Page 112 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

But I keep walking, one foot in front of the other, away from the party, away from Sanderson, away from the brief, beautiful fantasy that someone like him could truly see someone like me. That what we shared might be real, might be lasting, might be enough to overcome the vast differences in our worlds.

Behind me, I hear a muffled curse, the sound of his voice calling my name once more. I don't turn around. I can't. If I see his face again—that injured, beautiful face—I might falter. Might listen. Might believe whatever explanation he offers, because part of me desperately wants to.

And that's the most dangerous thing of all.

Chapter 30

I watch her disappear into the night, each step widening the chasm between us. Her shoulders shake with sobs she's trying to contain, and something inside me shatters. The pain in my face—the cut, the bruising, the dull throb behind my eyes—fades to background noise compared to this new, sharper ache.

"Fuck this," I mutter, pushing past Miller who's appeared at my side.

"Let her go, man," he advises, but his voice barely registers.

I'm already moving, long strides eating up the distance between us, my sole focus the retreating figure illuminated by intermittent streetlights. I don't run—running would attract attention, would make this even more of a spectacle than it already is—but I walk with purpose, with urgency, with the bone-deep certainty that I can't let her leave like this.

"Hannah!" I call, my voice rougher than intended. "Hannah, stop!"

She doesn't slow, doesn't turn, just wraps her arms tighter around herself as if physically holding herself together. The vulnerability in that simple gesture hits me harder than any high stick could. I did this. My silence, my distance, my failure to explain—I broke something precious, and now I might not get the chance to fix it.

"Hannah!" I try again, close enough now that she must hear me. "Please."

That one word—please—catches in my throat, unfamiliar and raw. I don't beg, don't plead, don't expose the softer parts of myself. Except with her. Always with her.

She stops abruptly but doesn't turn around. Her body is rigid, tension radiating from every line. I approach carefully, circling to face her, and the sight nearly knocks the wind from me.

Tears track through her makeup, black rivulets against pale skin. Her eyes—those expressive eyes that have looked at me with curiosity, with desire, with something I'd almost dare call affection—now shine with hurt and fury in equal measure. Her lower lip trembles despite her obvious attempt to control it.

"Just go back," she says, the words brittle as ice. "Go back to your party. To your friends. To that girl."

The alcohol on her breath mingles with the vanilla scent that's become so familiar to me. She's not drunk but she's had enough to amplify emotions already running dangerously high.

"I'm not going anywhere," I reply, keeping my voice low and steady. "Not until you hear me out."

"I've heard enough." She tries to move past me, but I step into her path. "Move, Sanderson."

"No." The word isn't harsh, just certain.

"I said move!" She shoves at my chest, the impact negligible against my larger frame but significant in its intent. "Go back inside to whatever her name is. She obviously knows you better than I do."

"That's not true." I catch her wrist gently as she pulls back for another ineffectual push. "You know me. The real me. That's what scares the hell out of me."

"Don't." She yanks her hand free. "Don't try to make this sound romantic or meaningful. I was an idiot to think any of this was real."

"It is real." I step closer, frustrated when she backs away. "Hannah, you have no idea how real this is for me."

"Then why?" The question explodes from her, raw and wounded. "Why ignore me all week? Why not answer my texts after you got hurt? Why act like I don't exist the moment your team wins?"

Each accusation lands like a body blow, and the worst part is that I have no defense because she's right. I did shut her out. I did leave her texts unanswered. I did fall back into old patterns the moment victory and alcohol loosened my grip on the careful walls I've built.

"I fucked up," I admit, the words inadequate but honest. "I handled everything wrong."

"You think?" Her laugh is hollow, nothing like the genuine sound I've come to crave. "I should have known better. This is who you are—the guy who gets what he wants and moves on. The player. The—"

"That's not who I am," I interrupt, heat rising in my voice despite my best efforts to stay calm. "Not anymore. Not with you."

"Save it for someone who hasn't seen you with your arms around another girl ten minutes after I walked in."

"My arms weren't—" I start to protest, then stop myself. The details don't matter when the effect is the same. "Come with me. Please. Let me explain properly."

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