Page 38 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

I'm not sure what lessons I'm supposed to learn from this particular disaster, but I appreciate her attempt to find a silver lining.

The courts are empty, just as Chloe predicted. We claim one at the far end, dropping our water bottles and keys on the sideline bench. The weight of the paddle in my hand grounds me, connects me to my body in a way that pushes mental turmoil to the background.

"Ready to get your butt kicked?" Chloe calls from the other side of the net, bouncing slightly on her toes.

I manage a genuine smile for the first time all day. "In your dreams."

She serves, and the hollow plastic ball makes its distinctive plinking sound as it sails over the net. I return it with more force than necessary, channeling my frustration into the swing. Chloe volleys it back, and suddenly we're moving, our bodies finding rhythm in the simple back-and-forth.

With each rally, each point, the knot in my chest loosens incrementally. Sweat beads on my forehead, my breathing quickens, and for these blessed moments, there is nothing but the game, the ball, the next point to win.

I know this won't solve anything. But being beneath the fading afternoon sun, with my best friend laughing across the net, I find a small pocket of peace in the chaos I've created.

Chapter 11

The locker room smells like decades of sweat baked into the walls, an aroma that's distinctly hockey — equal parts disgusting and comforting. I'm fifteen minutes early, hoping to avoid the crush of players and the inevitable stares that will follow yesterday's drama. Word travels fast on this campus, and nothing travels faster than juicy gossip about one of the Connolly brothers.

I'm tying my left skate when Coach Peterson's voice booms across the room. "Connolly. My office."

Perfect. Just what I need to start this Monday morning. I follow him into the cramped space he calls an office, really more of a storage closet that's been upgraded with a desk and a photo of his glory days playing for Minnesota.

"Sit," he says, gesturing to the lone chair across from him.

I comply, bracing myself for whatever's coming. Kicked off the team? Demoted to water boy? A lecture on team unity and not screwing your best friend's girlfriend?

Instead, he slides a folder across the desk. "Eligibility paperwork. Athletic department needs it by Wednesday."

I blink, caught off guard. "You're keeping me on the team?"

"Why wouldn't I?" He leans back, eyebrows raised. "You think I give a shit about your personal drama? Wilson has a fur baby mama and Morrison failed Organic Chemistry three times. Unless you're planning to start a fistfight with the entire team, your personal life is none of my business."

The knot in my chest loosens slightly. "Yes, sir."

"We're playing Dartmouth Saturday. Tobias is officially out with that groin pull, so I need you ready for third-line center. That means you're skating every drill, memorizing every play, and finding chemistry with your linemates. Think you can handle that?"

My mouth goes dry. "This Saturday?"

"College hockey waits for no man, Connolly. I need to know if you're serious about this or if you're just here to piss off your brother."

The question pierces through my carefully constructed excuses. Am I serious? Do I actually want this, or is it just another arena for my petty revenge?

"I'm serious," I say, and am surprised to find I mean it. "I want to play. For real."

He studies me for a moment, then nods. "Good. Because I'm not in the business of wasting roster spots on daddy issues. Practice starts in ten. Go on."

I exit his office into a locker room that's now half-full, guys banging equipment around and talking shit about weekend conquests. Jake spots me from across the room and approaches, a knowing grin on his face.

"Heard you had quite the Sunday, Connolly."

"Sure did," I mutter, returning to my stall.

"You sure did." He drops his voice lower. "For what it's worth, Byron will get over it. Man's too lazy to hold a grudge for long."

I hope he's right, but before I can respond, Sandy walks in. Our eyes meet across the room, and I know it's time to have the conversation I've been dreading. I wait until he's stowed his gear, then make my way over.

"Can we talk?" I ask, jerking my head toward the hallway.

Confusion flickers across his face, but he follows me out. We stand awkwardly in the corridor, the sounds of the locker room muffled behind us.

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