Page 11 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"Nah, everything is good." I grab my stick, twirling it once. "This is about hockey. Always has been. You just forgot I was good at it too."

Coach Peterson walks in before Sandy can respond. "Everyone on the ice in five! Cade, stick with Morrison for warm-ups. He'll show you the drills."

"Got it, Coach." I flash him my best eager-rookie smile.

Sandy grabs my arm as I head for the door. "We need to talk about this. Did you tell mom?"

"There's nothing to talk about, Sand." I shake him off. "I'm on the team now. Better get used to it."

The ice welcomes me as my heart squeezes knowing that Sandy is shitting himself right now. My first few strides are tentative, muscles remembering what my brain never forgot. By the third lap, I'm flying. The cold air stings my face, but I'm grinning like an idiot.

Sandy watches from center ice, stick loose in his hands. His expression is unreadable, but I know him well enough to see the worry in his eyes. Good. Let him worry. Let him wonder what else I might take from him. After all, his girlfriend was mine before she even knew he existed.

Coach blows his whistle. "Line drills! Let's see what our new center can do!"

I line up with Morrison and the rest of the third line. Across the ice, Sandy takes his position with the first line.

The whistle blows again. I explode forward, stick handling through the cones like I never stopped playing. The puck feels natural. When we transition to shooting drills, my first shot rings off the crossbar and in.

"Nice shot, Connolly!" a teammate calls out, and I snicker because there are two Connolly's now. Who would've thought I'd be spending my Wednesday mornings here.

I catch Sandy's eye as I skate back to the line. He's not smiling.

This is just the beginning, brother. Just the fucking beginning.

Practice wraps up with conditioning drills that leave me gasping, but I'm feeling surprisingly strong. My body still remembers how satisfying practices are. The burn in my legs, the ache in my shoulders –– it all feels like coming home.

In the locker room, the guys peel off their gear and head for the showers. I take my time unlacing my skates, watching Sandy from the corner of my eye. He's shoving his equipment into his bag with more force than necessary, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.

"Hey, Sanders," Morrison calls out, toweling off his hair. "Your brother's got some moves. Genetic thing?"

Sandy doesn't answer, just yanks the zipper on his duffel hard. He grabs his shower kit and stalks toward the bathroom, shoulders rigid with tension.

"You didn't tell him you were trying out?" Morrison asks, loud enough for half the team to hear.

I shrug, carefully neutral. "Nah."

Twenty minutes later, I emerge from the shower to find Sandy's stall empty. His gear's gone, not even a water bottle left behind. The message is clear –– he's done talking to me for now. Perfect.

The satisfaction curls warm in my chest as I dress for class. Let him run. Let him stew. Every minute he spends angry is another minute I've won.

My phone buzzes as I'm crossing campus. Byron's name flashes on the screen.

"What's up?" I answer, shifting my bag to my other shoulder.

"Where are you?"

"I'm heading to Econ," I say.

"Meet me at the library steps. I have to tell you something."

He ends the call.

I find him slumped on the stone steps, looking like he slept in his clothes. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and his usually perfect hair sticks up at odd angles.

"Jesus, man. Rough night?" I drop down beside him.

He runs both hands through his hair, making it worse. "Saylor broke up with me."

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