Page 15 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

I feel a stab of guilt, quickly followed by relief. "But he doesn't know about us?"

"There is no 'us,'" she snaps.

I lean in closer, driven by an impulse I can't control. "Isn't there?"

Her breath catches as I press my knee between her legs, just enough pressure to remind her of that night. I shouldn't be doing this. I know I shouldn't. This is my brother's girlfriend. This whole situation is fucked up beyond belief. But I can't stop myself, can't fight the pull she has on me.

"Stop," she whispers, but her body betrays her. She doesn't push me away. Doesn't try to leave.

The tension between us is a living thing, heavy and insistent. I can see the conflict in her eyes—the same war I've been fighting with myself for four days. Desire versus guilt. Attraction versus loyalty. Wrong versus inevitable.

"Tell me you haven't thought about it," I challenge, my voice rough. "Tell me you haven't replayed that night in your head."

Her eyes flash. "Of course I have. It was the biggest mistake of my life."

"Was it?" I move my leg slightly, and her eyelids flutter.

"We can't do this," she says, but there's less conviction now. "Your brother—"

"Already lost you," I finish. "Because of a mistake we both made. A mistake that felt right in every way except who we are to each other."

A war rages behind her eyes, and for a moment I think she might give in. Might admit what I already know—that whatever happened between us that night wasn't just physical. That there's something here, something neither of us expected or wanted, but something we can't ignore.

Instead, she places her palms flat against my chest and pushes. Not hard, but firm. Decisive.

"I can't," she says, her voice stronger now. "I won't do this to him. Or to myself."

I step back, giving her space, fighting the urge to pull her into me. "Hannah—"

"No." She shakes her head, adjusting her sweater where it's slipped further down her shoulder. "This isn't happening. Not now, not ever. What happened was a mistake, and we both need to forget it."

She sidesteps me, moving back toward the main walkway. I don't try to stop her, though every instinct screams at me to.

"You know where to find me if you change your mind," I call after her, hating the desperation in my voice but unable to keep it contained.

She doesn't look back, doesn't acknowledge my words. Just walks away, her spine straight, her steps determined. But I notice the slight tremor in her hands as she pushes open the door.

I watch her disappear through those doors, and something snaps inside me. A familiar rush of adrenaline floods my system—the same feeling I get right before dropping gloves on the ice. I need to hit something. Hard.

Practice the next day is exactly what I need. I'm playing right wing, my usual position, but today I'm skating like I've got something to prove. Coach notices, eyes tracking me as I blow past our second line defense during scrimmage.

"Jesus Christ, Sanders," Miller, our starting defenseman, pants after I knock him on his ass for the third time. "Finally giving me some competition."

I don't respond, just circle back for another drill. My stick handling is sharp, precise. Every pass connects. Every shot hits its mark. I'm playing out of my mind, channeling whatever this is—frustration, anger, desire—into pure aggression on the ice.

Coach blows the whistle, waving us in. "Looking good out there, Connolly," he says, the rare compliment catching everyone's attention. "Whatever's lit a fire under your ass, keep it burning for Friday."

Friday. Conference semifinals against Northeastern. If Hannah won't talk to me, at least I can destroy someone on the ice.

After showering, a group of us head to Murphy's, the steakhouse just off campus where we always go before big games. It's tradition—the kind of superstitious bullshit that hockey players live by. Even with the semester workload and a fucking hurricane of personal drama, some things don't change.

"Yo, pass the bread," Cory says, reaching across the table.

Miller slides the basket over. "Coach was right. You were playing like a man possessed today, Sand."

I shrug, tearing a dinner roll in half. "Just focused."

"Focused on murdering Miller, maybe," Rodriguez jokes from the end of the table. "Those hits were savage, bro."

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