Page 121 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"Does this mean I can officially call you my girlfriend now?" I ask, only half-joking.

"Yes," she declares, pressing a quick, firm kiss to my lips. "And I can call you my boyfriend. James Sanderson Connolly––right wing hockey player, unexpectedly good communicator, the guy with the ‘monster dick’ ismyboyfriend."

I throw my head back and laugh. "What? Monster dick?"

She shrugs. "When you sleep around, the gossip is pure gold. You should already know they say you have a monster dick."

I laugh, holding onto her thighs tightly, and then I admit, "I know."

"And I know that you’re going to be the best boyfriend, James."

I smile at her. The title shouldn't affect me the way it does. I've always scoffed at labels, at the neediness they represent. But hearing it from Hannah's lips, seeing the genuine happiness in her eyes, makes something in my chest expand almost painfully.

"Boyfriend," I repeat, testing the word. "I like it."

"Bestboyfriend," she says decisively.

I spin us around, heading back toward the bedroom with Hannah still wrapped around me like the world's most perfect octopus. "Is that so?"

"Mm-hmm," she hums against my neck. "And since your brother was decent enough to give us his blessing, I think we should celebrate."

"You read my mind, Porter," I murmur, kicking the bedroom door closed behind us.

Sometimes, the universe has better plans than we could ever scheme up ourselves. And sometimes, what looks like the biggest mistake of your life turns out to be the best thing that ever happened to you.

I lean down to kiss her, losing myself in the sensation, in the promise of more perfect moments to come.

"Your edge work in the neutral zone is elite level, Connolly. The way you create space for yourself—that's something we can't teach."

I nod, trying to maintain a professional expression despite the surreal feeling of sitting across from three NHL scouts in Coach's office. The bruising on my face has faded to a sickly yellow-green, but at least the swelling's gone down enough that I can see properly out of both eyes.

"We were impressed with how you bounced back after that turnover in the second period," says the scout from Toronto, a former defenseman with salt-and-pepper hair and hands that bear the telltale crooked fingers of a career spent blocking shots. "Lot of guys would've gotten stuck in their head. You came back and made the play that tied the game."

"The high-stick was unfortunate timing," adds the Carolina representative. "But the game film from the rest of your season speaks for itself."

Coach sits behind his desk, uncharacteristically quiet, letting this play out without interference. His subtle nod when I catch his eye tells me everything I need to know—this is going better than either of us expected after I got knocked out of the championship game.

"So, what happens now?" I ask, the question that's been burning in my mind since I got the text to meet them here.

The scouts exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them.

"You've got options," says Toronto finally. "You've got one more year of NCAA eligibility. Another season here would let you develop your game, maybe captain the team." He nods toward Coach, who confirms with a slight inclination of his head.

"Or?" I prompt, not missing the implied alternative.

"Or," Carolina picks up, "you could sign an entry-level contract after the semester ends. Start with our AHL affiliate in Chicago, get accustomed to the professional pace. There's no guarantee you'd see NHL ice next season, but the development path would be accelerated."

My heart rate kicks up a notch. An actual offer—not just interest, not just potential, but a concrete path forward. I've dreamed about this moment since I was eight years old, shooting pucks at trash cans in our driveway while Dad called out drills.

"We're not the only teams interested," the third scout adds, his Pittsburgh accent thick despite years away from the city. "But we're the ones sitting here today because we see something specific in your game that fits our systems."

I take a deep breath, trying to process everything they're saying without letting my expression give away the adrenaline surge coursing through my veins.

"You don't need to decide today," Coach finally interjects, his voice grounding me back in the present. "This is about opening a dialogue, letting James know where he stands."

The use of my first name—rare from Coach—underscores the significance of this meeting. This isn't just another post-game analysis or strategy session. This is my future taking shape in real time.

"I appreciate that," I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. "I want to finish the semester strong, talk to my family. Make sure whatever decision I make is the right one."

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