Page 11

I stare at the door long after Sanderson closes it, my heart pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape. My hand still tingles where I touched him, and I can feel the ghost of his fingers between my legs. What the hell am I doing? What the hell is he doing to me?

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to block out the memory of his words, his touch. The way he looked at me like he could see right through me. The way my body betrayed me, responding to him instantly.

This is wrong on so many levels. It's been days—days—since I broke up with his brother. The same brother who called me a whore and stormed out of this very room. The brother who, despite his own betrayal, doesn't deserve this particular knife in the back.

And yet I’m considering meeting Sanderson at the rink.

What does that say about me?

I grab my phone and call the only person who won't judge me for the mess I've made of my life.

"Lennox? Can you come over? I need help."

Five minutes later, Lennox bursts into my room with an overnight bag and a gleam in her eye that tells me I've made a terrible mistake.

"Date night!" she announces, unpacking what appears to be her entire makeup collection onto my desk. "I knew you'd cave. I brought options."

"I didn't say I was going," I protest.

Lennox pauses, eyeing my workout clothes and the conflicted expression on my face. "But you want to."

"It's not that simple."

"It never is with you." She sits on my bed, patting the space beside her. "Talk to me. What's holding you back?"

I sink down next to her, drawing my knees to my chest. I don’t even know why she’s encouraging this so much. She knows how much I liked Cade, but maybe she has a weird fascination with Sanderson and can’t help herself. The girl is a little boy crazy if you know what I mean.

"He's Cade's brother. I slept with him by accident. He's a notorious player who probably sees me as some kind of conquest now."

"You shagged the wrong brother. I don't think he's going to leave you alone," Lennox points out. "He's not like Cade."

I open my mouth to disagree, but then I remember what Sanderson said before he left. About perfect moments and difficult circumstances. About how nothing is ever going to be ideal all the time. It was surprisingly insightful, especially coming from a guy who I assumed had the emotional depth of a puddle.

"He said something earlier," I admit. "About how sometimes we get perfect moments but difficult circumstances, or perfect circumstances but difficult moments. It was actually kind of…profound."

"Wow," Lennox raises her eyebrows. "Hidden depths in the hockey god."

"But what if that's just part of his game?" I say, voicing the fear that's been gnawing at me. "What if I'm just another girl? I keep saying no, and he’s not taking no for an answer. What if all of this—" I gesture around me, indicating our whole bizarre situation, "—is just him playing fetch, and I'm the bone? A Connolly bone?"

Lennox snorts at my metaphor but quickly sobers. "Clearly, there’s something about you that neither of them can ignore. Look, I can't promise you he doesn't have ulterior motives. But you won't know if you don't give it a shot."

"That's just it. If I go tonight, I'm opening a door that maybe should stay closed." I get up and pace the small space between my bed and the wall. "Do you have any idea how messed up it would be to date my ex's brother? To fall for him? What if it actually worked out? Can you imagine those family dinners? 'Pass the peas to the girl who dumped you for your brother after accidentally sleeping with him while you were cheating on her.'"

"Whoa, slow down," Lennox says, grabbing my shoulders to stop my pacing. "You're thinking way too far ahead. Nobody's talking about love or family dinners. You're nowhere near that. This is about tonight. Food. Maybe some flirting but free food. That's it."

"That's not how I operate, and you know it. I don't do casual."

"Maybe that's the problem," she says gently. "Sometimes we do things in life because they're fun, not because it's what we should do."

I sigh, leaning my shoulder against hers. "That sounds like a recipe for disaster."

"Or adventure," she counters, pulling back and rummaging through her bag. She emerges with a soft gray sweater that I recognize as one of her favorites. "Here. Put this on."

"Lennox—"

"I'll drive you there. If it's awful, text me and I'll come get you. No questions asked."

I take the sweater, fingering the soft material. "I can't believe you're encouraging this."

