Page 2

"Lucy, I can't fucking do this!" I shout into the phone, my patience snapped like a cheap stick.

She erupts, forcing me to yank the phone from my ear. "All you fucking care about is hockey and your boys. My boys, this. My boys, that! And then you call me whenever you want to fuck, and I think that's total bullshit, Sanders!"

I catch Cory's eye from the bench. He's listening with the focused attention of a man watching his favorite sport. Hockey's got nothing on relationship drama.

"Lucy, I told you what this was when we first hooked up. I don't want a fucking girlfriend," I remind her for what feels like the hundredth time this month.

Her groan rattles through the speaker loud enough to echo off the locker room walls. "That's all you fucking say, Sanders. I don't do relationships. I don't want a girlfriend. "

There’s no way in hell I sound the way she’s mocking me right now.

I stare at the wall, tension building in my jaw. "I can't keep doing this."

"Fuck you, Sanders! You're such a fucking coward and a fucking liar because when you're coming in me, you––"

I hit end. The sudden silence better than any goal horn I've ever heard.

I shake my head as Cory grins. My phone lights up again, vibrating against my palm like an angry wasp. Another text.

Lucy: You have a serious problem!

Lucy: You hung up on me!?

Lucy: I'll meet you at your place tonight to talk

"Fucking hell," I mutter, showing Cory the message.

He chuckles, offering zero advice despite witnessing the entire train wreck.

"She doesn't take a fucking hint," I scoff, closing my messages as she starts calling again. I jam the phone into my pocket where it continues to buzz like a trapped fly.

"She loves the monster––"

"Cory," I cut him off.

He laughs. "You could have any bitch with that girth, bro, just saying."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, dropping onto the bench beside him. We've got a game tonight, and Lucy loves to hang off my arm at the after-party like a championship trophy. I need to find a way to avoid her.

"I'm not coming out tonight, and if she says anything––"

His hand lands on my shoulder, solid. "I got your back."

I bury my face in my hands, trying to figure out where I keep fucking up.

Lucy started off easy. She agreed with me, even said she wasn't looking for a relationship either. It was perfect, it worked. Then came the flood–excessive texts, constant calls, all the fucking drama. Anyone watching from the outside would think we're a couple.

I exhale slowly, the realization settling in my gut like bad pre-game food. These girls keep lying straight to my face. And somehow they all end up certifiably insane.

"You'll blow off steam tonight," Cory says, nudging me. "Gibbs has it coming for him."

We bump fists because he knows I've got his back. Gibbs is a druggie fuck who's been gunning for us since our last game. He skates too close to the line and nearly made me eat shit the last time we were in the same rink together. Tonight's about payback.

Cory adds, "You always attract the crazy bitches."

I shake my head because it's the cold truth. I've never once landed a decent girl. They all come with baggage––daddy issues, alcohol problems, or jealousy that burns like acid.

"K," I mutter. "See you later. I'm going for a fucking run."

Third period into the game. The perfect moment arrives like a gift when Gibbs drifts into my zone. I slam him against the boards, the impact jolting through my shoulder pads. The crowd erupts as he swings first.

This is the best part of hockey–the moment when the gloves drop. My fist doesn't connect because his teammate grabs my arm. Gibbs starts throwing gut punches, and I use every ounce of restraint not to drop kick the fucker into next week. I'm not trying to kill the guy, just blow off some of the steam that's been building all day.

My arm finally breaks free, and I get my shots in, connecting with satisfying impact.

Then I'm shoved into the penalty box, watching the rest of the game slip away like water down a drain.

We lose by two. The locker room feels like a funeral, nobody saying what we're all thinking. Gibbs is probably strutting around right now, proud as fuck. He kicked my ass, and they took the win.

I open my phone to a screen full of Lucy's texts.

"For fuck's sake," I shout, then dial my brother.

Cade answers immediately. "Shit, Sandy, you made the team lose."

"Yeah, yeah," I say. "I need to stay at your place tonight."

"Okay, what's going on?" he asks. He's always been the better version of me. The younger brother, the golden child, the favorite. He quit hockey years ago, but the kid is smarter than a whip. I only got here on a hockey scholarship while he's smart enough to get the bigger scholarships that require brain power.

"Lucy won't get off my dick. She's fucking crazy, man. I need to be somewhere she won't know."

He laughs. "Who the fuck is Lucy?"

I blow out a breath. "Fuck, you might find out tonight if you're at the party. She probably knows I have a younger brother."

"You can stay in my room tonight. I am going to hit up the party. I might come home, I might not."

"Okay. If you get too wasted, call me, and I'll come get you."

"Yeah, sounds good. Don't eat all my fucking food. Or go through my shit."

I chuckle. "Fucking relax, Cade. I'm not gonna go through your shit."

"Rules are rules."

That's straight from our parents' playbook. "Yeah, okay. I'm heading over now."

"K, bye."

I end the call, glimpsing fragments of Lucy's texts. If she thinks I'm reading any of that novel-length shit, she's delusional.

I say goodbye to the team and tell them I'm turning in early. They call me a grandpa for not coming out tonight, and then I head to my brother's apartment.

The place is dark when I arrive, nobody home. I grope along the wall for a light switch, give up, and use my phone's flashlight to navigate the hall to the bathroom.

These guys live like animals. The bathroom is a fucking wreck––pubes scattered across the toilet, toothpaste crusted in the sink. I take a quick piss and head to Cade's bedroom where the light switch is right where it should be.

I discover he's got his own bathroom. This one actually looks like someone gives a shit––clean, organized. Pure Cade. I hop in the shower, use his products, then kill the lights. I slide into his bed and start scrolling through TikTok.

Hours pass. The door creaks open. I drop my phone and fake sleep. The last thing I need is Cade kicking me to the couch. After the beating I took tonight, I deserve a real mattress.

"Sandy," I hear Cade whisper.

I stay perfectly still, slowing my breathing just enough.

"Sanders," he calls again.

Deep. Breaths.

"Fuck," Cade mutters before the door clicks shut.

I don't touch my phone again. The fake sleep becomes real, pulling me under like an undertow.

Later, the door clicks again, but I'm already halfway to dreaming. Cade and I are teenagers again, and he's sneaking into my room to use my window to sneak out of the house. My room was always the entry and exit port.

Good times.

Then lips brush against my cheek, soft like the girls who used to climb through my window in high school.

I kiss back, drifting in that space between dreams and reality, imagining sunlight filtering through brown hair.

She kisses my lips, her hands traveling south. I'm already rock hard, and she giggles against my mouth. I catch that thick bottom lip between mine and bite it.

"Hey," I murmur.

She smiles against my lips. "Hey yourself," she whispers.