I Fell For My Brother’s Rival

Three nights. That was how long it took to get the lines right.

I stood outside the boys' locker room, holding the thick cardstock against my chest. The ice wolf stared back at me, its wings spread wide, drawn in sharp angles and freezing blues. It looked aggressive. Fast. Exactly what a Westbrook hockey crest needed to be.

The muffled sounds of skates grinding on the rink echoed down the hall. Friday practice was still going. I just needed to slide the paper under the door and disappear before Caleb caught me anywhere near this side of the building.

I crouched down, pushing the corner of the drawing beneath the heavy metal frame.

The door violently swung inward.

I stumbled forward, barely catching myself on the doorjamb.

Ethan stood in the threshold. Steam rolled off his shoulders into the chilly corridor. His dark hair was entirely soaked, plastered to his forehead. Sweat tracked down his jawline, dripping onto the collar of a practice jersey that clung tight to his chest. He breathed heavy, his chest rising and falling in a rapid, exhausted rhythm.

"Spying on the locker room, Lily?" he asked, wiping a drop of sweat from his chin.

"I was dropping this off." I shoved the cardstock into his chest.

He didn't grab it immediately. He wiped his large hands on the sides of his mesh shorts, leaving damp streaks on the fabric. Only then did he take the drawing by the edges.

He didn't smirk. He didn't offer a sarcastic joke.

He just stared at the wolf. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant, broken only by the distant whistle of the coach on the ice.

His thumb traced the sharp wing tip. He examined the shading around the wolf's eyes, the aggressive tilt of the snout.

"You're really good," he said.

His voice lacked its usual arrogant rasp. It was quiet. Serious.

"It's just a sketch," I deflected, crossing my arms to hide my shaking hands.

"It's exactly what we need." He finally looked up, his amber eyes locking onto mine. "Let me buy you a drink."

"I don't drink."

"Hot chocolate. Unless you're scared to be seen with me in the daylight."

"I'm not scared of you."

"Prove it. Give me five minutes to change."

The wind bit at my cheeks. We sat on the concrete steps behind the school, a safe distance from the main parking lot.

He handed me a steaming paper cup. Our fingers brushed. His skin was still cold from the rink, a stark contrast to the boiling cardboard.

"Thanks," I mumbled, wrapping both hands around the cup to siphon the heat.

Ethan sat on the step below me, resting his forearms on his knees. He stared out at the snow-covered football field. Every time we exhaled, our white breath tangled together in the freezing air.

"Why a wolf?" he asked, nodding at my backpack where the drawing was safely stowed.

"Because they survive the cold," I answered.

He let out a low hum, taking a sip of his drink. "My dad played pro."

I stopped halfway through a sip. I lowered the cup. "I didn't know that."

"Most people don't." He rotated his hot chocolate, staring at the plastic lid. "Drafted straight out of high school. Played three seasons. Then a defenseman shattered his right knee against the boards."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I wasn't born yet." He tapped his index finger against the side of his cup. "He never played again. Started drinking instead. Figured out pretty quick that whiskey numbs a bad joint better than physical therapy."

"Is that why you..." I trailed off, thinking of the frozen lake.

"Drink?" He finished the sentence for me. "Sometimes."

I watched the tension lock his jaw. The muscle ticked near his ear.

"He put a stick in my hands when I was three," Ethan continued, his voice dropping lower. "Told me I was going to finish what he started. Every game, every practice, he's watching. Waiting for me to secure the bag."

"That's a lot of pressure."

"It's the only reality I've got." He turned his head, looking past me toward the empty bleachers. "I have to get a scholarship. That's the only way out."

He sounded exhausted. The weight of his father's ruined dreams pressed down on his shoulders, crushing the arrogant facade he wore in the hallways. He wasn't the untouchable star player right now. He was just a guy trying to survive his own life.

"Out of Westbrook?" I asked.

"Out of everything. This town. This house. I just need to get on the ice somewhere else and never look back."

I traced the rim of my cup. The town felt like a cage to him. But to me, it was the only place I knew. My friends were here. My art was here.

"What if I don't want to leave?" I asked softly.

Ethan shifted. He turned fully toward me, his amber eyes catching the pale winter sunlight. He searched my face, scanning my features as if trying to memorize them. The walls he usually kept up were completely gone. Underneath, a dark, turbulent current swirled in his gaze, dangerous and pulling. It felt like standing on cracked ice, knowing the freezing water was rushing right below the surface.

He opened his mouth. His lips parted.

Headlights swept across the snow.

Tires crunched over the icy asphalt at the edge of the lot.

I snapped my head around. A familiar dark blue SUV rolled to a stop near the cafeteria doors.

Caleb.

Panic spiked in my chest. I jerked upward, my boots slipping on the frosted concrete. My grip clamped down tight on the paper cup, crushing the cardboard inward. Hot liquid splashed over the lid, burning my knuckles.

"Shit," I hissed, wiping my hand on my jeans.

Ethan didn't stand. He watched my frantic movements from his spot on the steps. A bitter, jagged smile twisted his mouth.

"Afraid of your brother?" he asked.

"I just don't want to deal with a screaming match right now."

"Right." He looked away, the vulnerability from a moment ago slamming shut like a steel vault. "Go on, then. Don't let the captain catch you fraternizing with the enemy."

"Ethan, it's not like that."

"Yeah, it is." He picked up his own cup and stood. "Thanks for the drawing, Lily."

He didn't wait for my response. He walked toward the locker room entrance, his broad back rigid, shutting me out entirely.

"Lily!" Caleb's voice barked across the parking lot.

I flinched. I tossed the ruined cup into a nearby trash can and jogged toward the SUV.

I yanked the passenger door open and climbed inside. The heater blasted warm air against my frozen face, but the atmosphere inside the cab was absolute zero.

I pulled the seatbelt across my chest, staring straight ahead.

Caleb didn't put the car in drive. He stared into the rearview mirror. His jaw muscles flexed, a rapid pulsing beneath his skin. His hands gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles stretched stark white against the dark leather.

I risked a glance at the side mirror.

Ethan had stopped at the metal doors. He was watching our car.

"I was just giving him the logo," I said, breaking the suffocating silence.

Caleb didn't answer. He didn't even blink. He just kept staring at Ethan's reflection.

He finally slammed the gearshift into drive and hit the gas.

I stared out the window as the school blurred past. Caleb hadn't said a single word, but the message was deafening. This wasn't just a rivalry anymore. It was war. And looking at my brother's white-knuckled grip, I realized he was already planning his next strike.