked it.
I didn't mind. The quiet before the chaos always felt sacred — like a moment where you could still pretend things were normal.
The only sound was the crunch of our skates and gear bags hitting the pavement. The air smelled like winter and caffeine.
Inside, the rink lights were already on, the ice glowing like glass under the spotlights. But we weren't the first ones here.
A group of figure skaters were finishing up their session — bright, glittering, graceful. Sequins and ponytails, music still echoing through the speakers.
The contrast between them and us was kind of funny.
They floated.
We crashed.
Coach told us to hit the locker room, so we did.
Ethan changed two stalls down from me, quiet as usual.
He never said much before a game — just methodical, going through his motions. Pads. Tape. Lace. Repeat.
And yeah — I watched.
Not like that (okay, maybe a little like that).
It was just... hard not to notice him.
The way his shoulders moved when he stretched his arms. The curve of his back as he leaned down to tighten his skates.
Every motion was precise, controlled — like he was holding something dangerous just under his skin.
He looked up once, caught me looking, and smirked. Just the corner of his mouth.
I looked away, pretending to check my stick, face burning.
"Problem, Captain?" he said, tone lazy.
"Yeah. You," I muttered, too quiet for anyone else to hear.
If he heard me, he didn't let on — just grabbed his gloves and headed out toward the ice.
We all followed a minute later, helmets in hand.
The figure skaters were just finishing up, looping toward the exit gate. One of them — a blonde in a pale blue jacket — stumbled as she laughed at something one of her friends said. She looked about eighteen, nineteen maybe.
Ethan slowed beside me, eyes flicking toward them for half a second before he smirked — that dangerous, I'm-about-to-do-something-stupid look.
He reached into Coach's pocket, swiped the whistle, and blew it.
Loud. Sharp.
The sound cut across the rink like a gunshot.
Every skater froze mid-glide. Heads whipped toward us.
And then the blonde's face lit up.
Like the goddamn sun came out just for her.
She dropped her skate guards and ran, blades clacking across the rubber mats until she practically launched herself into Ethan's arms.
"Ethan!" she squealed, wrapping her arms around his neck.
My brain short-circuited.
Who the hell—
Ethan caught her, stumbling back a step before laughing — actually laughing. Not his usual half-smirk or sarcastic chuckle — a real one. Warm. Genuine.
It hit me in the chest harder than it should've.
"Meg— what the hell are you doing here?" he said, still holding her.
"Practice! We've got regionals next month!" she said, still grinning. "Oh my god, you look like you haven't slept since high school."
"Thanks," he said flatly, but there was fondness there. "You're supposed to call before you tackle me in public, you menace."
"Shut up, you love it."
"I tolerate it."
She elbowed him lightly, then looked past him, her eyes wide. "You have to meet Jamie! He's gonna freak out when he sees you here!"
At that, Ethan's smile faltered — just for a second. Barely a twitch. But I caught it.
He recovered fast, giving her a small nod. "Yeah. Sure. Tell him I said hi."
She beamed. "Okay! Good luck, loser!"
And then she was gone, skating off toward the stands, her ponytail bouncing behind her.
The rest of the guys were grinning like idiots.
"Who was that?" Beau whispered, eyebrows high.
"Girlfriend?" Nick asked.
I hated how fast I wanted to know the answer.
Ethan was already skating toward the bench, pretending not to hear.
I followed.
When I caught up to him, I said, "So. Who's the blonde?"
He glanced at me sideways. "You jealous, Harrington?"
"Just making conversation."
"Uh-huh."
I rolled my eyes. "You gonna answer, or should I ask her boyfriend?"
That got a laugh out of him — low and rough. "You really wanna know?"
"Yeah."
He leaned in, voice low enough only I could hear. "She's my sister."
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
I blinked. "Wait— seriously?"
"Yeah," he said, grinning at my expression. "Megan Ward. She's a figure skater. Yale team."
I looked toward the stands where she was sitting now, waving at us. "She's... good."
"She's the best," he said, and there was this quiet pride in his voice I hadn't heard before.
Then, just as I started to feel bad for assuming, he smirked again. "What, you thought I was out here stealing rink groupies before warmups?"
I scowled. "You're impossible."
"Admit it," he said. "You were jealous."
"I wasn't—"
He stepped closer, his grin widening just enough to be dangerous. "Sure you weren't."
My pulse did something traitorous. "Shut up and stretch," I said, shoving him lightly with my glove.
