Page 103 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

Just stressed about the game. It's a big one—scouts from three NHL teams will be there. Could make or break my chances.

The explanation is perfectly reasonable, rational even. Of course he's stressed about a game that important. Of course he needs to focus.

I understand,I assure him.I'll let you concentrate. Just know I'm here if you need anything.

Thanks, Hannah. See you Friday.

I slip my phone into my bag as the professor begins the lecture, pushing away the nagging sense of unease. Sanderson is busy with hockey, focused on a championship that could determine his future. It's not about me, not about us. And maybe it's good to have this little bit of space, this reminder that we're individuals with our own priorities and passions.

Still, as the week progresses, the feeling persists. Our texts remain sporadic, perfunctory. He's unfailingly polite, unfailingly kind, but there's a new distance in his communications, a guardedness that wasn't there before. When I suggest meeting for coffee between his practices on Thursday, he deflects again—another team meeting, another paper, another legitimate excuse that leaves me with the distinct impression he's avoiding me.

"Am I being paranoid?" I ask Lennox on Thursday night as we study in her room, notes spread across her floor in organized chaos.

"About what?" she asks, not looking up from her textbook.

"Sanderson. He's been…weird this week. Distant."

That gets her attention. She sets down her highlighter, fixing me with a serious look. "Distant how?"

"Just…not available. Which makes sense with the championship coming up, but––"

"But your anxiety brain is telling you he's ghosting you," she finishes for me.

"Maybe?" I sigh, flopping back against her bed. "Is that crazy?"

"Not crazy, but probably not accurate either," she says thoughtfully. "From what I've seen, that boy is stupid in love with you. One busy week isn't going to change that."

"He's not in love with me," I protest automatically, though the words send a flutter through my chest.

"Sure," she says dryly. "Keep telling yourself that. Look, he's an athlete before a championship game. They get weird, focused, tunnel vision. It's not personal."

"You're right," I agree.

"I'm definitely right," she corrects. "And tomorrow you'll see him play, looking all hot and athletic, and everything will be fine."

"Fine," I echo, not entirely convinced but willing to wait and see.

"Now, more importantly," she pulls something from under her bed, "what are you wearing tomorrow?"

She holds up a crop top in the team colors, cut low enough to be borderline indecent.

"Absolutely not," I say firmly. "It's still March. I'd freeze to death."

"Beauty is pain," she intones solemnly.

"Beauty is pneumonia, apparently," I counter. "I'll find something blue that covers my vital organs, thanks."

"Boring," she sighs, but she's smiling. "At least let me do your makeup."

"Deal," I agree, knowing this particular battle isn't worth fighting.

The rest of the night passes in comfortable study rhythm, interspersed with outfit planning for the game and speculation about how many goals Sanderson will score. By the time I return to my dorm, I've mostly convinced myself that everything is fine, that my worries are just the product of academic stress and emotional aftershocks from the intensity of our relationship's beginning.

Friday arrives with a buzz of anticipation that has nothing to do with classes and everything to do with the evening ahead. Despite my initial reluctance, I find myself genuinely excited to see Sanderson play, to witness this important part of his life.

I dig through my closet, finding a blue sweater that brings out my eyes and a white scarf with subtle silver threads running through it. Not exactly team spirit gear, but close enough to show support without sacrificing my dignity or warmth.

As promised, Lennox arrives at my dorm at five, makeup bag in hand like she's preparing for battle. "Sit," she commands, pointing to my desk chair. "This is going to take a while."

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