Page 99 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"What the fuck, Sandy?" he demands, scrambling to his feet.

I ignore him, driving the puck into the net with vicious precision, then circling back for the next repetition.

"Easy," Peterson warns as we line up again. "Save it for the game."

Again the whistle, again I charge forward, this time catching Rodriguez with an elbow that earns me a hard shove in return.

"Cool it, Connolly," Coach calls from the sidelines. "This is practice, not the damn Stanley Cup finals."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The rest of practice continues in this vein—me pushing too hard, the guys growing increasingly wary, Coach's warnings becoming more pointed.

Finally, he blows the whistle for a water break and crooks his finger at me. "A word, Sanderson."

I skate over, bracing for the lecture.

"Whatever's eating you," he says without preamble, "deal with it before Friday's game. I need your fire, but I need it controlled. Channeled. This—" he gestures to where Rodriguez is rotating his shoulder, wincing from our last collision, "—isn't helping anyone."

"Yes, Coach," I say automatically.

"I mean it, Sanderson. You're one of our best, but you're not irreplaceable. Get your head straight." His expression softens slightly. "Everything okay outside the rink?"

The question catches me off guard—Coach rarely ventures into personal territory. "Fine," I say, the lie obvious to both of us.

He sighs. "Work on your passing game today. You're rushing shots, missing opportunities. The championship isn't won by one player trying to do everything himself. Remember that."

"Yes, Coach."

"Good. Now get back out there and try not to injure any my starting lineup."

I rejoin practice with marginally better control, focusing on the technical aspects—clean passes, proper positioning, the fundamentals that have become second nature over years of training. Slowly, the physical exertion does what it always does—burns away the excess emotion, leaves clarity in its wake.

By the time we hit the showers, I'm exhausted but calmer, the morning's confrontation relegated to background noise rather than consuming fire.

"What the hell has gotten into you?" Miller asks as we change, his voice pitched low for privacy.

"Yeah," I say, pulling on a clean shirt. "Sorry. Just family shit."

He nods, understanding without needing details. "Brothers, right? Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em."

"Something like that."

"Well, whatever it is, use it Friday," he advises. "Northeastern won't know what hit them."

"That's the plan," I agree, grateful for his easy acceptance.

My phone buzzes as I'm packing up my gear. Hannah.

Good morning. Just saw your text. My bed felt empty too. Hang out tonight?

The message sends warmth through me, a direct counter to the cold dread Megan's appearance triggered. For a moment, I consider accepting, pushing past the morning's events, pretending none of it happened.

But Cade's words echo in my head—Remember how that ended—and beneath the anger at his interference lies a splinter of fear. What if he's right? What if I am setting us both up for disaster? What if I hurt Hannah the way I've hurt others, or she hurts me the way Megan did?

I stare at my phone, typing and deleting responses several times before settling on:

Can't tonight. Extra stuff for conference finals. Come to the game Friday?

Her reply is immediate:Wouldn't miss it. I’ll be there.

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