Page 10

I slip out of Hannah's room feeling like I just dominated a power play. But the victory is short-lived—Cade's leaning against the wall outside the entrance of the dorm, fury radiating off him like heat.

"What the fuck?" he growls, shoving off the wall and storming toward me.

I stand my ground. "Could ask you the same thing."

He grabs my shirt, bunching the fabric in his fist. "Some girl told me you went into Hannah's room. Why the fuck are you going after my girlfriend?"

"Ex-girlfriend," I correct him, not missing the irony. "You made that pretty clear when you called her a whore and stormed out."

His grip tightens. "So, what, you're swooping in now? That's fucked up, Sandy. Even for you."

I shove him off me hard enough that he stumbles back. "You don't deserve a girl like Hannah."

"And you do?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "The guy who fucks anything that moves and can't remember their names the next day? That's rich."

"At least I don't lie and cheat," I shoot back. "You told her you were home that night. Screwed it all up for some girl named Anna?"

"I didn't know she was coming to fuck me!" he hisses. "Besides, you didn't seem to have a problem stepping into my place, did you?"

"I was fucking sleeping! I thought I was dreaming!" I take a step toward him, fists clenched. "Unlike you, who was very much awake while dick-deep in some rando named Anna."

His face contorts. "Don't talk about her like that."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is Anna special? Was she special when you were cheating on Hannah with her?"

"You don't know shit about it, Sandy, so I suggest you––"

"I know enough." I square my shoulders. "Hannah deserves better than someone who lies to her face and then calls her names when she catches him."

"And you think that's you?" He steps closer, jaw clenched. "You think you’re better? You think she's gonna fall for your bullshit? She's not some puck slut at a post-game party, Sandy. She's smart. She'll see right through you."

"Maybe I want her to see through me," I say before I can stop myself. "Maybe that's the fucking point."

"She deserves better than you," he spits. "She deserves someone who'll actually stick around, not hit it and quit it when the next ass walks on by."

"Funny how you're such an expert on what she deserves when you couldn't even keep your dick in your pants for two months."

"What the hell is going on out here?"

We both turn to see an RA standing in the hallway, hands on her hips, looking ready to call security.

"Nothing," Cade mutters.

"Doesn't look like nothing," she says. "You two need to take this somewhere else. Now."

I glance at the girls behind her, wondering if they’re all listening to us right now. When I see phones instead of faces, I realize this is going to be a public record.

Jesus Christ. I run a hand through my hair and exhale.

"We're leaving," I tell the RA, brushing past Cade toward the parking lot.

"This isn't over," he calls after me.

I don't look back. His opinion means fuck-all to me right now. The only thing I care about is whether Hannah's going to show up tomorrow night.

Morning practice is brutal. Coach has us running suicide drills until half the team is puking in the trash cans. Not literally but still, I can envision it. My legs burn, my lungs are on fire, but the physical pain is almost a relief compared to the clusterfuck in my head.

"Connolly!" Coach barks. "Your head in this, or am I wasting my breath?"

"I'm good, Coach," I call back, snapping to attention.

"Show me. First line, set up for the power play."

I take my position on the right wing, focusing on the drill rather than the shitstorm that is my personal life right now. For the next hour, there's only hockey—the scrape of skates on ice, the snap of passes from tape to tape, the satisfying thunk of pucks hitting the back of the net.

In the locker room afterward, the usual bullshit starts up.

"Dude, Whitney is killing me," Miller groans, unlacing his skates. "One minute she's all over me, the next she's acting like I don't exist."

"Tell her to make up her fucking mind," Rodriguez suggests, toweling off his hair. "You're not a fucking yo-yo."

"It's not that simple," Miller sighs. "She's got this whole thing about me not being 'emotionally available' or some shit."

"Are you?" I ask, pulling my practice jersey over my head.

Miller looks at me like I just suggested he try figure skating. "What does that even mean?"

"It means do you actually give a fuck about her as a person, or just as someone to bang?" I shrug. "Girls can tell the difference, man."

The locker room goes quiet for a beat, then erupts in laughter.

