Page 37 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"Or adventure," she counters, pulling back and rummaging through her bag. She emerges with a soft gray sweater that I recognize as one of her favorites. "Here. Put this on."

"Lennox—"

"I'll drive you there. If it's awful, text me and I'll come get you. No questions asked."

I take the sweater, fingering the soft material. "I can't believe you're encouraging this."

"One of us has to live a little." She grins, already pulling out her makeup bag. "Now sit down and let me work my magic."

Twenty minutes later, we're in her car, and I'm still not sure if I'm making a massive mistake. My hair falls in loose waves around my shoulders, my makeup is subtle but flattering, and Lennox's sweater fits me perfectly. I look good, but I am terrified.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," I say as we pull into the parking lot near the hockey rink. "He's a player, Lennox. Everyone knows that."

"You don't need anything too serious right now," she reminds me, putting the car in park. "Everything is always business for you, Hannah. School, grades, relationships—you treat them all like items on a checklist. Maybe it's time to do something just because it makes you feel good."

"It's my Capricorn energy," I joke weakly. "I can't help it."

She leans over and kisses my cheek. "Go have fun. I'll be at the Starbucks down the street. Text me if you need me."

I nod, taking a deep breath before stepping out of the car. The night air is cool against my skin as I walk across the parking lot, my stomach doing somersaults with each step.

I spot Sanderson standing near the entrance, his broad shoulders tense under his hoodie. He's staring at his phone, scrolling absently, but there's a rigidity to his posture that tells me he's not really seeing whatever's on the screen. He didn't think I'd come.

When he looks up and our eyes lock, the change in his expression is immediate. His gaze softens, the tension in his shoulders easing, and my stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the raw attraction I feel toward him.

I walk towards him, the pit in my stomach growing. Everything in my head is screaming to leave, that this is a terrible idea. I exhale slowly once I reach him.

"I didn't think you would show," he says, echoing my thoughts.

I shrug, trying to appear more nonchalant than I feel. "I felt bad. And I'm only here for the food."

"Okay," he says, opening the door for me. "Food's right this way."

I step inside, momentarily disoriented by the darkness. "Do you take all your dates to places this romantic?" I quip, following the dim outline of his figure.

"Only the special ones."

As my eyes adjust, I see he's led me to a small table set up near the rink, loaded with what appears to be enough food to feed the entire team. "Did you buy everything off the menu?"

"I thought you might be hungry after all that crying," he says.

I glance at him, surprised by his directness. "You have no filter, do you?"

He grabs a sandwich and offers me a bite. "You’ll get used to it. Want some?"

"I want my own, thank you very much." I step away, circling the table.

"Suit yourself."

I walk around the table, taking small bites of everything—a fry here, a nugget there, a sip of each drink. I can feel his eyes on me, a mixture of confusion and admiration in his gaze.

"What are you doing?" he finally asks.

"Figuring out what I want." I sample a piece of chicken, considering it thoughtfully.

He laughs, the sound echoing in the empty rink. "So, what's it going to be?"

"The kale salad." I grab it decisively, add some chicken, and take a bite. "So, refreshing."

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