Page 22

I aim for the puck and fucking miss it, watching it sail with Peterson’s stick instead.

I haven’t stopped thinking about Hannah. And right now is a bad time to pop a semi. I force myself to think about Coach's disappointed face, the smell of the locker room after a long road trip, anything to get my focus back where it belongs—on the ice, not on Hannah Porter's body.

I manage to stay present for the rest of practice, even netting two goals in our scrimmage that earn reluctant praise from Coach. The whistle finally blows, and we file off the ice, bodies aching but spirits high. Conference finals are in ten days, and despite some rough patches, we're ready.

In the locker room, the usual post-practice chaos reigns—guys stripping off gear, the hiss of showers, pungent deodorant spray battling with the ever-present stench of hockey equipment. Home sweet home.

"So," Miller says, dropping onto the bench beside me as I unlace my skates. "I hear you've been busy since your fight. Something about a certain brunette we're not supposed to mention?"

I glance up to find half the team suddenly interested in our conversation, their movements slowing as they pretend not to eavesdrop.

"Subtle, Miller. Real subtle."

"Hey, campus has eyes everywhere," he shrugs. "If you didn't want people knowing, maybe don't make out with her in broad daylight."

Is he talking about how I kissed Hannah goodbye in the hallway outside of her dorm? Hell, news travels fast.

"It wasn't broad daylight," I correct him. "And it was just a goodbye kiss."

"A goodbye kiss," Peterson mocks from three lockers down. "Like the goodbye kiss Cory's mom gave me last night?"

"Fuck you, Pete," Cory shoots back, launching a sweat-soaked sock at Peterson's head. It misses, hitting Rodriguez instead, who retaliates with a spray of deodorant.

"Children, please," I say, channeling Coach's exasperated tone. "If you shut up for five seconds, I'll tell you what's actually happening."

That gets their attention. The guys gather around like it's story time at kindergarten, half-dressed and fully invested in my love life.

"We kissed," I say, keeping it vague.

"No shit," Miller rolls his eyes. "The real question is: how serious is it? Because you nearly broke your brother's face over this girl, and I'm wondering if she's worth the family drama."

Something in my expression must change, because Miller backs off slightly. "No offense, man. Just concerned."

"She's worth it," I say simply.

"Have you talked to Cade since the fight?" Rodriguez asks, uncomfortably direct as always.

"No." I focus on removing my shin guards, avoiding eye contact. "He's not exactly taking my calls." Not that I’ve called him.

"Can't blame him," Peterson mutters.

I shoot him a look, and he raises his hands in surrender. "Just saying, if my brother hooked up with my girlfriend—"

"Ex-girlfriend," I correct.

"—I'd be pissed too," he finishes. "How are you going to handle it? That’s your brother."

I sigh, running a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. "I don't know yet. First, I need to figure out if Hannah's all in. No point in continuing to ruin my relationship with Cade if she's not serious."

"Dude, you guys kissed?" Cory points out helpfully. "That seems pretty 'all in' to me."

"It's complicated," I say, knowing how lame it sounds. "She's the overthinking type. Gets in her own head. One minute she's kissing me like she can't get enough, the next she's talking about 'taking it slow' and 'being careful.'"

"Ah," Miller nods sagely. "The hot and cold routine. Classic."

"She's just cautious. And she has every right to be, given how we started."

The guys exchange glances.

"Well, there's one way to find out where her head's at," Peterson says, grabbing his phone from his locker. "Text her. Right now."

"Now?" I'm halfway to the showers, towel around my waist. "I'm not ready to start poking her with questions."

"But you wanna poke her, don’t you?" Rodriguez grins.

"Come on," I laugh.

"Shower," Cory suggests, as if it's the most brilliant idea. "Then text her."

I roll my eyes but head to the showers anyway. Ten minutes later, clean and somewhat less exhausted, I return to find the guys still lingering, clearly waiting for this to unfold.

"Don't you all have places to be?" I ask, pulling on jeans and a clean t-shirt.

"Nope," Miller grins. "This is quality entertainment."

"Fine." I grab my phone, oddly nervous as I type out a message to Hannah. "What should I say?"

