Page 3 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"Me?" I laugh without humor. "You think your girlfriend is sane? Did you hear her?"

He shakes his head in annoyance.

"Dude, Byron. What the fuck is her problem anyway? She's had a problem since the moment I mentioned what happened. ButIwas the one cheated on."

He starts gathering his shit, and watching him do so ticks me off.

"Did you forget?" he asks, standing up. His eyes meet mine. "You cheated on your girlfriend that night. What Hannah did was a mistake."

I roll my eyes. "Jesus fucking Christ, Byron."

He shrugs and then walks off. I watch him go, throwing my hands in the air. Those two cannot be fucking serious.

After he leaves, I sit back down, watching students move across the quad. The adrenaline from my verbal sparring with Saylor fades, leaving me with the dull ache in my muscles. My phone buzzes––group chat from some guys in my marketing class asking about tonight's study session.

Shit. I forgot about Jameson's group project.

I grab my gear and head toward the dorms, stopping by the student center for a protein shake. The cashier, this girl from my calc class, gives me extra whipped cream without charging. Her smile lingers a bit too long as she hands me my change.

"Thanks, Madison," I say, flashing her my best smile back. She blushes.

Back at my apartment, my roommate Trevor's blasting some EDM remix while attempting to do laundry. His whites are scattered across the couch.

"Dude, seriously?" I close the door behind me.

"Sorry, man. Dryer's broken again. Had to air dry." He pauses his music. "What's this?"

"Joined the hockey team." I drop my shit near the table.

Trevor's jaw drops. "Like, your brother's team? He's gonna flip."

"That's the plan." I open the fridge. "Got a group project meeting at seven. You gonna be home?"

"Nah, heading to Savannah's." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Her roommate's gone for the weekend."

"Georgia sounds really nice right now," I call as he heads out.

The hot shower relaxes my muscles. I need to roll my legs out and do stretches, maybe even go for a run. On top of my schoolwork, all the projects, and exams, I need to fit in a workout schedule because my legs are dead. Tomorrow, I hope to wake up stronger.

I towel off and check my phone. Mom's texted three times asking me to call her. I ignore it, knowing Sandy will always be her perfect son while this situation right now is a juicy gossip forum to her. She doesn't actually care how I'm doing, she just wants to know what's going on. I'm the black sheep who "needs to move on," and if Sandy is happy,there's nothing I can do about it.

She's quite literally correct, but I still think it's bullshit. I was feeling generous that day I allowed him to have Hannah. Well, I should correct myself––he can have her. But he can't fucking have it all, if you know what I mean. And that's why hockey will also be mine.

My phone pings back-to-back. My marketing group's already blowing up the chat, arguing about PowerPoint templates. I grab my laptop and head to the library, stopping to buy a Red Bull from the vending machine.

The study room reeks of desperation and stale coffee. Jameson's already there, color-coding index cards like his life depends on it. Not gonna lie, I wish I had his pens.

"Cade, finally," he says, not looking up. "We need to finalize the target demographics."

I drop into a chair, cracking open my energy drink. "Yeah, about that. I made some changes to the slides."

The next two hours are pure torture––Jameson nitpicking every font choice, Nala suggesting we "pivot to a more holistic approach," whatever that means. By the time we wrap up, I'm even more annoyed than the bullshit Saylor pulled earlier. Thank God my legs hurt with every movement. It's the perfect distraction.

Driving back to my apartment, I pull up Sandy's Instagram. His latest post is him and Hannah at some fancy restaurant, captioned "Date night with my girl."

My thumb hovers over the like button for a second before I close the app. Wednesday. Just wait until Wednesday.

Inside my room, I fall onto my bed, not bothering to turn on the lights. My hockey gear sits in the corner, a reminder of what's coming. Two days until I step onto that ice and show everyone––Sandy, Hannah, Coach, even fucking Saylor––that I'm done being the second-best.

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