Page 13 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"No, what's different is that hockey is Sandy's thing. God forbid I encroach on golden boy's territory."

"Cade, that's not—"

I'm walking faster now, anger propelling me forward. "Name one time you've shown up for something that was just mine. One time you've come to watch me do anything that didn't involve Sanderson."

Silence stretches across the line.

"That's what I thought." My laugh is harsh. "Don't worry about me, Mom. Worry about why your favorite son is so threatened by a little competition."

I hang up before she can respond, shoving my phone deep in my pocket.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of lectures and note-taking, my mind replaying the morning's events on loop.

Friday night finds me on the bench, watching my first college hockey game from the sidelines. Coach made it clear––I'm backup for now, only going in if someone gets hurt or royally screws up. Fine by me. I've got the best seat in the house to study how this team operates.

The arena is packed with students painted in school colors. I spot Byron in the crowd with a few of our friends. He catches my eye and nods, our earlier argument apparently forgiven if not forgotten.

Sandy skates past me during warm-ups, eyes fixed straight ahead. He hasn't looked at me once since I suited up. While he's busy pretending I don't exist, I'm cataloging every play, every formation, every weakness in the opposing team's defense.

From the bench, I can see things Sandy can't. The way their left wing drops his shoulder before he shoots. How their center favors his right side on face-offs. The slight hesitation in their goalie's glove hand on high shots.

"What's going on?" Morrison leans over, following my gaze. The other guys are keeping their distance from me, but I don't blame them. I wouldn't want to get caught up in the Connolly family drama either.

"Number 17 telegraphs his shots. And their D-men are slow on the transition."

He whistles low. "Good eye, rookie."

The game starts fast and physical. Sandy dominates center ice, his passes crisp and accurate. I hate to admit it, but he's good. Better than good. Watching him play is reminding me of the brotherly pride I once had for him. We used to brag about having each other at home because it only made us better players.

But I'm not here to admire my brother. I'm here to learn, to adapt, to find the cracks in his armor. Every shift he takes, every play he makes, I'm filing it away for future reference.

By the third period, we're up 3-1. Sandy's got two assists and more ice time than anyone else. The crowd chants his name after a particularly impressive breakaway, and I watch him soak in the adoration like a plant turning toward sunlight.

Enjoy it while it lasts, brother. Your shadow's about to get a whole lot smaller.

Coach taps my shoulder with thirty seconds left. "You're in for the face-off. Let's see what you've got."

My heart hammers as I hop over the boards. This is it –– my first official moment as a college hockey player. Sandy's on the bench now, forced to watch as I take the ice in his arena, wearing his team's colors.

The puck drops. I win it cleanly, snapping it back to our defenseman. The final buzzer sounds before I can do much else, but it doesn't matter. I've made my mark.

As we file off the ice, Sandy brushes past me without a word. But I catch the look in his eyes ––surprise, worry, maybe even a hint of respect.

Saturday night finds me in front of Byron's door with two cold six-packs. He opens it wearing yesterday's sweatpants and a shirt that's seen better days.

"Party tonight," I say, holding up the beer. "You in?"

He shakes his head, not even bothering to take the offered drink. "Not feeling it, man."

"Come on. Free alcohol, loud music, girls who aren't Saylor—"

"Pass." He starts to close the door, then pauses. "Have fun though."

I don't push it. Sometimes you need to wallow, and Byron's earned his moping time. "Text me if you change your mind."

Three hours later, I'm standing in a living room, nursing my third beer and surveying the crowd. The place is packed –– wall-to-wall bodies moving to bass-heavy music that vibrates through the floorboards. Red solo cups litter every surface, and someone's already broken a lamp in the corner.

My eyes scan for Sandy and Hannah out of paranoia, but they're nowhere to be seen. Good. Without my brother's presence, I can actually relax, maybe even enjoy myself.

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