Page 33 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

I don't look back. His opinion means fuck-all to me right now. The only thing I care about is whether Hannah's going to show up tomorrow night.

Morning practice is brutal. Coach has us running suicide drills until half the team is puking in the trash cans. Not literally but still, I can envision it. My legs burn, my lungs are on fire, but the physical pain is almost a relief compared to the clusterfuck in my head.

"Connolly!" Coach barks. "Your head in this, or am I wasting my breath?"

"I'm good, Coach," I call back, snapping to attention.

"Show me. First line, set up for the power play."

I take my position on the right wing, focusing on the drill rather than the shitstorm that is my personal life right now. For the next hour, there's only hockey—the scrape of skates on ice, the snap of passes from tape to tape, the satisfying thunk of pucks hitting the back of the net.

In the locker room afterward, the usual bullshit starts up.

"Dude, Whitney is killing me," Miller groans, unlacing his skates. "One minute she's all over me, the next she's acting like I don't exist."

"Tell her to make up her fucking mind," Rodriguez suggests, toweling off his hair. "You're not a fucking yo-yo."

"It's not that simple," Miller sighs. "She's got this whole thing about me not being 'emotionally available' or some shit."

"Are you?" I ask, pulling my practice jersey over my head.

Miller looks at me like I just suggested he try figure skating. "What does that even mean?"

"It means do you actually give a fuck about her as a person, or just as someone to bang?" I shrug. "Girls can tell the difference, man."

The locker room goes quiet for a beat, then erupts in laughter.

"Listen to Sandy giving relationship advice!" Cory howls. "That's like getting sobriety tips from a frat boy!"

"Wasn’t it you who was just fighting with that chick, Lucy, over the phone about the same fucking thing?" Rodriguez says.

"He's not wrong though," Peterson, our goalie, pipes up. "My girl was the same way until I started actually listening to her talk about her day and shit."

"So, what, I'm supposed to care about her yoga class and her roommate drama?" Miller asks, genuinely confused.

"If you want to keep hitting that, yeah," I tell him. "That's the price of admission."

"Since when are you the relationship guru?" Rodriguez asks. "Last I checked, your longest relationship was with that chick from Tri Delt, and that lasted what, a weekend?"

"Three days," Cory corrects. "Thursday to Sunday. A Connolly record."

They're not wrong. My reputation is well-earned. I've never been one to stick around, never seen the point. Why tie yourself down when there's always another girl at the next party, the next bar, the next away game?

But Hannah isn't just another girl. And that's the thought that keeps circling in my brain as I shower and head back to my apartment.

By seven-thirty, I'm dressed in my best dark jeans and a button-up that actually fits right, not the oversized shit I usually throw on. I even put on a decent hat—backwards, of course, but still. I'm making a fucking effort here.

It's only when I grab my keys that I realize I didn't give Hannah a place to meet, just a time. And I don't have her number. Fuck.

I could probably find her on Instagram or something, but that feels like a cop-out. If she's going to reject me, I want to hear it from her, see it in her eyes. At least then I'll know where I stand.

The drive to her dorm is a blur of second-guessing. What if she's not there? What if she is, but won't answer? What if she laughs in my face for thinking she'd actually consider this?

I've never been nervous about a girl before. Never cared enough to be. It's a new sensation, and I'm not sure I like it.

I knock on her door, holding my breath. I hope I didn’t too much cologne.

When she opens it, I feel like I've been checked into the boards. She's in workout clothes—tight leggings and a sports bra that shows off her flat stomach and the perfect curve of her breasts. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, face free of makeup, and somehow she looks better than any dressed-up girl I've ever taken out.

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