"Dick pic," Miller suggests immediately.

"Absolutely not," I snap, appalled. "I'm not an animal."

"'Hey beautiful, thinking about you,'" Rodriguez offers in a falsetto voice.

"Too cheesy," Peterson says. "Keep it casual. 'What's up?'"

"That's too casual," Miller argues. "You've already had your tongue down her throat. 'What's up' is for acquaintances."

I ignore them all and type what feels right. "I'm asking if she wants to get dinner tonight."

"Bold," Peterson approves. "Direct. I like it."

I hit send before I can overthink it. Finished with practice. Dinner tonight?

The guys crowd around as if we're watching the final seconds of a tied championship game. My phone sits silent on the bench between us.

"Maybe she's in class," Cory suggests after thirty seconds of nothing.

"Or she's playing hard to get," Rodriguez adds.

"Or she's just not that into you," Peterson says, earning a collective groan.

"Helpful, Pete. Real helpful," I mutter. "Hasn’t even been a minute."

"Yeah, but everybody is glued to their fucking phones like addicts these days. She’s definitely read it by now."

We wait another minute, and the guys start to give up.

Finally, my phone buzzes. Five grown men lunge for it like it's the last beer at a party.

"I got it!" Miller shouts triumphantly, holding my phone aloft. He reads the message out loud: " Maybe. Depends on if I get through this study group on time. "

"Maybe?" Peterson scoffs. "What kind of answer is maybe?"

"The kind that leaves her options open," Miller says. "She's hedging her bets."

"Or she genuinely doesn't know if she'll be free," I point out. "She's a serious student. Unlike some people I could mention." I look pointedly at Cory, who scraped by last semester with a 2.1 GPA.

"Hey, C's get degrees," he says defensively.

"What do I say back?" I ask, taking my phone from Miller before he can start scrolling through my messages.

"Tell her you'll wait for her however long it takes," Rodriguez suggests dramatically. "That you'll be there when she's ready, even if it's midnight."

"Jesus, Rod, he's asking her to dinner, not trying to hook up," Miller laughs.

"How about, 'I'll pick you up at 8, wear something nice'?" Cory suggests. "Women like decisive men."

"Hannah isn't 'women,'" I say. "She's Hannah. She'd probably attack me if I tried to tell her what to wear."

"Okay," Peterson concedes. "How about just, 'Let me know when you're done, and we can figure it out'?"

I nod, typing the message. "That works. Casual but interested."

"Add a winky face," Cory suggests.

"I'm not adding a winky face."

"At least a regular smiley."

"No emojis," I insist, hitting send. "Hannah appreciates proper punctuation."

"She sounds like a blast at parties," Peterson mutters.

"She doesn’t party," I say, surprising myself with how defensive I feel. "She's funny and smart and calls me on my bullshit. Unlike you enablers."

"Ooh, he's in deep," Miller teases, making kissy noises. "Sanderson and Hannah, sitting in a tree…"

"What are you, twelve?" I shove him, but I'm grinning anyway.

My phone buzzes again. This time I snatch it before any of the guys can grab it.

Study group just got extended to 7:30. Rain check?

The disappointment hits harder than I expected. "She's canceling," I tell the guys.

"Let me see," Miller demands, reading over my shoulder. "That's not a cancellation, that's a postponement. Big difference."

"Semantics," I mutter.

"No, strategy," he insists. "She's not saying no, she's saying not tonight. Ball's in your court."

"Tell her you'll bring dinner to her dorm after her study group," Peterson suggests. "Women love that shit."

"Again with the 'women love that' crap," I shake my head. "Have any of you actually had a relationship that lasted longer than a weekend?"

They exchange sheepish glances.

"I dated Brynlee for three weeks," Cory offers.

"Until you forgot her birthday and hooked up with her roommate," Rodriguez reminds him.

"She had a hot roommate," Cory waves dismissively.

I ignore them, thinking about what Hannah would actually want. Not some grand gesture, not yet. Just something thoughtful, something that shows I'm listening.

No problem. How about I bring coffee to your study session instead? Fuel for the brain.

"Smart," Miller approves, reading over my shoulder again. "Supportive but not pushy."

