Page 18

My knuckles throb as I walk away from Hannah's dorm. I don’t want to leave shit like this but we need our space, and I need a fucking moment.

I flex my hand, noting it’s not that bad. But I shouldn't have thrown that punch. I know better. But when Cade said those words, when he stood there with that smug, self-righteous look on his face, spouting bullshit about how I've always wanted what was his and about to tell the world my darkest secret—something in me snapped.

The memory of his face when my fist connected brings a grim satisfaction that I'm not proud of. We're brothers. We're supposed to be better than this.

I reach my car but don't get in. Instead, I stand there, keys in hand, replaying the fight in my mind. The things he said. The things I didn't say back. The look on Hannah's face—shock, disappointment, confusion.

"Fuck," I mutter, shoving the keys back in my pocket.

I can't leave things like this.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm walking back across campus to the spot where we fought.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. For a moment, I hope it's Hannah, but it's Peterson instead.

Dude, are you ok? Heard you got in a fight with your brother over that girl. Coach is going to lose his mind.

Great. Word's already spreading. By tomorrow, the whole campus will know about the brothers' brawl and the girl caught in the middle.

I don't reply, just shove the phone back in my pocket.

I glance around the quad where me and Cade were tumbling around earlier, but he’s gone. He’s not here.

I run a hand through my hair and then head back to my car. My knuckles are throbbing and there's a dull ache in my ribs where Cade landed a solid punch. But the physical pain is nothing compared to the tangle of emotions coursing through me—anger, guilt, frustration, and beneath it all, a stubborn, persistent hope that Hannah will decide to see me again.

The drive back to my apartment is a blur. I park, drag myself upstairs, and go straight to the freezer for ice. I place it on my swollen eye. Coach is going to kill me if I can't play in Friday's game.

I collapse onto my couch, ice pack pressed to my face and try to make sense of the day. How did things go from so perfect—Hannah feeding a wildcat, laughing at the diner, agreeing to another date—to so catastrophically fucked in a matter of hours?

My phone buzzes—shit. It’s Coach.

My office. 7 AM tomorrow. No excuses.

I groan, dropping the phone onto my chest. As if this day couldn't get any worse.

The ice pack has gone warm against my face, so I drag myself to the freezer for a fresh one, then to the bathroom for ibuprofen. My body is starting to register the full damage from the fight—bruised ribs, sore face, a swollen hand.

I catch my reflection again as I swallow the pills. The guy staring back at me looks like hell—battered, exhausted, uncertain. He doesn't look like the confident hockey player who always gets what he wants. He looks like someone who's just realized how much he stands to lose.

For the first time in my life, I'm completely out of my depth. Hockey, I understand. Classes, I can handle. Random hookups, I've mastered. But this—actual feelings for a girl, a broken relationship with my brother, potential consequences for my spot on the team—this is uncharted territory. And all because I have feelings that won’t be quiet. I am completely out of my fucking depth.

I head to bed, though I doubt I'll sleep much. Tomorrow promises a reckoning with Coach, whispers from teammates, stares from classmates. But all I can think about is Hannah, alone in her dorm room, weighing the pros and cons of giving us a real chance.

Morning comes too quickly, my alarm blaring at 6:30. Every muscle protests as I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. The hot water helps, but only marginally. I look better than I did last night, but still obviously like someone who got in a fight.

I arrive at Coach's office at 6:58, knocking tentatively on the door.

"Enter," he barks.

I step inside, standing awkwardly as he looks up from his desk, his expression darkening as he takes in my appearance.

"Sit," he orders, pointing to the chair across from him.

I comply, bracing for the explosion.

"Do you know what I heard yesterday?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm. "I heard that my right wing, the player I'm counting on to lead us to a championship, got into a fistfight in the middle of campus. With his own brother. Over a girl."

"Coach, I—"

"I'm not finished," he cuts me off. "Do you have any idea how stupid that was? How irresponsible? You could have been seriously injured. You could have been suspended. You could have jeopardized everything this team has been working toward all season."

I drop my gaze to my hands, unable to argue with any of it.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" he demands.

"I’m sorry," I say quietly. "It won't happen again."

"Damn right it won't," he agrees. "Because if it does, you're off the team. I don't care how many goals you've scored this season. I don't care if you're the best player I've coached in twenty years. I will bench you for the championship if you pull another stunt like that. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Coach."

He studies me for a long moment, then sighs. "Is this girl worth it?"

The question catches me off guard. I expected more yelling, maybe punishment laps or extra drills. Not this unexpected moment of almost-fatherly concern.

"I think so," I answer honestly.

He nods slowly. "Then be smarter about it. Fighting your brother in public isn't going to win her over, and it sure as hell isn't going to help this team."

"Yes, Coach."

"Now get out of here. Trainer's room, have them look at that eye. I need you at one hundred percent for practice tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" I ask, surprised. "Not today?"

"You're taking today off," he says, already turning back to his paperwork. "Rest. Take care of yourself. Be ready to work twice as hard tomorrow."

"Thank you, Coach."

He grunts in response, dismissing me without looking up.

I leave his office feeling like I just dodged a bullet. No suspension, no being benched for the championship. Just a warning and a day to recover. It's more than I deserve, and I know it.

The trainer's assessment is less forgiving than Coach's. "Bruised ribs, minor contusions to the face, possibly a slight concussion though you're not showing symptoms. What the hell happened, Sanderson?"

"Family disagreement," I mutter.

"Hell of a disagreement," he says, applying butterfly bandages to the cut above my eye. "Your brother do this?"

"News travels fast."

"Small campus," he shrugs. "Hold still."

I wince as he prods my ribs. "Anything broken?"

"Don't think so, but we should get an X-ray to be sure. Can't have you playing with a fractured rib."

"I'm fine," I insist. "Just bruised."

"We'll let the X-ray determine that," he says firmly. "I'll set it up for this afternoon."

I leave the training room with an ice pack, a bottle of anti-inflammatories, and strict instructions to rest. With a free day ahead of me and no desire to face the curious stares of my classmates, I head back to my apartment.

My phone buzzes as I unlock the door. Miller this time.

Heard about the fight. You good?

I'll live. Coach didn't bench me, so there's that.

Good. Team needs you. Want company? I'm free until 2.

I consider the offer. Miller's a good friend and maybe talking it through would help. But I'm not sure I have the energy for his questions or, worse, his well-meaning advice.

Thanks, but I think I'm just going to sleep. Catch you tomorrow.

Roger that. Rest up, Rocky.

I smile despite myself. Even my friends are making jokes about the fight. By tomorrow, it'll be a full-blown campus legend.

I check my phone one more time, hoping for a message from Hannah, but there's nothing. No matter how much I want to call her, to explain, to make sure she's okay, I can’t push it. Not after yesterday.

Instead, I force myself to put the phone down and stretch out on the couch, flipping on the TV for distraction. But my mind keeps circling back to Hannah, to Cade, to the mess that is my life.