Page 58 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"If they find out," I correct.

"When," Sandy insists. "Secrets like this don't stay a secret, trust me." He skates backward toward the forming line. "You're going to have to choose eventually. If it's Saylor, you need to accept that Byron is the collateral damage."

His bluntness leaves me standing alone at the boards, the reality of my situation suddenly stark and unavoidable. I've been treating this like a temporary problem, a transitional awkwardness that will eventually resolve itself. But Sandy's right — this isn't sustainable. Eventually, something will give.

Practice provides a welcome distraction, the physical exertion forcing my mind to focus on movement, strategy, reaction. On the ice, things make sense — there are rules, clear objectives, defined boundaries. Nothing like the sneaky, lying, hiding shit I'm navigating off the ice.

Coach pulls me aside during a drill rotation. "Connolly, you're back to third string for Saturday's game. Miller is fully healed."

I nod, swallowing disappointment. I knew this was coming — Miller's the veteran, I'm the new guy — but it stings nonetheless. "Understood, Coach."

"Keep working, though," he adds. "You've got potential. Just need more consistency."

At least in hockey, the path forward is clear: work harder, get better, earn your spot. If only relationships came with such straightforward instructions.

Economics class feels like an exercise in torture. Byron sits beside me as usual, our silent truce seeming to be our new normal. But there's a hollow quality to our silence now, weighted with all the things we're not saying.

When class ends, we file out into the hallway, and there she is — directly in our path, impossible to avoid without being obvious. For a heart-stopping moment, I fear she'll be upset if I ignore her again, but with Byron walking beside me, what the hell am I supposed to do?

"Hi, Byron," she says, voice carefully neutral. Then her eyes find mine. "Cade." A slight nod before she turns and walks away, disappearing into the stream of students.

Beside me, Byron stands frozen, watching her retreat. The pain in his expression is raw, unguarded, and so familiar it makes me hesitate. I've worn that exact look, felt that exact hollowness after Hannah. The knowledge that I'm the cause of that pain in my best friend settles like lead in my stomach. I want to know what he's thinking, but it's clearly about her. He misses her, he wants her. I see it in the flicker of his expression. The yearning.

He doesn't say anything, just adjusts his backpack and heads toward his next class. I don't follow, don't try to fill the silence with meaningless words. I know anything I say will make it worse.

By afternoon, I'm wound tight from the strain of my double life, from constantly calculating what I can say to whom, from the growing realization that Sandy is right — this can't go on indefinitely. Something has to give.

When Saylor meets me behind the science building between classes, the release is immediate. Her lips on mine, her body pressed against the brick wall, her hands threading through my hair — it's like surfacing after too long underwater, that first desperate gasp of air.

"Missed you," she murmurs against my mouth, the simple admission making my heart stutter.

"It's been six hours," I remind her, but I understand the feeling exactly. Six hours of pretending we're strangers, of careful distance, of playing roles that feel increasingly false.

She pulls back slightly, eyes mischievous. "Want to see what I'm wearing today?"

Before I can answer, she's unbuttoning the top of her blouse just enough to reveal the edge of a red sheer bra, the hint of skin beneath the transparent fabric sending heat coursing through me.

"You're trying to kill me," I groan, capturing her lips again. Her laugh vibrates against my mouth, the sound of it intoxicating.

I could stay here all day, lost in the warm reality of her, but responsibility pulls me back. "You need to get to class," I tell her, smoothing her hair where my hands have mussed it. "I'll see you later."

She pouts but complies, rebuttoning her blouse with deliberate slowness. "Promise?"

"Promise." The word feels weighty, significant beyond its context. "Actually, I need to do some grocery shopping later. Want to come with?"

Her face lights up at this mundane suggestion, and I understand why — it's normal, everyday, something couples do without thinking.

"Yes," she says, too quickly. "I mean, sure, if you want company."

"I want you," I clarify. "In all contexts, not just the fun ones."

The blush that spreads across her cheeks is worth any risk.

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store cast everything in a harsh, unflattering glow, but Saylor somehow looks more radiant here than at any party. She's examining avocados with serious concentration, testing each one with gentle pressure from her fingertips.

"Too soft," she declares, putting one back. "You want them just barely yielding. Like this." She places one in my palm, guiding my fingers to feel the slight give beneath the skin.

"How do you know so much about avocados?" I ask, genuinely curious about this unexpected expertise.

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