Page 10 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"What should we wear?" Chloe asks, already overthinking.

"Something hot," I declare. "Something that screams 'I'm single and ready to make questionable decisions.'"

They both laugh, and I join in, the sound filling our small apartment. This is what I've been missing. Not the lack of relationship I had, the constant wondering if I'm enough, or hearing about Cade's drama nonstop. Just this––my friends, movies, and the promise of a good time.

Ice cream drips down my hand as I take another bite. The cookies are too soft and the ice cream's already melting, but somehow, it's perfect. No Byron texting me about hanging out and doing absolutely nothing. No pressure to be a perfect girlfriend.

"Saturday night?" I confirm.

"Saturday night," they chorus back.

We turn our attention back to Heath Ledger's grand gesture on screen, each of us quietly plotting our outfits for the party.

Chapter 3

My alarm goes off at five-thirty, but I've been awake for an hour already. The ceiling of my dorm room stares back at me, and all I can think about is Sandy's face when he sees me walk into that locker room.

I slip out of bed, grab my gear, and head for the shower. The hot water does nothing to calm the energy thrumming through me. Eight years since I've been on a team. Eight years of watching Sandy become the golden boy of college hockey while I sat on the sidelines.

Not anymore.

The walk to the arena is quiet. Campus is still sleeping, only a few early risers stumbling toward the library with coffee in hand. My gear bag bumps against my leg with each step.

The locker room door is heavy, metal and glass. I can hear voices inside––the team getting ready for practice. My hand pauses on the handle. This is it. The moment I've been planning since I convinced Coach Peterson to give me a shot.

I push the door open.

Conversations stop mid-sentence. Twenty pairs of eyes turn my way. I scan the room until I find my brother. He's halfway through lacing up his skates, confused to see me walking in. His eyes glance down at my gear.

"Cade? What are you doing here?" Sandy stands, confusion written all over his face.

I drop my bag on an empty bench, taking my time to answer. I don't mind letting him squirm a little.

The rest of the guys are quiet as they wait for my answer.

I say, "Practice starts at seven, right?"

"Cade." He steps closer, lowering his voice. "Seriously, what's going on? Did something happen? Do you need something?"

The concern in his voice almost makes me laugh. He thinks I'm here for him.

"Yeah, I need something." I start unpacking my gear, nice and slow. "I need to get dressed for practice."

Sandy's eyebrows shoot up. His eyes not leaving me. "Practice? What are you talking about?"

"Coach Peterson brought me on yesterday. Third-line center." I pull my jersey over my head, smoothing it down. "Surprise."

"You're joking." He looks around at the team, who are all watching us like we're the morning entertainment. "This is a joke, right? You have a bad fucking knee."

"Knee's fine." I sit down to lace my skates. "Turns out all those years of physical therapy works wonders."

"But you quit hockey. You said you were done. Said it's not worth breaking your knees over." His tone is getting a little sharp, and I'm happy to hear that I'm getting under his skin.

I shrug. "Changed my mind." I stand, testing the tightness of my laces. "People do that sometimes, Sandy. Change their minds. Try new things. Like fucking their brother's girlfriend, for example."

His face goes red. A few teammates shift uncomfortably. A few laugh, but I don't look at them. My attention is solely on Sanderson.

"That's what this is about?" Sandy's voice drops to a whisper. "Hannah? I thought everything was good."

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