"Listen to Sandy giving relationship advice!" Cory howls. "That's like getting sobriety tips from a frat boy!"

"Wasn’t it you who was just fighting with that chick, Lucy, over the phone about the same fucking thing?" Rodriguez says.

"He's not wrong though," Peterson, our goalie, pipes up. "My girl was the same way until I started actually listening to her talk about her day and shit."

"So, what, I'm supposed to care about her yoga class and her roommate drama?" Miller asks, genuinely confused.

"If you want to keep hitting that, yeah," I tell him. "That's the price of admission."

"Since when are you the relationship guru?" Rodriguez asks. "Last I checked, your longest relationship was with that chick from Tri Delt, and that lasted what, a weekend?"

"Three days," Cory corrects. "Thursday to Sunday. A Connolly record."

They're not wrong. My reputation is well-earned. I've never been one to stick around, never seen the point. Why tie yourself down when there's always another girl at the next party, the next bar, the next away game?

But Hannah isn't just another girl. And that's the thought that keeps circling in my brain as I shower and head back to my apartment.

By seven-thirty, I'm dressed in my best dark jeans and a button-up that actually fits right, not the oversized shit I usually throw on. I even put on a decent hat—backwards, of course, but still. I'm making a fucking effort here.

It's only when I grab my keys that I realize I didn't give Hannah a place to meet, just a time. And I don't have her number. Fuck.

I could probably find her on Instagram or something, but that feels like a cop-out. If she's going to reject me, I want to hear it from her, see it in her eyes. At least then I'll know where I stand.

The drive to her dorm is a blur of second-guessing. What if she's not there? What if she is, but won't answer? What if she laughs in my face for thinking she'd actually consider this?

I've never been nervous about a girl before. Never cared enough to be. It's a new sensation, and I'm not sure I like it.

I knock on her door, holding my breath. I hope I didn’t too much cologne.

When she opens it, I feel like I've been checked into the boards. She's in workout clothes—tight leggings and a sports bra that shows off her flat stomach and the perfect curve of her breasts. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, face free of makeup, and somehow she looks better than any dressed-up girl I've ever taken out.

"You're not ready," I say, stating the obvious.

She shrugs, stepping back into her room. "I wasn't planning to come."

I follow her in, shutting the door behind me. "Why the fuck not?"

"Maybe because it's inappropriate, it's weird. Me and your brother just broke up." She walks to her bed and sits down. Even though her words hit me like a sucker punch, her tone is upbeat, like the workout she just got in gave her endorphins. "I don't want to be seen in public with you."

"I'll order in," I offer immediately.

She rolls her eyes. "Just admit it, Sanderson. You just want to fuck me again."

The accusation may have given me an instant boner. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Isn't that your thing? Hooking up?" Her eyes challenge mine. "You can't tell me that you actually want to date me? I was with your brother!"

Oh, this is the feisty side to her. I like a little fire.

"I don't care about any of that," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "And no, I don't just want to hook up. I'm excited to take you out." Excited to get to know her because damn, those leggings are a brutal sight. Brave, strong-willed, and sexy? I’m fucked.

She says, "My social life will be obliterated if I'm seen in public with you."

"Then I'll order in," I repeat, not willing to let this go so easily.

She shakes her head. "You're relentless."

"Some might say," I agree, taking a step closer. "But I know what I want."

She throws her hand on her hip and sighs, "You know, it's kind of odd you want me this bad."

She has no idea.

I stalk towards her. "That was you that night right?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

She's keeping her eyes on me like prey afraid of its predator. I stop when my dick touches her first and then I push her hair back so she can hear me.

"That was your pretty lips on mine, wasn’t it? If you think I can just forget all about that night, you're wrong. You see, it has everything to do with who you are and how you're handling yourself. You grieved the mistake that night and then handled it with immense conviction. If that doesn't show your true colors, I don't know what will, and I'm not going to let you be the one to get away."

She pulls back, putting a hand to my chest. Apparently, that's her favorite place to touch me. My heart.

