Page 113 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"There's nothing to explain." She wipes angrily at her tears, smearing mascara further across her cheek. "You're Sanderson Connolly. The hockey player. The puck boy. Everyone warned me, and I thought I was special enough to be different. That's on me."

"You are different." I move closer again, relieved when she doesn't retreat this time. "Hannah, everything about you, about us, is different. Tonight doesn't change that."

"Tonight just showed me the truth," she counters, but I hear the smallest waver in her conviction.

"No, tonight showed you a fraction of a picture that makes no sense without context." I reach for her hand, and when she doesn't pull away, I take it as a victory. "Let me drive you home. We can talk in the car. After that, if you still want nothing to do with me, I'll respect that."

She hesitates, weighing options behind those tear-reddened eyes.

"Please," I add, the word still uncomfortable but necessary. "It's cold, you've been drinking, and I don't want you walking home alone like this."

"I'm perfectly capable of walking back to my dorm," she says, but the fight is draining from her voice.

"I know you are. But I'd feel better if you didn't have to."

She studies me for a long moment, as if searching for any sign of insincerity. Finally, she sighs. "Fine. But only because I don't want you following me all the way back like some lost puppy."

A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Even hurt and angry, she hasn't lost the sharp edge that first caught my attention. "My car's back by the house."

She tenses visibly. "I'll wait here."

"I'll be quick," I promise, already turning to jog back toward the party.

Inside, the celebration continues unabated, music throbbing through the floorboards, bodies packed together in the dim light. I push through the crowd toward the kitchen where I left my keys, ignoring the occasional pat on the back, the offers of drinks, the curious glances.

Rodriguez intercepts me at the doorway. "Everything cool, man?"

"No," I say honestly. "But it will be."

He nods, understanding without needing details. That's the thing about true teammates—they have your back without requiring explanations. "Need anything?"

"Just my keys," I reply, spotting them on the counter.

As I turn to leave, Lucy appears, drink in hand, eyes scanning me with practiced interest. "Leaving so soon, champ? The party's just getting started."

"I've got somewhere to be," I say, already moving past her.

"With your brother’s ex?" Her smile is knowing, almost predatory. "The one you slept with?"

Something in her tone—dismissive, condescending—raises my hackles. "Her name is Hannah," I correct, the words sharper than intended. "And yeah, I'm going after her because she matters to me."

I don't wait for her response, just push through the crowd toward the door, keys clutched tight in my hand. The cool night air is a relief after the stuffy heat of the party, clearing my head for what comes next.

Hannah is still waiting where I left her, arms wrapped around herself against the chill. She looks smaller, more vulnerable, the anger temporarily eclipsed by exhaustion. My chest tightens at the sight.

I pull up beside her, leaning across to open the passenger door. She slides in without a word, keeping her body angled away from me, gaze fixed firmly on the window.

I don't immediately put the car in drive. Instead, I turn to face her, needing to establish at least one thing before we go anywhere. "I would never cheat on you, Hannah. I need you to know that."

She doesn't look at me. "Are we even together enough for that to be possible?"

The question hits harder than I expected. "What?"

"We never defined anything," she says, still staring out the window. "I don't know what we are. What I am to you."

"You're everything," I say simply, the words escaping before I can filter them. "And that terrifies me."

Now she does turn, surprise momentarily replacing hurt in her expression. "What?"

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