Page 43 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"Like Amanda's birthday party?" I grab my water bottle, squirting some on my face before taking a drink.

Sandy groans dramatically. "Don't remind me. I still have nightmares about her father finding me in that closet."

"Hilarious," I add, laughing.

"Not my finest moment."

"I don't know," I muse, watching him squirm at the memory. "You made it out the second-story window with your pants only half-on."

He shakes his head, laughing. "At least I didn't throw up in Mom's favorite houseplant after drinking Dad's scotch."

"So nasty."

"You were so drunk that you fell into it, knocked it over, and then you spent the rest of the night trying to glue the ceramic pot back together with toothpaste."

I shake my head, remembering my fourteen-year-old logic. "In my defense, the toothpaste was white and so was the pot."

"Your intelligence is questionable," Sandy says, then nods toward the ice where Coach is setting up for the next drill. "Speaking of which, let's see if time's improved you any or if you suck even more now."

The familiar competitive jab lands differently now — lighter somehow, more playful than pointed. We skate back out together, shoulders occasionally bumping, the easy rhythm of brotherhood restored.

"Remember, they like to trap in the neutral zone," Sandy says, leaning close to be heard over the crowd noise. We're sitting on the bench between shifts, my legs bouncing with nervous energy as I prepare for my next rotation. "Number 24 especially — he'll sneak in behind you if you're carrying the puck with your head down."

I nod, eyes tracking the play on the ice. Dartmouth is good — fast, disciplined, with a goalie who seems to have eight limbs instead of four. We're down 2-1 in the second period, and while I haven't embarrassed myself, I haven't exactly distinguished myself either.

"You're overthinking it," Sandy adds, noticing my tense posture. "Just play your game. Move your feet, keep it simple."

"That's funny coming from Mr. Between-the-Legs Goal last season," I mutter.

"That was different. I'd already established myself as a reliable player before I tried the fancy stuff."

He has a point, though I'd never admit it out loud. "So, what you're saying is I should be boring and basic."

"I'm saying you should be smart." His eyes follow the puck as it cycles around the boards on the far side. "Pick your moments. Build your confidence first."

Coach calls our line, and I hop over the boards, Sandy's advice echoing in my head. Keep it simple. Move your feet. My skates cut into the fresh ice, muscles firing as I position myself for the face-off.

For a few glorious minutes, everything clicks. I win the draw, feed a clean pass to Wilson on the wing, and drive toward the net. The puck comes back to me on a rebound, and I snap it toward the upper corner — only to have it snatched out of the air by the Dartmouth goalie's glove.

"Good look," Sandy says when I return to the bench, tapping my helmet with his glove. "Keep shooting like that."

But despite our efforts, Dartmouth adds another goal in the third period, and we can't close the gap. The final buzzer sounds with a 3-1 loss illuminated on the scoreboard.

The locker room afterward is subdued but not despondent. Coach gives his usual post-game assessment — areas to improve, moments to build on, reminders that the season is young. I sit in my stall, unlacing my skates with tired fingers, a strange mixture of disappointment and satisfaction warring in my chest. We lost, but I played. Actually played collegiate hockey, not just as some petty revenge against my brother, but because I deserved to be there.

"Party tonight. Same place as always," Morrison announces as guys start filtering toward the showers. "We'll drown our sorrows in cheap beer, as tradition dictates."

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the room. I glance at Sandy, who's packing his gear into his bag.

"You coming?" I ask, keeping my voice casual.

He hesitates. "Not really my scene anymore. Hannah's expecting me later."

"Come on," I press. Hannah can wait. "One beer. Team bonding and all that crap you're supposed to care about."

Sandy rolls his eyes, but I can see him considering it. "Fine. One beer. Then I'm out."

"One beer," I agree solemnly.

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