Page 14 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

I somehow make it through my lecture, though I couldn't tell you a single word that was said. The moment I'm back in my dorm room, I crumple to the floor, my back against the door, and the dam breaks. I sob into my hands, then crawl to my bed and bury my face in my pillow to muffle the sounds of my grief.

I don't leave my room for the rest of the day. I don't answer texts. I don't eat. I just lie in bed, replaying the look on Cade's face as he walked away, knowing I've lost him forever. And knowing, with a certainty that hollows me out, that I deserve every second of this pain.

Chapter 6

Four days. Four fucking days of nothing.

I toss my hockey helmet into my locker and slam the door. Practice was brutal today—Coach running us into the ground after our loss—but it's not the burning in my lungs or the ache in my muscles that's eating at me. It's the silence.

I check my phone for the hundredth time today. No messages from any unknown numbers. No sign of Hannah.

The days since that night have blurred together. Classes, practice, team meetings. I've been going through the motions, doing what I always do. Cleaned all my gear yesterday, had beers with the guys at Finnegan's on Tuesday, even managed to get most of my Econ paper done. On the surface, business as usual.

Except I can't stop checking my damn phone.

"Who you waiting on, a call from the NHL?" Cory jokes, slapping my shoulder as he passes.

"Your mom," I reply automatically, shoving the phone back in my pocket.

Lucy finally seems to have gotten the hint. After blowing up my phone for two straight days, she's gone quiet. Small mercies. I should be relieved, but instead, I find myself wondering if Hannah's done the same with Cade. If she went through with the breakup. If she told him why.

God, I hope not.

I keep picturing her face in the darkness of my brother's room, the way her body felt against mine, her strangled sobs as she realized what happened. I've hooked up with dozens of girls, but none of them stick in my brain like this. None of them leave this fucking itch I can't scratch.

Who are her friends? Where does she hang out between classes? Does she hit the library or one of those pretentious coffee shops Cade loves? Does she have a job? Study groups? I realize I know nothing about her except that she's my brother's girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?), she has the softest skin I've ever touched, and her taste still lingers on my tongue.

By day four, I can't take it anymore. The waiting, the wondering if she's ever going to reach out. I find myself driving to campus, to her dorm building, knowing it's a bad idea but unable to stop myself. I park my car and wait, feeling like a stalker but too far gone to care.

An hour passes. I'm about to give up when I spot her walking across the lot from the direction of the humanities building. My heart stutters in my chest.

She's wearing a loose cream sweater that falls off one shoulder, faded jeans that hug the curves I remember all too well, and ankle boots with a slight heel. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Even from this distance, I can see the dark circles under her eyes, the slight slump of her shoulders. She looks like she hasn't slept in days, and somehow it only makes her more beautiful.

I'm out of my truck before I can think better of it, striding toward her with purpose. She doesn't notice me at first, her eyes fixed on the ground, lost in thought. When she finally looks up and recognizes me, her face transforms—shock, then something that might be desire, instantly replaced by fury.

Her cheeks flush crimson as she glances around, clearly panicked that someone might see us together.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she hisses, her voice low but sharp.

"You didn't call," I say simply, stepping closer.

She backs away, clutching her books tighter to her chest. "Because I want nothing to do with you. Are you insane? Coming here in broad daylight where anyone could see us?"

I know she's lying. About wanting nothing to do with me, at least. I can see it in the way her pupils dilate, in the quick rise and fall of her chest. The same electricity that's been haunting me is crackling between us right now.

"Don't create a scene," I say, taking her elbow and steering her toward the shadow of the brick building.

She resists for a moment, then follows, her anger radiating off her in waves. The moment we're out of the main sightline, I back her against the wall, one hand braced beside her head, my body close enough to feel her heat but not quite touching.

"What do you want from me?" she demands, but her voice has lost some of its edge.

"I want to know if you told him," I say, though that's only part of the truth.

"Of course not." She stares up at me, defiant despite the tremor in her voice. "I broke up with him, just like we talked about. It's done."

"How'd he take it?"

Her eyes fill suddenly with tears, but she blinks them back fiercely. "How do you think? He's devastated. Confused. Angry."

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