Page 109 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"Shots!" Greta declares before any of us can answer. "We're celebrating tonight!"

Rodriguez grins, lining up plastic cups and filling them with clear liquid. "The Wolves salute you," he says with a mock bow, passing them over.

I accept mine reluctantly, the sharp scent of cheap vodka making my nose wrinkle. The girls raise their cups in unison.

"To winning!" Finley cheers.

"To hot hockey players!" Lennox adds with a wink in my direction.

We touch cups and drink. The alcohol burns a path down my throat, settling like embers in my stomach. I suppress a cough, setting the empty cup on the counter with perhaps too much force.

"Seen Connolly?" I ask Rodriguez casually, trying to keep the desperation from my voice.

His expression shifts, subtle but noticeable. "Which one?"

The question throws me momentarily. Then heat flashes to my fingertips. What an asshole. "Sanderson."

"Medical's probably still checking him out," he says, glancing toward a hallway. "That high stick was nasty. But he'll be here. No way he'd miss this."

I nod, relief washing through me. At least someone has seen him, knows he's coming. The knot of worry in my chest loosens slightly. But I don’t think I like this…Rodriguez guy.

"Another round while you wait?" Rodriguez offers, already reaching for the bottle.

Before I can decline, Greta hands me another shot. "Loosen up, Hannah. You look like you're at a funeral, not a party."

I take the cup, forcing a smile. One more won't hurt, and maybe it will calm the restless energy that's been building since I watched Sanderson crumple to the ice, since I lost sight of him in the chaos that followed.

The second shot goes down easier than the first. Lennox grabs my hand, pulling me toward the living room where furniture has been pushed aside to create a dance floor.

"Come on," she shouts over the music. "Standing around won't make him appear faster!"

She's right. Worrying won't conjure Sanderson out of thin air. I let her lead me into the throng of dancers, the four of us forming a protective circle against the crush of bodies. The music pulses, a physical force that makes thinking impossible. For a few minutes, I surrender to it, moving without thought, letting the rhythm wash away the anxiety that's been my constant companion.

The alcohol hums pleasantly in my veins, not enough to impair but enough to blur the sharp edges of my concerns. I lose track of time, song blending into song, until Greta grabs my arm mid-dance, her fingers digging into my skin.

"He's here," she says directly into my ear.

My heart stutters, then races. I follow her gaze across the room to where a group of guys have just entered, greeted by cheers and raised cups. The team, still flushed with victory, creates a gravitational force that draws attention from every corner of the party.

And there, in the center of it all, is Sanderson.

The sight of him stops the air in my lungs. His face bears the evidence of the game—an angry red line cuts across his left cheekbone, already darkening to purple around the edges. His eye is swollen, though not completely shut. Someone has handed him a beer, which he sips while laughing at something Miller says beside him.

He looks different here, I realize with a strange lurch in my stomach. Removed from the soft intimacy of my dorm room or the quiet focus of the library, he exists in this space with a confidence that borders on arrogance. His stance is wider, his smile sharper. He's louder, more animated, high on victory and surrounded by his tribe.

I don't know this Sanderson. This is the player I've heard rumors about, the campus athlete with the reputation that precedes him. The guy who, according to Lennox's frequent commentary, "gets around."

As I watch, a cluster of girls approaches the team, squealing congratulations. They're beautiful in that effortless way that seems to come naturally to some women—glossy hair, perfect makeup, bodies displayed in outfits designed to draw attention. One of them touches his arm, leaning close to examine his injured face with exaggerated concern. He says something in response that makes her laugh, her hand lingering on his bicep.

My stomach twists uncomfortably. Sanderson doesn't move away from her touch. If anything, he leans closer, head tilted down to hear her over the music. They look good together, I think with a peculiar detachment. Like they belong in the same world, understand the same unspoken language.

"Hey." Lennox appears at my elbow, following my gaze. "That’s nothing."

I nod automatically, though the lie is obvious. It’s definitely something. Lennox studies me for a moment, then sighs.

"This is his scene," she says, not unkindly. "Always has been. The hockey guys, the puck bunnies, the parties."

"Puck bunnies?" I repeat, the term unfamiliar.

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