"I think you're not thinking logically. I think you might be thinking with this." She actually pats my dick, and I flinch.

"Don't touch it if you don't mean it."

She offers a quick smile. "We may have accidentally had sex, you may be impressed with how I handled a fucked up situation, Sanderson, but you're not thinking long term, you're not thinking about reputation or consequences."

I put a finger to her mouth to quiet that overthinking, logical mind of hers. If everything has to be fucking perfect, she'll never cave in to me. It's more than her body I need to please, it's her mind too. She quiets and I slide my finger down her body, the only way I know how to convince a girl to want me back.

"Sanderson," she breathes once I reach her stomach. "Stop."

I hover above her pussy now. If I just press, I know her back will arch. She can't deny that our bodies want each other.

I don't listen to her advice. I rub her clit, and she trembles.

Bingo.

I whisper, "Hannah, it might be time for you to reconsider your path."

"My path?" she questions.

I nod, hovering above her ear. "Not everything is going to be perfect. At least not all the time. We can have perfect moments but difficult circumstances. Or perfect circumstances and difficult moments."

She swallows as I rub her harder. "That's too…much insight for a hockey boy," she says, trying not to moan.

I smile, glad she's acknowledging that I'm not just a jock who likes to fuck. "Strip away our circumstance, and we have––"

"Why are you torturing me?" she breathes.

I stop my hand. "Are we ordering in?"

I can see her mind racing as she searches my face. I'm begging her not to say no to me again. She pushes my hand away.

She's still shaky as she says, "You won't touch me like that again and we have a deal."

I stare back at her. "I can't make any promises."

She walks around me. "I have standards, Sanderson."

"Oh, I know."

"We're not eating here," she says. "Everybody already knows you're in here, so you need to leave and I'll meet you later."

I watch the back of her head, my eyes lingering down to her shoulders. They're…fucking adorable. I can imagine her lifting tiny weights to tone those muscles.

"How do I know you're not full of shit?" I ask.

She snickers. "You don't, so I guess you'll have to find out."

She busies herself with cleaning up her dorm as I watch her.

"Meet me inside the rink. I'll have food."

Her eyes widen as she turns around. "Okay, you should go now."

I don't know what else I can do to convince her. I'm no Aristotle but I hope my words changed her point of view.

I use my hands to say something, but no words come out. I guess I'm walking out now. I leave her room, catching eyes from a few of the girls hanging out on the couches.

"Hey, Sanders," someone says. "Not surprised to see you here but I am that you're leaving so early."

"Rejected," I force a smile.

"Aww," she says, and the rest of the girls watch me.

"So, I'm out."

"Okay. Bye."

I wave awkwardly at the group of girls. As soon as I open the door and exit through the stairs, I hear the bubbled up laughter behind me. I shake my head with a smile.

I want to impress Hannah, but I don't want to assume she likes all foods. Shit, what if she has allergies? I rub the back of my neck as I sit in my car. I need to figure something out fast, but everything I scroll through doesn't scream impressed.

Fuck it. I don't need anything fancy. I find myself at Chick-fil-A. So romantic, I know. I order chicken, waffle fries, salads, fruit, a few sandwiches, and a few specialty drinks. Jesus Christ, you'd think I was buying dinner for the whole team.

I grab the order. "Thank you."

As I head to the rink, I grab my hoodie and put it on. I plan to put this hoodie over her head before the end of the night.

I make my way to the rink, walking fast. I place the food inside and then I stand outside the door to wait for her. I pull out my phone to scroll because my nerves are at an all time high. I glance around at the empty lot. She's going to stand me up, isn't she?

Every car that drives by makes me look up, hoping it's her. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. The food's getting cold, and my confidence is taking a bigger hit than I'd like to admit.

At thirty minutes, I'm starting to feel like a fucking idiot. What did I expect? She broke up with my brother like five minutes ago. She's smart enough to know this is a bad idea. I'm the moron who thought I could charm my way into something more.

I push off the wall I've been leaning against, ready to pack up the embarrassing amount of food and go home. Maybe eat my feelings while watching game tape. Pathetic.