Page 68 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

At the entrance, he stops. "For what it's worth," he says quietly, "I don't regret any of it. Not the drive-in, not the sanctuary, not that night, or the fight. I'd do it all again."

Before I can respond, he leans in and presses a soft, brief kiss to my forehead. "I’m sorry about all of it, Hannah," he whispers against my skin. "I’ll text you later."

Then he's gone, walking away with his shoulders set in a determined line, leaving me to sort through the emotional wreckage of a day that started with such promise and ended in chaos.

I watch him until he disappears, wondering how everything got so complicated so quickly, and whether I have the courage to see it through.

Because frankly, I’m not sure I’ll leave my room ever again.

Chapter 18

My knuckles throb as I walk away from Hannah's dorm. I don’t want to leave shit like this but we need our space, and I need a fucking moment.

I flex my hand, noting it’s not that bad. But I shouldn't have thrown that punch. I know better. But when Cade said those words, when he stood there with that smug, self-righteous look on his face, spouting bullshit about how I've always wanted what was his and about to tell the world my darkest secret—something in me snapped.

The memory of his face when my fist connected brings a grim satisfaction that I'm not proud of. We're brothers. We're supposed to be better than this.

I reach my car but don't get in. Instead, I stand there, keys in hand, replaying the fight in my mind. The things he said. The things I didn't say back. The look on Hannah's face—shock, disappointment, confusion.

"Fuck," I mutter, shoving the keys back in my pocket.

I can't leave things like this.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm walking back across campus to the spot where we fought.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. For a moment, I hope it's Hannah, but it's Peterson instead.

Dude, are you ok? Heard you got in a fight with your brother over that girl. Coach is going to lose his mind.

Great. Word's already spreading. By tomorrow, the whole campus will know about the brothers' brawl and the girl caught in the middle.

I don't reply, just shove the phone back in my pocket.

I glance around the quad where me and Cade were tumbling around earlier, but he’s gone. He’s not here.

I run a hand through my hair and then head back to my car. My knuckles are throbbing and there's a dull ache in my ribs where Cade landed a solid punch. But the physical pain is nothing compared to the tangle of emotions coursing through me—anger, guilt, frustration, and beneath it all, a stubborn, persistent hope that Hannah will decide to see me again.

The drive back to my apartment is a blur. I park, drag myself upstairs, and go straight to the freezer for ice. I place it on my swollen eye. Coach is going to kill me if I can't play in Friday's game.

I collapse onto my couch, ice pack pressed to my face and try to make sense of the day. How did things go from so perfect—Hannah feeding a wildcat, laughing at the diner, agreeing to another date—to so catastrophically fucked in a matter of hours?

My phone buzzes—shit. It’s Coach.

My office. 7 AM tomorrow. No excuses.

I groan, dropping the phone onto my chest. As if this day couldn't get any worse.

The ice pack has gone warm against my face, so I drag myself to the freezer for a fresh one, then to the bathroom for ibuprofen. My body is starting to register the full damage from the fight—bruised ribs, sore face, a swollen hand.

I catch my reflection again as I swallow the pills. The guy staring back at me looks like hell—battered, exhausted, uncertain. He doesn't look like the confident hockey player who always gets what he wants. He looks like someone who's just realized how much he stands to lose.

For the first time in my life, I'm completely out of my depth. Hockey, I understand. Classes, I can handle. Random hookups, I've mastered. But this—actual feelings for a girl, a broken relationship with my brother, potential consequences for my spot on the team—this is uncharted territory. And all because I have feelings that won’t be quiet. I am completely out of my fucking depth.

I head to bed, though I doubt I'll sleep much. Tomorrow promises a reckoning with Coach, whispers from teammates, stares from classmates. But all I can think about is Hannah, alone in her dorm room, weighing the pros and cons of giving us a real chance.

Morning comes too quickly, my alarm blaring at 6:30. Every muscle protests as I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. The hot water helps, but only marginally. I look better than I did last night, but still obviously like someone who got in a fight.

I arrive at Coach's office at 6:58, knocking tentatively on the door.

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