Page 44 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

The party is busy, music pulsing from speakers positioned in every corner, red cups littering every surface. Sandy and I arrived together, and despite his initial reluctance, he seems to be enjoying himself. Three beers in (so much for "one and done"), we've claimed a corner of the living room, reminiscing about childhood disasters and hockey tournaments past.

"Remember Coach Davis?" Sandy asks, taking a swig from his cup. "The one with the hairpiece?"

I snort, nearly choking on my drink. "God, that thing was like a dead animal on his head. Didn't it fall off during that tournament in Buffalo?"

"Right into the penalty box," Sandy confirms, eyes crinkling with mirth. "And Benny thought it was a rat and started screaming."

"Game misconduct for 'actions detrimental to the dignity of the sport,'" I quote, mimicking the referee's pompous tone.

We dissolve into laughter, the kind that feels cleansing and necessary. Sandy's phone buzzes, and he checks it, a soft smile replacing his laughter.

"Hannah?" I guess, noticing the way his expression changes.

He nods, thumbs flying across the screen as he types a response.

"Look at you, all domesticated," I tease. "Next thing you know, you'll be shopping for throw pillows and learning what 'taupe' means."

"Shut up," he mumbles, but there's no heat in it.

"Seriously though," I say, lowering my voice slightly. "You guys good?"

Sandy pockets his phone, his expression turning thoughtful. "Yeah, we are. She's… she's the real deal, Cade."

"Wow. James Sanderson Connolly, settled down. Never thought I'd see the day."

"People change," he says simply.

The words hang between us, unexpectedly weighty amid the party chaos. I think about how we've both changed — him stepping out of our father's shadow, me finally confronting my own insecurities instead of projecting them onto others. Both of us learning, slowly and imperfectly, to be better men than the examples we were given.

"Don't go soft on me now," I warn, breaking the moment before it turns too serious. "We've still got a season to win."

"We?" he echoes, eyebrows raised. "Since when are you a team player?"

"Since I realized how much nicer it is when people aren't actively hoping I'll fail."

Sandy laughs, clapping me on the shoulder. "Took you long enough to figure that out."

"Yeah, well, some lessons take longer to learn than others."

"Like 'don't sleep with your best friend's ex'?"

I wince, the reminder still fresh. "Low blow."

"Too soon?"

"Maybe give it another decade or two."

"How is it with Byron?"

I blow out hot air dramatically staring forward. "Fuck, Sand. I don't know. But something I do know is that you're a better man than me. If there's anything I learned, it's that."

We fall into companionable silence, watching the party unfold around us. Morrison attempting to do a handstand against the wall. Wilson flirting with a girl from the swim team. Jake and Mina dancing in the center of the room, oblivious to everything but each other.

No sign of Saylor or Byron, thankfully. Some wounds are still too raw for casual encounters.

"You know," Sandy says thoughtfully, "when we were kids, I used to be jealous of you."

I nearly choke on my beer. "Get the fuck outta here with that, Sand." There's no way Sandy was jealous of me. He's better looking than me, was blessed with the bigger cockle doodle do, and he's a good athlete. Cocky as fuck too. He knows he's the shit.

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