"One of us has to live a little." She grins, already pulling out her makeup bag. "Now sit down and let me work my magic."

Twenty minutes later, we're in her car, and I'm still not sure if I'm making a massive mistake. My hair falls in loose waves around my shoulders, my makeup is subtle but flattering, and Lennox's sweater fits me perfectly. I look good, but I am terrified.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," I say as we pull into the parking lot near the hockey rink. "He's a player, Lennox. Everyone knows that."

"You don't need anything too serious right now," she reminds me, putting the car in park. "Everything is always business for you, Hannah. School, grades, relationships—you treat them all like items on a checklist. Maybe it's time to do something just because it makes you feel good."

"It's my Capricorn energy," I joke weakly. "I can't help it."

She leans over and kisses my cheek. "Go have fun. I'll be at the Starbucks down the street. Text me if you need me."

I nod, taking a deep breath before stepping out of the car. The night air is cool against my skin as I walk across the parking lot, my stomach doing somersaults with each step.

I spot Sanderson standing near the entrance, his broad shoulders tense under his hoodie. He's staring at his phone, scrolling absently, but there's a rigidity to his posture that tells me he's not really seeing whatever's on the screen. He didn't think I'd come.

When he looks up and our eyes lock, the change in his expression is immediate. His gaze softens, the tension in his shoulders easing, and my stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the raw attraction I feel toward him.

I walk towards him, the pit in my stomach growing. Everything in my head is screaming to leave, that this is a terrible idea. I exhale slowly once I reach him.

"I didn't think you would show," he says, echoing my thoughts.

I shrug, trying to appear more nonchalant than I feel. "I felt bad. And I'm only here for the food."

"Okay," he says, opening the door for me. "Food's right this way."

I step inside, momentarily disoriented by the darkness. "Do you take all your dates to places this romantic?" I quip, following the dim outline of his figure.

"Only the special ones."

As my eyes adjust, I see he's led me to a small table set up near the rink, loaded with what appears to be enough food to feed the entire team. "Did you buy everything off the menu?"

"I thought you might be hungry after all that crying," he says.

I glance at him, surprised by his directness. "You have no filter, do you?"

He grabs a sandwich and offers me a bite. "You’ll get used to it. Want some?"

"I want my own, thank you very much." I step away, circling the table.

"Suit yourself."

I walk around the table, taking small bites of everything—a fry here, a nugget there, a sip of each drink. I can feel his eyes on me, a mixture of confusion and admiration in his gaze.

"What are you doing?" he finally asks.

"Figuring out what I want." I sample a piece of chicken, considering it thoughtfully.

He laughs, the sound echoing in the empty rink. "So, what's it going to be?"

"The kale salad." I grab it decisively, add some chicken, and take a bite. "So, refreshing."

"Let me try," he says, reaching for my fork.

I pull the salad away, playfully keeping it out of his reach. "Get your own."

"But yours looks better." He lunges for it, and I dance backward, laughing despite myself.

Somehow, we're moving around the table, me protecting my salad, him pursuing relentlessly. When he finally catches me, wrapping his arms around me from behind to steal a bite, I feel the solid warmth of his chest against my back and momentarily forget why I was running.

"You're way too touchy," I say, trying to regain my composure. "Has no one ever taught you about personal space?"

"Blame hockey," he says, still holding me. "Spend enough time checking guys into the boards, you forget how to keep your hands to yourself."

"I blame your hormones," I counter, wriggling free.

"You don't like being touched," he says, reaching for me again, more gently this time. "Is that what it is?"

I step back instinctively. "I don't know."

"You flinch."

"I do," I admit, surprised by his observation.

"Did something happen?" His voice is unexpectedly soft, and the depth of his question makes me think.

I shrug, uncomfortable with how quickly he's zeroed in on something I didn't even realize about myself until he pointed it out. "What are you, a shrink?"

"Observant." He offers a flirty smile. God damn, Sanderson––he is nothing like his brother.

