Page 58 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

Never. I'm in awe of your dedication to consuming liquid calories.

You're a menace.

So I've been told.

I finish my workout and head home, showering quickly before diving back into my Econ paper. This time, I manage to make real progress, the words flowing more easily now that I've talked to her, even just through texts.

By the time I turn in for the night, I've mapped out a game plan for our third date—sorry, extended social interaction. It'll take some coordination and maybe another favor or two, but it'll be worth it to see the look on her face.

I send her one last text before falling asleep:Sweet dreams, Hannah Banana.

Her reply comes moments later:You too, puck boy.

I drift off with a smile on my face, already counting the hours until I can see her again.

The next few days fall into a pattern. Practice, classes, gym, homework, and through it all, texting Hannah. Nothing deep or serious, just little moments of connection. I send her a picture of a guy wearing a Jurassic Park t-shirt in my Psych class. She sends me a photo of someone's mint chocolate chip ice cream cone at the library café. I share a video of Rodriguez wiping out spectacularly during a drill. She sends me a snap of her color-coded study notes with the caption:Is this too organized or not organized enough?

Definitely too organized, I reply.Do you alphabetize your cereal boxes too?

Don't be ridiculous. I organize them by nutritional value.

On Thursday, I'm walking across campus when I spot her sitting on a bench outside the humanities building, lost in a book. I stop, watching her for a moment. She's completely absorbed, twirling a strand of hair around her finger as she reads, oblivious to the world around her. I never see her on campus, so this is a treat.

I could walk over, say hi, maybe suggest grabbing coffee. But I don't. There's a chance she wouldn't want to be seen with me in broad daylight on campus. And honestly, I kind of like our current arrangement—the texting, the private moments, the slowness of whatever this is between us.

So instead, I take a picture of her from a distance and send it with the caption:Spotted: Hannah Porter in her natural habitat.

I watch as she pulls out her phone, reads the message, then whips her head around, scanning the area. When she spots me, her eyes widen, but then she smiles—a real, genuine smile that hits me right in the chest.

She holds up her phone and types. A moment later, my phone buzzes:Stalker much?

Just happened to be passing by. Promise.

Sure. What are you doing right now?

Walking to practice. You?

About to head to the library. Again.

All work and no play.

Says the guy who spends half his life in an ice rink.

Free tomorrow night?

She stares at her phone for a long moment, then looks up at me again. Even from this distance, I can see her weighing her options, considering the implications. Finally, she types:Yes.

Pick you up at 6?

Where are we going?

It's a surprise. Wear jeans.

You and your surprises.

Yeah.

She looks up again, and for a moment, our eyes lock across the quad. There are a hundred things I want to say to her, but this isn't the time or place. So, I just give her a small wave, which she returns, and then I continue on my way to practice.

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