Page 108 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"In a minute," I say, needing time to compose myself, to find an expression that won't betray my selfish disappointment at not being on the ice for the victory.

Left alone, I stare at the blank wall across from me, the physical pain in my face throbbing. I wanted this game to be perfect—not just for the scouts or the championship, but for Hannah. I wanted her to see me at my best, to be proud of me, to understand this part of my life that's defined me for so long.

Instead, I crashed and burned, distracted by Cade's mind games, undisciplined, ultimately sidelined with a bloodied face and wounded pride.

The worst part is, I don't even know if Hannah stayed to the end or left when I was injured. I don't know what she thought of the game, of my performance, of the violent nature of the sport I've dedicated my life to. I don't know if seeing me carried off the ice frightened her or disgusted her or made her question what she's getting into with someone like me.

Normally, physical pain is a balm for emotional turmoil—the ache of muscles, the sting of cuts, the tangible sensations that crowd out more complicated feelings. But tonight, even with half my face throbbing, I can't escape the nagging voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Cade:You don't deserve her. You never did.

The door opens, startling me from my thoughts. Miller stands there, still in his gear, face flushed with exertion and victory.

"There's our warrior," he says with a grin. "You coming to celebrate, or what?"

I force a smile, wincing at the pull on my injured cheek. "Wouldn't miss it."

As I follow him to the locker room, to the waiting champagne and championship hats, to the teammates who finished the job I couldn't, I push aside the doubt and self-recrimination. There will be time for that later, time to sort through the mess of feelings about Cade, about Hannah, about my future.

For now, I'll play the part expected of me—the tough hockey player who took one for the team, who celebrates their victory as if it's his own, who doesn't let personal drama interfere with professional achievement.

Even if that feels like the biggest lie of all.

Chapter 29

The victory buzzes through campus like electricity, charging the air with a collective euphoria that's impossible to resist. Even me, who has never watched a hockey game before tonight, find myself swept up in the celebration, whooping and high-fiving strangers in team colors. Conference champions. Our team. Our school.

"There’s a party!" Greta announces as we file out of the arena with the crowd, her face flushed with excitement beneath her blue-streaked hair. "I just got texted the address. We have to go."

I hesitate, scanning the mass of bodies exiting around us. Somewhere in this building is Sanderson, likely in the locker room or still with medical staff. The image of him being helped off the ice, blood streaming down his face, replays in my mind for the hundredth time tonight.

"I should really check on Sanderson first," I say, pulling out my phone. My third unanswered text glows on the screen.

Are you okay? Please let me know you're alright.

"He'll probably be at the party," Lennox chimes in, linking her arm through mine.

"And besides," Finley adds, "they're probably still doing medical things. Or team things. Hockey things." She waves her hand vaguely. "You know."

I don't know, and that's the problem. This world of sports rituals and team dynamics is foreign territory to me. For all I understand, they could be painting themselves with the blood of their enemies or performing elaborate victory dances around their skates.

"Okay," I say, knowing I'm outnumbered. "But I'm not staying long."

An hour later, we approach a sprawling off-campus house already vibrating with bass that thrums through the sidewalk beneath our feet. Blue and white streamers flutter from the porch railing. A crude sign declaring "CHAMPIONS LIVE HERE" hangs crookedly above the door.

The vanilla vodka from our pre-game ritual still lingers warmly in my veins, not enough for intoxication but enough to soften the edges of my anxiety. Even so, I hang back as we reach the porch steps.

"I’m not sure this is a good idea?" I say, hesitating at the bottom. I don’t go to these things.

"Too late to back out now," Greta grins, guiding me forward with a hand between my shoulder blades. "Besides, we deserve to celebrate too. We sat through three periods of hockey!"

"Such sacrifice," Finley teases.

Inside, the house is a kaleidoscope of movement and sound. Bodies press together in the dim living room, dancing to music that feels more like a physical presence than an audible one. The sweet-sour scent of spilled beer mingles with perfume and sweat. Conversations overlap into incoherence, punctuated by bursts of laughter and occasional cheers.

How long has this party been going on for?

Lennox navigates the crowd with practiced ease, leading us toward the kitchen where an impromptu bar has been established on a folding table. Rodriguez, one of Sanderson’s teammates, mans the station, pouring drinks with the concentration of a mad scientist.

"Ladies!" he exclaims when he spots us. "What are you drinking?"

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