Page 16

"Sanderson, that's what I'm talking about!" Coach shouts as I complete a perfect no-look pass to Rodriguez, who buries it top shelf. "Do that in the conference finals, and we're golden!"

I circle back to position, unable to wipe the grin off my face. I've been on fire all practice—skating faster, hitting harder, seeing plays develop before they happen. The guys are noticing too, exchanging glances whenever I make another highlight-reel worthy move.

"Keep doing what you’re doing, but Cory is fucking lagging, isn’t he?" Miller says during a water break, bumping my shoulder.

"I’m just feeling good today," I reply, squirting water into my mouth and avoiding the shit-talk about Cory.

"It wouldn't have anything to do with a certain drive-in date, would it?" Peterson asks with a knowing smirk.

"Extended social interaction," I correct him, mimicking Hannah's serious tone. "And I plead the fifth."

"Well, keep it up," Miller says. "Coach hasn't yelled at you once today. It's freaking me out."

It's true. Usually, I'm the one getting chewed out for hotdogging or taking unnecessary risks. Today, though, everything I try is working. My body feels light, my mind clear and focused. I'm playing the best hockey of my season.

"Don't jinx it," I warn, but I can't stop grinning.

"Alright, break's over," Coach calls. "Let's run the power play."

We spend the next hour drilling plays until they're muscle memory, pushing through the burn in our legs and the sweat dripping into our eyes. By the time practice ends, I'm exhausted but exhilarated, riding the high of a perfect training session.

In the locker room, Coach pulls me aside. "Whatever's got you skating like that, bottle it," he says, a rare note of approval in his voice. "That's the Connolly I need for the finals."

"Yes, Coach," I say, trying to sound professional while mentally pumping my fist.

I check my phone and find a text from Hannah.

Just survived my Bio Ethics presentation. Pretty sure I nailed it.

I smile, typing back: Never doubted you. Celebration dinner tonight?

Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. Finally: Can't. Study group for midterms. Rain check?

Name the time and place , I respond.

I'll let you know. How was practice?

Good. Coach actually complimented me. Mark it on the calendar.

Must be your lucky day.

Just riding the high from our non-date. You're my good luck charm, Banana.

That's a lot of pressure to put on an extended social interaction.

Just stating facts. My hockey skills are directly proportional to the quality of my hang time with you.

In that case, you're welcome for the assist. The entire team can thank me later.

I grin, typing: I'll pass along your contribution at the championship ceremony.

"Sexting in the locker room?" Miller asks, peering over my shoulder. "Classy."

I lock my phone. "None of your business."

"Must be the drive-in girl," he says knowingly. "You never smile at your phone like that."

"Don't you have a girlfriend to bother?" I deflect, shoving my gear into my bag.

"She's at practice. Besides, your love life is way more interesting right now."

I roll my eyes. "It's not a love life. We're just…"

"Just what?" Miller prompts when I trail off.

"I don't know," I admit. "Talking? Hanging out?"

"Whatever you call it," he says, slapping my shoulder as he walks past. "Never seen you this wrapped up in a girl before."

He's right, annoyingly enough. I've never been this caught up thinking about anyone. I've never planned dates or remembered favorite ice cream flavors or cared so much about making a good impression.

It's unsettling. And kind of awesome.

Back at my apartment, I try to focus on my Economics paper, but my mind keeps drifting. I finally give up after an hour of minimal progress and decide to hit the gym. Maybe more physical activity will help clear my head.

No such luck. Even as I push through sets of bench presses and squats, Hannah occupies a corner of my brain. What is she doing right now? Is her study group productive? Is she thinking about me too?

I grab my phone between sets and send her a picture of the gym's smoothie bar. Post-workout fuel. What's your flavor?

Is this research for our next extended social interaction? she responds.

Maybe. Answer the question, Banana.

Strawberry banana. Basic, I know.

Noted. And not basic. Classic.

I order exactly that, snapping a picture of the bright pink drink before taking a sip. Not bad. Though I usually go for chocolate peanut butter.

