Page 100 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

Won’t be seeing much of me until then. Just focused on hockey this week. Big game.

I understand. Good luck with practice. Call me after?

Will do.

I put my phone away, ignoring the disappointed looks from my teammates.

"What?" I demand.

"Nothing," Cory says, raising his hands in surrender. "Just thought everything was going good, Sandy."

I correct him automatically. "I've got other things on my mind right now."

"Like beating Northeastern on Friday," Peterson says, clapping me on the shoulder. "Right priorities, man."

"Exactly," I agree, though hockey is only part of what's occupying my thoughts.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of classes and film review, my focus narrower than usual, centered on the immediate tasks at hand rather than the larger questions looming. I don't call Hannah that night, telling myself I need to focus, that a little distance is prudent after the intensity of recent days.

The truth, which I admit only in the darkness of my bedroom, staring at the ceiling where constellations of glow-in-the-dark stars have lingered since freshman year, is that I'm scared. Not of Cade, not even of hurting Hannah, though that fear is certainly present.

I'm scared of how much I care. Of how quickly she's become essential. Of how easily it could all fall apart.

Because what does that say of me?

It means I’m weak.

Chapter 27

"So, you're telling me you've never seen him play?" Lennox stares at me across our usual table in the dining hall, her fork suspended halfway to her mouth. "Not even once?"

I shrug, picking at my salad. "I'm not really a sports person."

"It's not about sports," Greta interjects, leaning forward with the intensity she usually reserves for discussing workout routines. "It's about watching your boyfriend in his element. Being supportive."

"He's not my—" I start automatically, then catch myself. "I mean, we haven't exactly defined things."

"Defined things?" Finley rolls her eyes. "Hannah, you have been like magnets. He spent the night at your dorm. What's left to define?"

The memory of that night makes me shiver—my dorm then his bedroom the next night, the way he looked at me like I was something precious. We haven't put labels on whatever is growing between us, but it's undeniably significant, undeniably real.

"Fine," I mutter. "I should see him play. But isn’t hockey so…violent."

"That's the best part," Lennox says with a grin that borders on feral. "All those big guys slamming into each other, fighting for dominance."

"You make it sound like National Geographic," I laugh.

"Nature documentary or not, we're all going," Greta declares, pulling out her phone. "When's the game?"

"Friday," I say. "It's the conference finals, apparently. James says it's a big deal."

"James?" Finley questions, eyebrows raised.

I feel heat rise to my cheeks. "That's his name. His real name."

"Not Sanderson? Not Sandy?" Lennox teases. "My my, you have reached the inner circle, girlfriend."

"Stop," I shriek, but there's no heat in it. The truth is, I like knowing this small, intimate detail that few others do. I like the way his eyes soften when I use his name, the way it feels like a secret shared between us.

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