Page 104 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

An hour later, I hardly recognize the woman in the mirror—smoky eyes, defined cheekbones, lips a shade darker and fuller than my natural color. "Is this really necessary for a hockey game?" I ask, though I can't deny she's done an impressive job.

"Trust me," she says, applying a final touch of setting spray. "The lighting in that arena is brutal."

Greta and Finley arrive soon after, both decked out in university colors, Greta with blue streaks in her blonde hair, Finley with the team logo painted on her cheek.

"I feel underdressed," I comment, taking in their enthusiasm.

"You look perfect," Finley assures me. "Classy fan, not crazed groupie."

"Though there's nothing wrong with crazed groupie," Lennox adds, applying another layer of lip gloss. "Alright, ladies. Time to pregame."

"Pregaming" turns out to be less debauched than I feared—just a single shot of vanilla vodka in Lennox's room, a toast to victory, and then we're walking across campus toward the athletic complex, joining the stream of students and locals heading for the arena.

I've passed the building countless times but never been inside. From the exterior, it's an imposing structure of glass and steel, modern and sleek against the traditional brick of the surrounding campus. Tonight, it's transformed—lights blazing from every window, a massive banner over the entrance proclaiming "CONFERENCE FINALS" in bold letters, people everywhere, dressed in team colors, voices raised in excited conversation.

"Wow," I breathe as we approach. "I didn't realize it was such a big deal."

"Hockey's huge here," Greta explains. "Perks of being so close to Canada."

We join the queue at the entrance, the excitement palpable as we inch forward. Inside, the atmosphere intensifies—the corridor packed with students and alumni, the air thick with anticipation and the smell of popcorn, hot dogs, and beer. The sounds of conversation, laughter, and distant music blend into a wall of noise that makes my head spin.

"This way!" Lennox shouts over the din, grabbing my hand to pull me through the crowd toward the student section entrance.

We emerge from the corridor into the arena proper, and I stop short, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer scale of it. The ice gleams under bright lights, pristine and perfect. Seats rise in steep tiers around the oval rink, already filling with spectators. On the far side, a pep band plays fight songs, their brass instruments adding to the cacophony. The scoreboard hangs from the center of the ceiling, massive screens displaying team logos and promotional videos.

It's not just the size or the noise that strikes me, but the feeling in the air—a collective excitement, an almost electric charge of shared anticipation. This is a place where moments matter, where memories are made, where ordinary students become heroes for a night.

And somewhere in the building, preparing for the biggest game of his college career, is Sanderson. My James. About to skate onto this impossibly bright stage with hundreds of eyes watching his every move.

No wonder he's been distant. No wonder he's been focused. This isn't just a game—it's his future, his dream, his chance to prove himself on a scale I can barely comprehend.

"Hannah?" Finley touches my arm, concern in her eyes. "You okay?"

I nod, finding my voice. "Yeah. Just…taking it all in."

"First hockey game is always overwhelming," she says sympathetically. "Come on, let's find our seats before the team comes out. You don't want to miss their entrance."

I follow her up the stairs to where Greta and Lennox have already claimed a row, right at the edge of the student section with a perfect view of the ice. As I settle in, I pull out my phone and type a quick message to Sanderson.

Just arrived. The arena is incredible. Good luck tonight. I believe in you.

That last part might’ve been too corny, but oh, well. I don't expect a response—he's surely in final preparations by now—but sending the words out into the universe feels important, a small connection between us across the distance of this enormous space.

I put my phone away and turn my attention to the ice, to the crowd, to this new experience that's about to unfold. Whatever's been going on with Sanderson this week, whatever's caused the distance between us, I'll face it after the game. For now, I'm here to support him, to witness this important game, to be part of something that clearly means the world to him.

The lights dim suddenly, and the crowd roars in anticipation. It's starting.

Chapter 28

The locker room vibrates with pre-game energy—tape ripping as guys secure shin pads, the metallic click of skate blades against concrete, Coach's voice cutting through the noise with last-minute strategy adjustments. Normally, I'd be right in the middle of it, joining the banter, getting into the zone with my pre-game playlist blasting through my headphones.

Today, I'm oddly detached, going through the motions by muscle memory alone. My mind keeps drifting to the stands, wondering if Hannah is out there yet, if she's wearing team colors, if she's thinking about me the way I can't stop thinking about her.

"Connolly." Coach's hand lands on my shoulder, startling me back to the present. "You with us?"

"Yes, Coach," I say automatically.

He studies me, eyes narrowed. "I need your head in the game. Northeastern State has the best defensive line in the conference. You'll need to be smarter than them, not just faster."

---