Page 98 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"I know she was dating your brother until…you know," Megan says, glancing at Cade with a conspiratorial smile. "Sounds messy."

"Okay, we're done here." I move to the front door, holding it open. "Get out."

Cade steps forward, playing the reasonable one. "Sandy, come on. She just wants to talk. Maybe clear the air—"

"There's nothing to clear," I cut him off. "What she did—what you're doing right now—it's not something we 'talk' about. It's something we leave in the past where it belongs."

"Still so dramatic," Megan sighs. "This is why we didn't work, you know. Everything was always so intense with you. Just fucking chill."

The laugh that escapes me is harsh, humorless. "We didn't work because you lied about being pregnant to try to trap me. Remember that?"

Her expression shifts, the practiced smile faltering. "I was young and stupid. People make mistakes. You’re not perfect."

"That wasn't a mistake. That was manipulation. Now get out of my apartment."

Cade steps between us, hands raised in placating gesture. "Why don't you wait in the car, Megan? Let me talk to my brother for a minute."

She hesitates, then nods, retrieving her purse from the couch. As she passes me, she pauses. "For what it's worth, I am sorry. We were kids, and I would’ve done anything to make you stay."

I say nothing, holding the door until she's through it, then turning to face my brother.

"Cade, what the fuck," I snap.

Cade’s face hardens. "That was a reminder."

"Of what?" I feel sick to my stomach, meeting his eyes.

"Of what you truly deserve. Of why you don’t do relationships. Why sleeping with the whole fucking campus is a lot better than being in a fucking relationship."

I scoff. "Hannah is nothing like Megan."

He laughs. "She doesn’t need to be, brother. But you…" he says with an arrogant smirk. "You are still the fucking same. Once this whole fascination with Hannah is over guess who will be waiting for her with wide open arms."

"Leave," I snap. I don’t want to do anything stupid like lay my brother flat on his fucking ass right now.

He pats my arm. "Hannah came to fuck me that night. If you think what you have with her is real…you just wait." He steps out of the house, turning back to me to laugh in my face.

I slam the front door, rubbing my jaw. Then I stand perfectly still, breathing through the anger, the old hurt, the fresh wound of my fucking brother who knows how to get under my skin.

Then I'm moving, throwing on gym clothes, grabbing my keys and hockey bag, needing to get out, to move, to channel this toxic cocktail of emotions into something physical before it consumes me.

Twenty minutes later, I'm at the rink, nearly two hours early for practice. The ice is empty, the lights half-dimmed—perfect. I lace up my skates, my movements sharp, angry. The first step onto the ice brings instant relief, the familiar bite of blade against surface grounding me in the present.

I push off hard, circling the rink at full speed, letting cold air burn my lungs until the edge of rage dulls slightly. Then drills—crossovers, stops, starts, pushing my body until sweat soaks my practice jersey despite the chill.

I don't hear the others arrive, lost in the rhythm of puck against stick, the hollow sound of shots hitting the back of the empty net. A hand on my shoulder startles me back to awareness.

"Little early, aren't you?" Coach asks, expression somewhere between impressed and concerned.

"Needed the ice time," I say, breathing hard.

He studies me for a moment, then nods. "Team's here. Let's run line drills."

Practice officially begins, the rink filling with the sounds of skates, sticks, shouted directions. I move through the familiar routines on autopilot, my body responding to years of training while my mind remains elsewhere—half in the past with Megan, half in the present with Hannah, wondering how something that felt so right last night could seem so fragile in the harsh light of morning.

"Sanders!" Coach's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You're up."

I take my position for the breakaway drill, eyes focused on the goal, the defender, the space between. When the whistle blows, I'm moving, faster and harder than necessary, shouldering past Miller with enough force to send him sprawling across the ice.

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