Page 25 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

I grab her arm before she can disappear. "Your lipstick."

She immediately wipes the corner of her mouth, and as I watch her, I realize how fucked I am.

We emerge from the hallway a careful ten seconds apart, which was my suggestion. She agreed with a knowing smile that set something warm unfurling in my chest. I expect her to be awkward now, to avoid my eyes or linger near me. That's usually how these things go — the uncomfortable aftermath, the "what now?" moment.

Without a backward glance, she makes a beeline for her friends, who've claimed a corner of the living room as an impromptu dance floor. She whispers something in Mina's ear that makes the other girl raise her eyebrows.

I grab another beer from a cooler of melting ice, forcing myself to look away from her. Morrison claps me on the shoulder, nearly making me spill my drink.

"Where'd you disappear to?" he asks, shouting over the music.

"Nowhere," I answer, taking a long pull from my beer. "Just talking to some people."

He gives me a knowing look but doesn't press. Instead, he launches into a story about Coach Peterson's legendary temper during his first year. I nod at all the right places, laugh when expected, but my attention keeps drifting across the room.

Saylor dances like no one's watching. Her hair catches the light when she tosses her head back, laughing at something her friend said. I've never seen her so carefree and radiant.

"How do you think Sanderson's gonna handle you getting more ice time," he asks, watching me curiously. "You two work things out yet?"

The mention of Sandy is like a bucket of cold water, washing away the pleasant haze of alcohol and desire. What the hell am I doing? First, I join his team, now I'm hooking up with my best friend's girl? It's only been a day since Byron and Saylor broke up. Fuck, I'm just as bad as my brother is.

"There's nothing to work out," I answer. "We're brothers."

Wilson raises his hands in surrender. "Just asking, man. No offense."

I mumble an apology as someone cranks the music higher, and cheers erupt from the dance floor. My eyes find her again without permission. She's looking right at me this time, her gaze locking with mine across the crowded room. For a suspended moment, everything else fades away — the music, the people, my own tangled thoughts. It's just her eyes, holding mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

Then she smiles, slow and deliberate, before turning her back to me. It's not a dismissal; it's an invitation.Watch me, her body says as she resumes dancing. Remember what you just had.Want more.

I finish my beer in one long swallow and grab another, needing something to occupy my hands. The guys are deep in hockey talk now — stats, plays, predictions for the season. I contribute just enough to avoid suspicion, but my focus remains on the corner of the room where Saylor twirls and sways, each movement makes my mouth go dry.

An hour passes this way, maybe two. The party begins to thin, people drifting out in pairs or stumbling groups. I see Mina checking her phone, then leaning in to say something to Saylor and Chloe. They nod, gathering purses and jackets.

They're leaving.

Before I can think better of it, I'm crossing the room, weaving through all the drunk bodies.

"Saylor," I call as they reach the door. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

She turns, surprise flickering across her face before settling into an expression I can't quite read. "Go ahead," she tells her friends. "I'll catch up."

They exchange looks but head outside, Mina giving me a warning glance over her shoulder before the door closes behind them.

We stand in the entryway, suddenly alone despite the dozen or so people still scattered throughout the house. The music has been turned down, conversations now audible in the lull. Saylor leans against the wall, head tilted slightly as she studies me. She's had more to drink since I last saw her.

"What's up?" she asks, her voice casual.

I step closer, lowering my voice. "What's your number?"

She laughs, the sound lighter and looser than before. I notice the slight flush to her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes.

"My number?" she repeats, as if it's the most absurd request she's ever heard.

"Yeah," I press on, still riding the confidence of how she moaned my name. "I thought maybe we could talk sometime. When we're both, you know, not drunk at a party."

She studies me for a long moment, then shakes her head. "I'm sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all.

Something uncomfortable twists in my gut, but I push forward. "Here, give me your phone. I'll put my number in."

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