Of course you do. Maximum protein for maximum gains.

Are you mocking my athletic lifestyle?

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.

That night, I call in the last favor I've been saving. A classmate of mine works at an animal sanctuary about thirty minutes outside of town—one that specializes in exotic rescues. It takes some convincing, but she finally agrees to give us a private tour after hours tomorrow.

Hannah mentioned once during our twenty questions game that her dream job as a kid was to be a veterinarian, before the fainting-during-a-field-trip incident. I'm betting she still has a soft spot for animals.

Just as I'm setting my alarm for morning classes tomorrow, my phone rings. It's Cade. I stare at the screen, debating whether to answer. We haven't spoken since our fight outside Hannah's dorm building, and I'm not sure I'm ready for whatever conversation he wants to have.

But ignoring him won't make this situation any less complicated. Sooner or later, I'll have to face the reality that I'm pursuing a relationship with my brother's ex.

I answer on the fourth ring. "Hello?"

"Sandy," he says, his voice slightly slurred. "We need to talk."

Great. He's been drinking.

"Now's not a good time," I say, keeping my tone neutral. "I've got an early class tomorrow."

"It's about Hannah," he presses, ignoring my excuse. "I texted her. She's not responding."

My grip tightens on the phone. "Maybe because you called her a whore and then started dating someone else immediately."

"That was a mistake," he says. "I want her back."

The words hit me hard. "What?"

"I miss her," he continues. "We were good together. You fucked it up. I fucked it up, but I can fix it."

"Cade—"

"I need your help, bro. Just talk to her for me. Tell her how I am. Tell her I said I'm sorry."

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. "I can't do that."

"Why not?" His voice takes on an edge. "You're my brother. Bros before—"

"Don't finish that sentence," I cut him off. "It's not happening."

"Why the fuck not?" Now he sounds angry.

I consider lying. Consider making up an excuse about staying out of his relationships or respecting Hannah's decision. But I'm tired of the deception, tired of dancing around the truth.

"Because I've been seeing her," I say finally.

Silence on the other end, so complete I wonder if the call dropped.

"You what?" His voice is deadly quiet when he finally speaks.

"We've been talking. Hanging out."

"How long?"

"Not long. A week or so."

Another long silence. Then: "You son of a bitch."

"Cade—"

"No, you listen to me, you piece of shit! You’re my brother! My own fucking brother!" His voice rises with each word. "You can’t be fucking serious, Sandy. Is this because of that night? Because of mom and dad? Are you trying to get back at me? Punish me?"

"No," I say firmly. "It has nothing to do with that. It just…happened."

"Don’t fucking lie to me! That’s bullshit. Nothing 'just happens' with you. You wanted her because I had her first, so you took her. Like everything else in my life."

His words sting, but I keep my voice level. "That's not what this is."

"Then what is it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like my brother is fucking my ex-girlfriend to prove he can."

"No," I insist, anger rising in my chest. "I like her, Cade. Actually like her. She's smart and funny and real in a way most people aren't."

"Yeah, fucking right," he spits. "I'm not buying your sudden transformation into a guy who cares about a girl's personality. You’re a piece of shit who fucks anything that walks!"

"Think whatever you want. I'm not asking for your blessing."

"Good, because you'll never get it," he says. "You're dead to me, Sandy. Both of you."

The line goes dead before I can respond. I stare at my phone, a heavy weight settling in my chest. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen, exactly why Hannah was hesitant to pursue anything between us.

But as I set my phone down and try to process what just happened, I realize my main concern isn't Cade's anger or our fractured relationship. It's Hannah. How will she react when she finds out Cade knows? Will she pull away? End things before they've really begun?

The thought makes my stomach twist. I should text her, warn her about Cade's call. But what would I say? "Hey, my brother knows about us and now he hates me, hope that doesn't ruin our plans for tomorrow"?

I decide to wait until morning, when I've had time to think it through. For now, I need sleep and a clear head.

For the first time in my life, a girl means more to me than my brother's approval. And I have no idea what to do with that realization.