Page 102 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"Fine," I smile, knowing resistance is futile. "But I'm not doing body shots or whatever barbaric ritual you're planning."

"Body shots? You need to get out more," Lennox grins. "Now, are you going to see him before the game? Offer some, ah, stress relief?"

I check my phone out of habit, but there are no new messages from him. We've both been busy—me with end-of-semester projects, him with extra practices for the championship—so our communication has been sporadic this week. Still, a small part of me notes that it's been different, less frequent than the constant texts we were exchanging just days ago.

"I don't know," I say honestly. "He's been pretty focused on hockey this week. Conference finals are apparently a big deal."

"They are," Greta confirms. "Scouts come to those games. It could affect his future."

"Exactly," I nod. "So, I'm giving him space to focus."

"Very mature," Finley approves. "Just make sure you wear something hot to the game. Give him extra motivation."

"I'm pretty sure his scholarship is motivation enough," I say dryly.

"Trust me," Lennox says with authority, "nothing motivates a guy like knowing his girl is watching and looking fine as hell."

"His girl," I repeat, testing how the words feel. Not bad, actually. Not bad at all.

The conversation shifts to Finley’s boy problems, finals and summer plans, but my mind keeps drifting back to Sanderson. It's been three days since I've seen him, the longest we've gone without contact since our relationship began. I miss him with an intensity that surprises me—his smile, his laugh, the way he makes me feel both safe and exhilarated at the same time.

After lunch, I walk to my afternoon class alone, the early spring sunshine warming my shoulders. On impulse, I pull out my phone and text him.

Lunch with the girls. They're coming to your game Friday. No pressure, but now I have witnesses if you lose.

His response comes faster than I expected.

Tell them to bring signs. Preferably embarrassing ones with your face on them.

I smile, imagining his reaction to that particular horror.

Don't tempt Lennox. She's already talking about "pregaming."

Great. Just what I need—drunk girls screaming my name while I'm trying to focus.

I'll keep them in line. Mostly. Miss you.

There's a pause before his next message, longer than his usual quick replies:

Miss you too. Sorry I've been MIA. Coach has us on double practices.

No worries. Want to grab dinner tonight? I could bring food to you.

Another pause, this one stretching long enough that I reach my classroom before the response comes.

Can't tonight. Film review and team meeting. Rain check?

A small pang of disappointment hits, sharper than it should be for such a reasonable excuse. We're both busy, after all. It's end of semester crunch time, plus his championship game. It makes perfect sense that he can't drop everything for dinner.

So why does it feel like something's off?

No problem,I type back.Tomorrow?

Probably not. We have morning and afternoon meetings, plus I have a paper due.

Now the feeling intensifies—a slight but persistent sense that he's pulling away, creating distance where there was none before.

Everything okay?I ask, unable to keep the concern from bleeding into the message.

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