Page 82 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"And you two met through…" She trails off, clearly fishing.

Sandy says, "Byron. Cade stole her from him."

"I didn't steal—" I start automatically, then catch myself, laughing. "It's…"

My mom watches me fluster. "The important thing is you seem happy. Both of you."

"He's not even trying to be better than me in hockey," Sandy adds, arranging glasses in the top rack. "Imagine that."

"Never thought I would ever be okay being second best."

"You are not second best," my mom argues, but I laugh.

I put a hand on her shoulder. "Mom, it's okay. Sandy's really good, and he deserves the wins and success and the recognition for it."

"Never thought I'd see the day where you're admitting I'm better than you." Sandy laughs.

"Boys," Mom interjects with practiced patience. "Some things never change."

Sandy grins at me over her head. "Like Cade's need to arrange the dishwasher like the perfectionist he is."

"Or Sandy's inability to properly rinse a dish?"

Mom sighs dramatically, though I catch the smile she's trying to hide. "I forgot how exhausting it is having you both in the same room."

She wipes her hands on a dish towel and heads toward the living room. "I'm going to check on the girls. Try not to break anything while I'm gone."

As soon as she's out of earshot, Sandy turns to me. "Seriously though. You good?"

The question feels weighted with more meaning than its simple words suggest. Am I good with Mom? With Saylor? With Hannah being here? With hockey? With us?

"Yeah," I answer. "I am." And I actually mean it.

"Took you long enough," he says, but there's no judgment in it, just brotherly acknowledgment.

"Are you good?" I retort.

"Not perfect. Just figured my shit out before you did."

"By like a month."

"Still counts."

I grab the dish towel, wiping down the counter. "When did we become actual adults? With girlfriends and family dinners and everything?"

"Speak for yourself. I'm still planning to run away and join the circus."

"The circus. You mean the NHL? What about Han?"

Sandy half shrugs. "I'll ask her to marry me eventually."

"Damn, dude. See, I know how to pick them."

Sandy laughs, shaking my shoulders. "I'll give you that."

We finish cleaning in comfortable silence, the banter settling into both familiar and new. The competitive edge that defined our relationship for so long has softened into something healthier — the kind of brotherhood I didn't know was possible between us.

When we join the girls in the living room, I find Saylor engaged in animated conversation with Hannah, their heads bent together over something on Hannah's phone. Mom watches from her armchair, a satisfied expression on her face that I recognize from childhood — her "my plan is working" look.

I settle next to Saylor on the couch, my arm naturally finding its place around her shoulders. She leans into me without breaking her conversation, the simple gesture makes me want her in every way. I kiss her shoulder. She leans her head on me as my mom talks with Hannah. Sandy defends himself against something my mom said as I watch in amusement.

I don't know how I got to this moment, but fuck…healing all the shitty parts of me was worth it.

As the evening winds down, as Saylor leans heavier against my side, drowsy from food and laughter, I realize something I never expected: I'm happy. Not the fleeting happiness of a good grade or being better than my brother, but something deeper and more substantial. Something built on honesty and growth and connections that matter. I'm grateful for every detour, every obstacle, every unexpected turn that led me here.

To this moment. To Saylor.

Someone worth fighting for. Worth changing for.

Someone that feels suspiciously like home.

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