"An observant puck boy, huh?" I raise an eyebrow.

He laughs, flattered. "Guess that's me." The moment quiets, settles into something more serious. "Is that why you didn't sleep with my brother?" he asks.

Heat rushes to my face. "You heard that part?"

"Hard to miss when I was hiding in the closet."

I cover my face, mortified. "God."

"Was I your first?" His question is direct but not mocking.

"You wish." I push his shoulder, and he laughs. "No, you weren't my first."

The admission hangs between us, complex and weighted. I study his face in the dim light, trying to read what he's thinking. This strange, intense man who's somehow worked his way under my skin in the span of a week. This man who is nothing like what I expected and everything I shouldn't want.

And yet here I am, standing in a dark hockey rink, sharing a salad and secrets with him, feeling more alive than I have in months.

I watch him, wondering if he actually thinks he was my first. That's a funny thing, isn't it? First times? I don't know what I would do if I lost my virginity that way. Honestly, just bury me six feet under.

But it was my first with him, my first time doing something inappropriate while not knowing the person. My first hook up. The guilt gnaws at me, disgusted and disappointed that I did what I did. It's unbelievable, really. I'm much more responsible than that. I'm the girl who color-codes her planner, who never misses a deadline, who makes pro-con lists for which laundry detergent to buy. Yet here I am, sharing a salad with my ex's brother in a dark hockey rink after letting him touch me in ways that still make my skin burn with the memory.

"You're overthinking again," he says, slurping his drink.

"Hell," I mutter. "Am I that easy to read?"

"A little." His lips quirk into that infuriating smirk that somehow makes my stomach flutter.

"You just have me all figured out, don't you?" I push my salad around with my fork, suddenly not hungry.

He shrugs, taking a longer sip.

"Fine, Mr. Know It All, what am I thinking?" I challenge, meeting his eyes across the table.

He laughs, a low rumble that echoes in the empty rink. "You're thinking about that night and how it was the biggest mistake and now you're here out of guilt, refusing to acknowledge that you and I have more chemistry than you and my brother." He takes another sip like it's a beer, eyes never leaving mine. "You've been with the wrong brother, Hannah."

He takes another sip to fill the silence that follows, and I find myself studying the strong line of his throat as he swallows. The confidence with which he speaks should irritate me, but there's something disarming about his directness. No games, no pretense—just raw honesty that cuts through all my carefully constructed defenses.

"Give me some of your drink. What is it?" I say, needing something to do with my hands, something to break the tension that's building between us.

He looks at it like he doesn't know. "On tap root beer."

"Oh-Kay." I grab it and take a sip. The sweetness hits my tongue, rich and familiar. "It's missing something."

"Missing something?"

I nod, giving him eyes. "Ice cream."

"I'll make sure to get that next time."

I hand him back the drink and wonder why he thinks there will be a next time. But I'm also not immediately shutting down the possibility. The old Hannah—the one from a week ago, before all this madness—would never have entertained the idea of a second date with someone like Sanderson. But that Hannah seems increasingly like a stranger to me now.

"Or we could go for ice cream right now?" he suggests, leaning forward slightly.

I watch him closely, not knowing if that's a good or bad idea. I really don't want to be seen in public with him. Not yet. Not when the wounds are still fresh, when Cade's anger is still so raw. Not when I'm still trying to understand what this pull toward Sanderson even means.

"Admit it, Hannah," he says, his voice softening. He studies for my face, not continuing.

"What?" I ask, though I think I know what he's about to say.

"It's okay to like me after liking my brother. We're different cut, same bread."

"God, that sounds wrong in every possible way." I shake my head, but I can't help the small smile that forms. "And you're just so keen, so fine with dating your brother's ex?"

He laughs, a sound that's becoming dangerously familiar. "First of all, you didn't sleep with him, so yeah. And second, you like me much more, so yeah."