He laughed again — quiet, almost fond — and skated off.
And yeah, I watched him go. Not because I had to. Because I couldn't help it.
Coach was pacing like a caged animal before puck drop, clipboard flapping in his hand. You could always tell when something was up — he got that look. The one that said I'm about to ruin your night and call it strategy.
"New defensive lines," he barked. "I'm mixing it up."
Groans. Mutters. Helmets hit the boards.
He pointed at me first. "Harrington. You're with Ward."
Every sound in the locker room stopped.
Dom choked on his water. Nick actually snorted.
"Uh— Coach?" I tried. "We haven't—"
"I know." He cut me off. "You're smart. He's fast. Try not to kill each other."
Ethan just grinned — that slow, dangerous kind that said this is gonna be fun for me, terrible for you.
We hit the ice a minute later. The crowd was loud, Yale's student section waving blue flags and banging on the glass.
Our skates cut through the fresh surface, the echo of the blades filling the rink like static.
Ethan lined up beside me at the faceoff circle, tapping his stick twice against the ice. His breath fogged in front of him, his eyes bright and focused.
He looked at me over his shoulder, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Try to keep up, Captain."
Cocky bastard.
The puck dropped.
Yale's forwards came hard and fast, weaving in tight patterns — their speed was brutal, and for the first few shifts, I was sure Coach had lost it. Ethan wasn't exactly known for structure.
But then something weird happened.
We clicked.
It wasn't planned — it was instinct. He moved, I read it. I shifted, he adjusted.
Every time I went to block a pass, he was already backing me up. Every time he overcommitted on a check, I was there to cover the gap.
It shouldn't have worked. But it did.
It was like we were speaking the same language — one we didn't know we both knew.
At one point, Yale's winger broke loose down center ice. Ethan cut him off, hard and clean, stealing the puck like it was nothing.
He didn't even look — just flicked it up the boards in my direction.
I caught it, dodged a hit, and sent it cross-ice right back.
He caught it, spun, and threaded a pass to Rivers on the blue line. Rivers one-timed it — top corner. Goal.
The bench exploded.
I couldn't help it — I grinned. Big, real, the kind that made my face hurt.
Ethan skated toward me, gloves tapping my shoulder pad. "Not bad for someone who used to hate me."
I snorted. "Who says I don't still?"
He grinned wider. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that."
The rest of the period was chaos — in the best way.
Coach didn't switch us back. He didn't have to. It was like the longer we played, the more the friction turned into rhythm.
He'd yell something short — "Left!" "Cover!" "Switch!" — and I knew exactly what he meant. We were anticipating each other now, moving like two halves of the same system.
By the second period, Yale couldn't get through us.
It wasn't friendly — we still chirped, still shoved each other between whistles — but underneath the noise, there was this pull.
A weird kind of trust.
When he was on the ice, I didn't have to overthink. Didn't have to compensate or guess. I just knew.
It was infuriating. And addictive.
Third period. Two minutes left. Up by one.
Yale dumped the puck into our zone. Ethan chased, slammed their winger into the boards so hard the glass rattled.
The puck slid loose — right to me.
I cleared it, looked up, and saw him grinning through his cage as we skated back to the bench.
Coach clapped both our shoulders when we got off. "Now that's what I'm talking about," he said. "I might've just found my top pair."
Ethan winked at me, tugging off his gloves. "Guess you're stuck with me, Captain."
I rolled my eyes, but my pulse was still racing. Not from the game.
From him. From whatever the hell that was out there.
I told myself it was adrenaline. Competition. A rush.
But deep down, I knew it wasn't.
A/N
Sooo... Canada lost...
I almost cried when they showed Mack, he looked so broken.
AND then they brought out Johnny Gardeau's jersey. Like wtf.
I am glad it was Jack who scored and not Matthew or Brady because I can't be mad at Jack, he's too nice.
I can't imagine how guilty Devon Toews feels rn though, like omg.
This chapter is hopefully a cheer up for everyone who was behind Canada earlier, it's a happy chapter.
Byeeee
EDIT:
I revoke my statement about Jack what the actual fuck. That is his literal mother he is laughing at. I'm so disappointed in the entire USA team. Imagine those poor women who ahve tried so fucking hard to get where they are and be laughed at by the man in charge of your country and your male counterparts.
ALSO ELLEN! Tf.
I am pissed tf off.
The worst part is that if you have paid attention, it is NOT that surprising. I am just sincerely disappointed. I wanted them to be better.
Canada should have won.