Page 77 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"Thank you," he says, searching my eyes. "I love you, too."

Chapter 23

The bench beneath me is hard and unforgiving, a constant reminder of my position on the team — third string, dressed and ready but unlikely to see ice time unless disaster strikes. Around me, the arena pulses with energy, the crowd an ocean of school colors and painted faces. The familiar soundtrack of a hockey game — skate blades cutting ice, sticks slapping pucks, bodies colliding against boards — fades to background noise as I track the play, mentally recording formations and strategies.

I've made peace with watching from the sidelines. Three weeks ago, I would have seethed with resentment, cataloging every mistake the second-string players make, silently arguing my case for why I should be out there instead. But something has shifted inside me. Hockey is not the battleground where I fight for recognition, no longer the arena where I prove my worth against Sandy's shadow. It's just a game — one I love, one I'm still determined to excel at, but just a game nonetheless.

The bench dips beside me as someone takes the vacant spot. Sandy, helmet off, sweat dampening his hair after the last period. His presence no longer triggers the automatic tension it once did, another small evolution in our complicated relationship.

"Mom's having dinner this weekend," he says without preamble, eyes on the other players piling in. "She wants to meet Cade's new girlfriend."

I bite back a laugh at his phrasing, so typical of Sandy. The dutiful son, the messenger for our mother. Some things never change, even as everything else transforms around us. For a moment, I'm tempted to make a cutting remark about his perpetual momma's boy status, the kind of casual cruelty that used to define our interactions. But the impulse fades as quickly as it appears.

"What's the dinner for?" I ask instead, genuine curiosity replacing the desire to cause pain.

Sandy shrugs, his shoulder pads making the gesture more pronounced. "No special occasion. Just thought it might be nice to do a double date thing. Me and Hannah. Mom can meet Saylor."

I turn to stare at him, trying to imagine the scenario he's proposing. Dinner with my mother, my brother, his girlfriend — who is my ex — and Saylor. The potential for havoc seems astronomically high.

"You're joking, right?" The disbelief in my voice is palpable.

"What?" Sandy glances at me, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Still not over it?"

I process this information slowly. Sandy, extending an olive branch in the form of a dinner invitation. Does my mom even know about this? Whose idea was this? My relationship with Saylor is no longer hidden but I haven't thought about family introductions.

A month ago, I would have immediately declined. Would have protected myself from the vulnerability of presenting Saylor to my mom, from the potential awkwardness of sitting across from Hannah at a dinner table. But the man I'm trying to become — the man I am because of Saylor — doesn't hide from difficult situations or uncomfortable growth.

"I'm assuming Sunday?" I ask, the decision settling comfortably in my chest.

Surprise flickers across Sandy's face, quickly replaced by a smile. "Yeah. Six o'clock."

He pats my shoulder as he rises, a gesture somewhere between encouragement and gratitude. "Coach wants you ready," he adds. "Matheson's looking sluggish out there."

I nod, though we both know it's unlikely I'll see ice time today.

The game proceeds with predictable intensity. We take an early lead, lose it in the second period, fight to regain momentum in the third. Sandy scores the winning goal with less than two minutes remaining — a beautiful top-shelf snipe that showcases exactly why he's the star of the team. As our teammates flood the ice in celebration, I find myself cheering without reservation, without the bitter undercurrent of jealousy that once tainted my appreciation of his talent.

Another small evolution. Another step toward becoming someone I can respect when I look in the mirror.

"You haven't been paying attention to a word I've said," Saylor accuses, though the smile playing at her lips takes any sting from the words.

We're sprawled across my bed, studying but mostly just existing in the same space. Her legs are draped over mine, a textbook open but ignored on her lap. My own notebooks lie forgotten beside me, my mind preoccupied with thoughts of Sunday's dinner.

"Sorry," I admit, running a hand through my hair. "Just thinking."

"About?" She closes her book, giving me her full attention.

"My mom wants us to come to dinner on Sunday," I say, watching her expression carefully. "At her house I have yet to see. Sandy and Hannah will be there too."

Her eyebrows rise slightly at the mention of Hannah, but her expression remains open. "That sounds nice," she says, though a question lurks beneath the statement.

"It might be awkward," I acknowledge. "Hannah and I…" I drop my hand on her. "I haven't talked to her since she's been with Sandy."

"Does your mom know about that?" She tilts her head. God, she's cute.

"Probably not the details. Unless my brother told her. I don't think so though." I trace idle patterns on her ankle, considering. "It's okay if you'd rather not go. I can say something came up."

Part of me hopes she'll take the out. Not because of Hannah or Sandy, but because of my mother — her questions, her observations, her uncanny ability to call me out. She'll know that Saylor has changed me. Bringing Saylor into that environment feels exponentially more vulnerable than introducing her to friends or teammates.

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