Page 81 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

My mom's smile widens. "Thank you, Cade." She reaches for me, rubbing my shoulders. "That means so much to me."

Sandy is watching me closely. When my eyes meet his, I can sense the silent pride, the silent thank you. It's taken me years to accept the divorce, and I don't ever mention my dad. Especially never this casually. I could never handle the tears or the pain so obvious on my mom's face.

I grip onto Saylor's knee under the table, glancing at her. She gives me a knowing nod.

My mother watches this exchange with visible satisfaction, a mother seeing her son settled and happy. Hannah and Sandy share a look of their own, a silent communication born of their time together.

"So, how's the team looking for State?" Mom asks Sandy, passing the bowl of roasted potatoes his way. "Coach thinks you have a shot this year?"

Sandy loads his plate with a generous serving. "If we can stay healthy. Defense is solid, but our scoring's been inconsistent."

I catch Saylor's eye after releasing her knee, giving her a subtle wink. She's been mostly quiet during dinner, feeling her way through the family dynamics. But she's handling it better than I expected, asking thoughtful questions and laughing at all the right moments.

"Cade's been working on his defense," Sandy adds, catching me off guard. "Coach mentioned it yesterday."

"Really?" Mom turns to me, eyebrows raised. "I thought you were always more offense-minded."

I shrug, cutting into my roast beef. "Team needs strong defenders. Figured I should be versatile."

"Translation: Coach made him drill defense for three straight practices," Sandy clarifies with a smirk.

"Keep talking and I'll tell Mom about your first date with Hannah," I threaten, pointing my fork at him.

Hannah turns pink, coughing with the food in her mouth.

I chuckle. "I'm sorry. Too soon?"

Sandy shakes his head with a smile, pointing his fork back at me. "Then I'll have to tell everyone about yours with Saylor."

"Boys," my mom begins to scold, but I bark out a laugh.

"Touche, fucker––I mean brother."

Sandy leans back and laughs. I mimic his body language, leaning back in my chair and laughing with him. We see eye to eye right now, and the laughter in my chest is bubbling up because we just made everyone else feel extremely uncomfortable at the expense of our own humor. Our Connolly brother specialty at a family dinner. Glad we are officially back to regular programming.

I take a slow sip of my water, enjoying the discomfort.

"Back to hockey," Sandy says. "It would be nice to be champs."

Saylor catches my eye again, a small smile playing at her lips. I can tell she's enjoying this glimpse into my family, seeing the sides of me with my brother.

"This roast is amazing," Saylor says, gracefully changing the subject. "Would you mind sharing the recipe?"

"Of course, dear. It's quite simple, actually. The secret is in the marinade…"

As Mom launches into her cooking techniques, I feel Saylor's hand find mine under the table, her fingers intertwining with mine in a way that's become second nature. Even this small contact centers me, grounds me in the reality that she's here, with my family, navigating this potentially awkward situation with grace.

"Seconds, anyone?" Mom asks, standing to collect empty plates.

Everyone shakes their head, saying they're full.

"I'll help," I offer, rising from my chair.

Sandy joins me, gathering silverware while I stack plates. In the kitchen, we fall into our old routine — Mom scraping leftovers into containers, me rinsing dishes, Sandy loading the dishwasher.

"Saylor seems nice," Mom says, her tone carefully casual. "Smart girl."

"She is," I agree, passing her a cleaned plate.

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