Page 110 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"Girls who go after hockey players," she explains. "Like groupies, but specifically for hockey."

I watch as the girl touches Sanderson’s face now, fingertips hovering just above the cut on his cheekbone. The intimacy of the gesture makes something cold settle in my chest. He doesn't belong to me, I remind myself. We've never defined what we are to each other.

"I need another drink," I announce, turning away from the scene.

Back in the kitchen, I find Rodriguez still at his post. "Two more," I say, holding up two fingers before I can reconsider.

He raises an eyebrow but complies, pouring vodka into fresh cups. I down one immediately, then take the second, moving toward a relatively quiet corner of the kitchen.

The alcohol burns less now, my body already adjusting to its presence. The warmth spreads faster, dulling the sharp edges of my emotions. I'm not a drinker typically—a glass of wine with dinner, maybe, or the occasional cocktail at a birthday celebration. But tonight, the vodka feels like armor against the confusing scene unfolding in the other room.

Sanderson in his element.

That's what this is, I realize. Not the vulnerable man who whispered his real name against my skin. This is the hockey player, the teammate, the guy whose reputation Lennox warned me about before I even knew him. Before I let myself fall.

I finish the second shot, the room shifting pleasantly around the edges. Not drunk, but definitely not sober. Somewhere in between, where everything feels slightly less real, slightly less important.

When I return to the living room, Sanderson is still surrounded—teammates, admirers, the girls with their perfect hair and knowing smiles. One of them says something that makes the group laugh, her shoulder casually bumping on his shoulder. I can't hear the words over the music, but the familiarity in her posture speaks volumes.

And then, as if sensing my presence, he looks up.

Our eyes lock across the crowded room, and everything stops. The music fades to background noise, the people between us blur into insignificance. For a moment, we are the only two people in this crowded house, connected by an invisible thread that pulls taut between us.

I see the exact moment he realizes it’s me. His expression shifts, the easy smile faltering, something complicated flashing in his eyes. Surprise, certainly. Guilt, maybe. Relief, possibly. Too many emotions to decipher in that brief moment.

I start moving toward him without conscious decision, my feet carrying me forward through the press of bodies. The girl beside him is still talking, unaware that she's lost his attention. His gaze remains fixed on me, steady and unreadable as I approach.

When I reach the edge of their circle, the conversation falters, heads turning to register my presence. The girl with her hand on his shoulder gives me a quick once-over, her smile never wavering though something assessing enters her eyes.

"Sanderson," I say, the name emerging softer than I intended.

"Hannah," he responds, and something in his tone makes my heart twist. Not cold, exactly, but carefully neutral. Controlled in a way he's never been with me before. "You’re here?"

"I was at the game," I say, suddenly hyperaware of the many eyes watching this exchange. "I saw you got hit."

"Just a scratch," he shrugs, gesturing to his face. "Had worse."

The nonchalance in his tone feels jarring after the intimacy we've shared. This is the version of him I imagine he presents to everyone else—slightly detached, casually confident, unbothered by things as trivial as facial injuries or worried girlfriends.

Girlfriend? The word surfaces unexpectedly in my thoughts. Is that what I am? We've never said as much.

The uncomfortable silence stretches a beat too long before I break it. "What's going on here?" I ask, gesturing vaguely to the scene around us.

He takes a swig of his beer, his movements loose and relaxed in a way that tells me it's not his first. "Celebrating the win," he says simply. "Conference champs."

One of his teammates—Miller, I think—raises his cup in agreement. "Damn right we are!"

The group cheers, the momentary awkwardness forgotten by everyone except me. I'm acutely conscious of the beautiful girl still standing close to Sanderson, her shoulder nearly touching his. She's watching me with undisguised curiosity now, something knowing in her expression.

"You must be Cade’s ex," she says, her voice sugar-sweet but her eyes calculating. "I've heard about you."

Heat rises to my cheeks. Cade’s ex. Not Sanderson’s girlfriend, not even Hannah. Just a whore like Cade said, a whore who slept with his brother.

"It's Hannah," I say, aiming for dignity despite the alcohol making my thoughts slightly fuzzy. "And you are?"

"An old friend," she replies, her smile sharpening. "We go way back, don't we, Sandy?"

Sandy. The nickname feels oddly intimate coming from her lips, more intimate somehow than James, which he claims he shares only with his mother and me.

---