"I—" I stop myself because even though we're in a difficult circumstance, this moment is fine—comfortable, enjoyable, easy. Things that my nerves were too wired for when near Cade. I had to always make sure I was saying the right things or acting a certain way. I put on an act for Cade, and I am not doing that with Sanderson.

For now. Until he gets over me, then we'll be fighting like cats and dogs.

Because that's what this is, right? A temporary fascination. A forbidden fruit thing. Once the novelty wears off, once he realizes I'm not just some challenge to conquer, he'll move on. That's what guys like him do. That's what his reputation says, at least.

"We can sit in my car and eat a cone," he offers, pulling me from my thoughts.

"Your car?" The suggestion sends an unexpected thrill through me.

He nods. "Tinted windows, anyone who sees you will think you're just another girl."

The words hit differently than he intended, reality crashing back like a wave. "Wow, well that's quite the proposal. Very nice to know you have different girls that often."

"That's not what I meant," he says quickly, regret flashing across his face.

"I know you didn't mean it that way, but that's how it sounds."

"And you say I don't have a filter?" There's a smile in his voice, an acknowledgment.

I smile back, unable to help myself. "Guess we both don't."

"That's why it'll work…between us." His eyes hold mine, and there's that flutter in my stomach again, a sensation I'm becoming alarmingly familiar with.

I laugh, but it's forced. "There's no us."

"Keep telling yourself that," he says, with that maddening confidence. "So, I'm taking you for ice cream."

"Great." The sarcasm doesn't quite land, betrayed by the anticipation humming through me.

He starts cleaning up the food from the table, and I help, stealing more fries while I'm at it. The simple domesticity of the moment strikes me—this shared task, this easy silence. It's nothing like the carefully choreographed dates with Cade, where everything felt like it had to be perfect.

"Is it your mom or your dad?" he asks suddenly, and the question throws me off.

"What?"

"Tell me, is it your mom or your dad who you have the difficult relationship with?" His eyes are serious now, searching.

I'm caught off guard by the insight behind the question. These are the kinds of conversations I love—deep, meaningful—but I don't love that he's the one asking them. It feels like he's seeing too much, peeling back layers I'm not ready to expose.

"Who are you rebelling against with your amazing morals?" There's no mockery in his tone, just genuine curiosity.

I chuckle, surprised by how easily he's read me. "My mom." I think about her for a moment, and it’s not that we have a horrible relationship, but she’s fake, doesn’t mind lying, and manipulates to get her way.

He shrugs. "Can't relate."

"Your dad then?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

He nods, a shadow crossing his face. "But it's my mom and dad for Cade."

"Wow." I absorb this new information, this glimpse into their family dynamics that Cade never shared. "He never mentioned that."

Sanderson puts the last thing in the trash and says, "He wouldn't. He's too proud. He'd claim nothing was happening."

"That's interesting," I say, watching him carefully. Did I find my mother in Cade?

There's a depth to Sanderson that I never expected, a perceptiveness that catches me off guard.

"If you wanted to be with him, he'd take you back," he says, and I can't tell if it's a warning or a test.

"You think so?" I ask, not sure why I'm even entertaining the idea.

"Hell yeah. Probably wouldn't cheat for a year or two, and then he'd pick it right back up."

"What’re you a fortune teller?"

He shrugs, but I catch the vulnerability that flashes across his face before he masks it. "You have to know how the enemy operates to avoid being bit."

"Okay," I mutter, but I understand now—his cavalier attitude toward relationships, his reputation with women. It's armor, protection against becoming the thing he seems to despise most. He is a lot deeper than I anticipated.

"So, that ice cream?" He holds out his hand, an invitation, a question.

I stare at it for a moment, at the calluses on his palm from hockey sticks and weight rooms, at the strength in those fingers that were so gentle against my skin earlier. Taking his hand means stepping off a cliff, diving into something I can't control, can't plan for, can't neatly organize into my life.