Page 64 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"Sibling rivalry?" I ask.

"Something like that," he says. "Though it wasn't always that way. We were best friends when we were little."

"You’re not anymore?" I ask, the thought making me sad. I always fantasized about having a sibling, knowing they’d be a built-in best friend. But I guess that’s not always true.

He shrugs, but I sense there's more to it than he's letting on. "Life, I guess. Our parents split when I was fourteen. Dad pushed me harder in hockey because I showed more potential. Cade resented it."

"That sounds hard," I say softly.

"It was what it was." He changes the subject smoothly. "What about you? Any siblings?"

"Just me," I say. "Though I always wanted a sister."

"Trust me, siblings are overrated."

I smile but make a mental note of how quickly he deflected from the topic of Cade. There's clearly more to their relationship than simple rivalry.

After dinner, we take the long way back to campus, the radio playing softly in the background. I'm not ready for the night to end, which is a dangerous feeling.

"Thank you for tonight," I say as we approach my dorm. "It was really…special."

"Special enough for a nine?" he asks hopefully.

I laugh. "I'll give you an eight point seven."

"Damn," he says, pulling into a parking space. "I'll take it, but you're a tough cookie."

"Progress is progress though," I smile.

He walks me to the door, maintaining a respectful distance that both disappoints and relieves me. I'm not sure I'm ready for what comes next, for the complications that a physical relationship would bring.

"So," he says, stopping at the entrance, "any chance I can convince you to go for a hat trick?"

"A what?"

"Sorry, hockey term. Another extended social interaction," he corrects himself with a grin.

I should say no. I should tell him this has been fun but it's too complicated, too risky. I should walk away now, before I'm in too deep.

"Yes," I hear myself say instead. "I'd like that."

His smile is worth the moment of panic that follows my answer. "Great. I'll text you."

"You always do," I tease.

He laughs. "Goodnight, Hannah."

"Goodnight, Sanderson."

For a moment, I think he might kiss me. Part of me wants him to. But he simply squeezes my hand once, then steps back.

"Sweet dreams," he says softly, and then he's walking back to his car.

I watch him go, feeling both disappointed and relieved. The night was perfect as it was—why complicate it with a kiss that would just lead to more questions, more confusion?

I head upstairs, fielding Lennox's nosy questions with vague answers and a promise of details tomorrow. I'm too wrapped up in my own thoughts to properly debrief her now.

As I get ready for bed, my phone buzzes with one last message from Sanderson:Thank you for tonight. Already planning our 9.0.

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