"When did you become a relationship guru?" I ask.

"My sister used to make watch those stupid romcom movies with her," he admits, then quickly adds, "Tell anyone and I'll deny it to my grave."

The guys are too busy watching my phone to even register the blackmail material Miller just handed them. After what feels like an eternity but is probably only thirty seconds, Hannah responds.

Actually, that would be amazing. Library, third floor, study room 302. Caramel macchiato with an extra shot. You're a lifesaver.

"She said yes!" Cory pumps his fist like we just scored in overtime.

"Coffee will always get them," Peterson grins.

"It's a foot in the door," Miller says. "And she told you her coffee order. That's practically a love letter in college girl language."

"Shit," I say, but I can't help the stupid smile spreading across my face. "It's just coffee."

"Sure, it is," Rodriguez winks.

"So, what's the play here?" Peterson asks, suddenly all business. "You bring the coffee, charm her study group, walk her back to her dorm after…"

"And then he doesn't kiss her goodnight," Miller interjects. "Leave her wanting more."

"Are you insane?" Cory looks at Miller like he's suggested I show up naked. "Of course he kisses her goodnight. But just a kiss. No tongue. Make her chase you a little."

"I'm not taking dating advice from a guy who confused twins at a party and called them both the wrong name," I say, shoving my gear into my bag.

"That was one time!" Cory protests. "And they were identical!"

"Jessica and Jennifer look nothing alike," Rodriguez points out. "One's blonde, one's brunette."

"They were both wearing hats!" Cory defends himself. "And it was dark!"

"Keep telling yourself that," Peterson laughs.

I finish packing up, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "As entertaining as this is, I have a coffee date to prepare for."

"It's not a date," Miller corrects me, mimicking my earlier tone. "It's just coffee."

"Exactly," I say, pointing at him. "See, you can be taught."

"Are you wearing that?" Cory asks, eyeing my jeans and team t-shirt critically.

"I'm bringing her coffee during a study session, not taking her to prom," I say. "This is fine."

"At least put on a button-down," Peterson suggests. "Show some effort."

"And cologne," Rodriguez adds. "But not too much. Like, one spray, max."

"Do you guys hear yourselves right now?" I ask, genuinely amused. "Since when did you all become the Queer Eye guys?"

"Since you started mooning over a girl who's clearly special enough to make you risk your relationship with your brother," Miller says, suddenly serious. "This isn't your usual hookup, so maybe don't treat it like one."

Damn. He has a point.

"I'm not taking fashion advice from a guy wearing mismatched socks."

Miller looks down at his feet—one sock navy, one black. "They were both dark! It was early!"

"Uh-huh," I head for the door, the guys' laughter following me out. "See you puckers tomorrow."

"Text updates!" Cory calls after me. "We're invested now!"

"Not a chance," I call back, but I'm smiling as I push through the doors and head out into the afternoon sun.

As I walk to my car, I check the time—4:30, plenty of time to go home, clean up, and map out the best strategy for this coffee delivery. I know it's just a small thing, bringing her caffeine during a study session. But somehow it feels significant, this chance to see her in her element, to be supportive rather than disruptive.

It's not a grand gesture. It's not a formal date. But it's a step, another piece in whatever we're doing. And right now, that's enough.

My phone buzzes with a text from the team group chat.

Miller: Operation Get Sandy Laid is officially a go.

Cory: Phase 1: Coffee Delivery. Phase 2: ??? Phase 3: PROFIT

Peterson: Ten bucks says he chickens out of kissing her.

Rodriguez: Twenty says she jumps him in the library stacks.

I roll my eyes and type a quick response.

Sanderson: You're all idiots and I'm muting this chat.

Miller: He's not denying it.

I do mute the chat, shoving my phone in my pocket with a laugh. My teammates are ridiculous, juvenile, and completely lacking in relationship wisdom.

But they care, in their own weird way. And somehow, despite their terrible advice and constant ribbing, I feel better knowing they've got my back.

Now I just need to figure out what to wear to deliver a caramel macchiato to the most intriguing, complicated, beautiful girl I've ever met.

No pressure.