Page 111 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

Before he can answer, she continues, her voice carrying just enough to reach the teammates clustered nearby. "Though I guess tonight's special. The boys always celebrate wins in their own ways. Don't we, Sandy?" She raises an eyebrow, her meaning unmistakably sexual despite the innocent lilt in her voice.

Something cold slides down my spine at her words, at the knowing looks exchanged among the players. The vodka churns in my stomach, suddenly nauseating instead of comforting.

"Hannah—" Sanderson starts, but it's too late.

The careful walls I've built—the rational explanations for his distance, the benefit of the doubt I've been giving him all week—crumble in an instant. This isn't about hockey focus or pre-game nerves. This is about who he really is, who he's always been. And it's not the man he presented, not the man I thought I knew.

I turn and push through the crowd, tears burning behind my eyes, threatening to spill over. The music is too loud, the bodies too close, the air too thick with heat and perfume and spilled beer. I need out, now, before the first tear falls.

"Hannah!" Sanderson's voice carries over the noise, urgent now. "Stop!"

But I'm already moving, faster than I thought possible in the packed space. Past the kitchen, past where Rodriguez watches with concern, past Lennox who reaches for me as I hurry by. Out the front door, down the porch steps, into the cool night air that shocks my overheated skin.

The first tear falls as I reach the sidewalk, followed quickly by a second, then a flood I can't control. I walk faster, not even sure where I'm heading, just needing distance from the house, from the party, from him.

"Hannah, stop!" His voice again, closer now. He's followed me out, of course he has.

I don't turn around, don't slow my pace. My arms wrap around myself, a futile shield against the evening chill and the pain blooming in my chest.

Footsteps pound on the pavement behind me, gaining quickly. "God damn it, Hannah, will you just wait?"

His hand catches my elbow, gentle despite the urgency in his voice. I stop then, but only because running would make me look even more pathetic.

"What?" I demand, turning to face him, not bothering to hide the tears streaming down my face. "What could you possibly have to say?"

Sanderson stands before me, breath coming fast, his injured face stark in the yellowish glow of the streetlamp. The confident hockey player from moments ago is gone, replaced by someone who looks almost as lost as I feel.

"It's not what you think," he says, the words falling flat between us.

"Isn't it?" My voice breaks, betraying me. "Because what I think is that I've been fooling myself. Thinking I knew you. Thinking I mattered."

"You do matter," he insists, stepping closer. "That girl in there—"

"It's not about her," I interrupt, though in part, it is. "It's about you. Who you are when you're not with me. Who you've always been."

He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I've seen a hundred times, now made strange by the context. "You knew who I was when we met."

"Did I?" The question is genuine despite the bite in my tone. "Because I thought I was getting to know the real you. James, not Sanderson or Sandy or whoever that guy back there is. But maybe this—" I gesture toward the house, the party, the life he leads when I'm not there "—maybe this is the real you. And I was just…what? A challenge? Something new? Oh, I know––your brother’s ex-girlfriend who you had to swoop in to save?"

"Are you serious, Han? It's not like that," he says, and for the first time since I've known him, he won't meet my eyes.

"Then what is it like?" I demand, my voice rising despite my best efforts. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you got exactly what you wanted, and now you're back to your real life, your real friends, your—"

"Stop," he cuts in, a flash of anger surfacing. "You have no idea what this week has been like for me."

"Because you won't talk to me!" The words explode from me, weeks of uncertainty finally finding voice. "You shut me out. You were distant. You made me think it was about hockey, but it was this, wasn’t it. It was always this." I point to the party, pointing at the version of him I don’t like.

He takes a step toward me, hands reaching, but I back away. The hurt that flashes across his face might have moved me once, but now it just adds to the confusion swirling inside me.

"Hannah," he says, his voice lower now, urgent. "Just let me explain."

But what is there to explain? That he has a life I know nothing about? That the world he inhabits when I'm not there is so different from the one we've created together? That perhaps I've been naive, believing I could be enough for someone like him?

"I can't do this," I say, the fight draining out of me, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

I turn to leave, expecting him to follow, to argue, to persuade. But he doesn't. When I glance back, he's still standing under the streetlamp, shoulders slumped, watching me go with an expression I can't begin to decipher.

The tears come harder now as I walk away, blurring the familiar campus landmarks into smears of light and shadow. Four shots of vodka on an empty stomach was a mistake, I realize belatedly. The world tilts slightly with each step, grief and alcohol combining into a potent disorientation.

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