Page 14 of Fractured Ice

"Knox." I hold up my notebook. "I'm here to interview Ethan. Is he around?"

"Upstairs." Knox points at the ceiling with his spoon. "Second door on the left. Just knock."

"Can you just get him for me? We can work down here."

"He's getting ready. Just go on up, he's expecting you."

Something about the way Knox is smiling makes me want to turn around and reschedule. But I have two weeks to get this first interview done, and Ethan was already hard enough to pin down for this morning, so I go upstairs.

Second door on the left. I knock once.

Something from inside that sounds vaguely like "come in," sounds from the other side.

I open the door.

Ethan Walker is standing in the middle of his room, and he is not wearing anything.

Not a towel. Not boxers. Nothing. He must have just gotten out of the shower because his hair is wet and he clearly has not yet gotten to the part of his morning that involves clothing. I stand in the doorway and my brain stops producing useful output for what is genuinely an embarrassing amount of time.

He's built the way hockey players are built, broad across the chest and shoulders, and that's about as far as the professional observation gets before my eyes make an unauthorized detour downward and I'm staring at something that completely short-circuits the rest of my thoughts. I've seen a lot of things in my life. I was not prepared for this. Nobody warned me. Nobody in any capacity gave me any indication that a massive, perfect-looking cock was going to be part of the morning.

I stare.

I definitely stare.

Then I look up and Ethan is looking at me with an expression that could most accurately be described as caught. He covers himself with both hands, and I realize with full-body horror that I just stood in this man's doorway and stared at him for a measurable length of time.

I slam the door.

The hallway is very quiet.

My face is on fire.

I turn around and walk back down the stairs with the focused energy of someone who is absolutely not thinking about what they just saw, which is a lie, but forward momentum is the only viable option right now. The common room comes back into view and Knox looks up from his cereal. He takes one look at my face and absolutely loses it.

"Oh," he says, already laughing. "Oh no."

"Shut up."

"Did you⁠—"

"Knox, I swear to God."

He's cackling. Somewhere from another room I hear someone else start laughing, which means Knox is not the only person home and this entire house is now aware of what just happened. I sit down on the couch and stare at the wall, thinking about fleeing to another university and never looking back.

It takes Ethan approximately four minutes to come downstairs, which I know because I time it, because I have nothing else to do except sit here and wait, trying to reassemble my professional composure. He appears in the doorway to the common room in a gray hoodie and dark jeans, with damp hair. The expression on his face is a very specific combination of embarrassed and pleased that I find deeply irritating.

Knox makes a gesture with his spoon that I don't dignify by acknowledging.

"Ready?" Ethan says.

"I've been ready," I say. "I was ready at nine."

"Right." He clears his throat. "Let's go then."

"We can work here."

"Nobody wants to do interview questions in a hockey house. There is too much noise and not enough privacy."