Page 24 of Don’t Puck the Wrong Brother (Don’t Puck Around #1)

I wake before dawn, disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling, the narrow bed, the warm weight pressed against my side. Then it all comes rushing back—Hannah, her dorm room, last night.

Hannah.

She's curled against me, one arm draped across my chest, her breath warm against my skin. In the dim light filtering through her half-closed blinds, I study her sleeping face—the fan of dark lashes against her cheeks, the slight part of her lips, the complete absence of the guarded expression she usually wears.

I've woken up with girls before. More than I'd care to admit. But it's always been followed by the immediate urge to leave, to escape before morning could bring conversations, expectations, and complications. Now, I can't imagine being anywhere else.

What the hell is happening to me?

This wasn't supposed to get serious. It was attraction, curiosity, maybe a bit of forbidden allure because of her history with Cade. But somewhere between that first mistaken night and now, everything's changed. I've changed. I'm willing to put everything on the line for her, and this is becoming dangerous.

I carefully brush a strand of hair from her face, marveling at how peaceful she looks. Last night plays in my mind—not just the sex, though that was beyond anything I've experienced, but the moment she said my name. My real name. Not Sanderson or Connolly or Sandy, but James. No one calls me that except my mom and hearing it from Hannah's lips did something to me I still can't quite explain.

She stirs slightly, pressing closer in her sleep, and I instinctively tighten my arm around her. This protective urge is new too—this desire to shield her from anything that might hurt her, including me.

Because that's the truth I've been avoiding. I'm not good for her. My track record speaks for itself—a string of hookups with no follow-through, a reputation as the puck boy, the guy who never calls back. Add in the mess with Cade, and I'm basically a walking red flag.

But looking at her now, feeling the gentle rhythm of her breathing against me, I want to be better. I want to be the kind of man who deserves her trust, her smile, the way she looked at me last night like I mattered.

I think I'm falling in love with Hannah Porter.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, it settles in my chest with a rightness that takes my breath away. I'm falling in love with her intelligence, her determination, the way she challenges me without even trying. The way she sees through the persona I've carefully cultivated, straight to the person I've kept hidden from everyone else.

Her eyelids flutter, and I hold my breath, suddenly worried about what morning will bring. Will she have regrets? Will the clear light of day make her reconsider everything that happened between us?

Her eyes open, focusing slowly on my face. For a moment, she just stares, and I brace myself for the shift—the return of barriers and careful distance. Instead, she smiles, soft and genuine.

"Morning," she murmurs, voice husky with sleep.

"Morning," I reply, my own voice unexpectedly rough. "Sleep okay?"

She nods, stretching slightly beside me. "Better than I have in days."

"Me too." The admission comes easily, honestly.

She props herself up on one elbow, studying me with those perceptive eyes. "No regrets?"

"None," I say immediately, wanting—needing—her to know I mean it. "You?"

Instead of answering directly, she leans down and kisses me, a gentle press of lips that somehow feels more intimate than anything we did last night. When she pulls back, her expression is open, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache.

"No regrets," she whispers.

We stay like that for a moment, just looking at each other in the early morning light, a thousand unspoken words in the space between us. Then her alarm clock blares, shattering the moment with its insistent beeping.

"Shit," she mutters, reaching over to silence it. "I have class in an hour."

Reality crashes back—we're not in some private bubble, but in her dorm room on a weekday morning, with responsibilities and commitments and people who might notice if I'm seen leaving her building at dawn.

"I should go," I say, though it's the last thing I want to do.

She nods, understanding the practicalities even as disappointment flashes across her face. "Yeah, probably smart."

I sit up, scanning the floor for my scattered clothes. "What's your schedule like today?"

"Classes until three, then more Bio Ethics review," she says, pulling the sheet around herself as she watches me dress. "You?"

"Morning practice, then classes until four." I find my shirt, badly wrinkled from a night on her floor. "Dinner later?"

She bites her lip, considering. "I should study…"

"I'll bring food to wherever you're studying," I offer, already planning the gesture. "No distractions, I promise."

A smile tugs at her lips. "Just your presence is a distraction, Connolly."

"Is that a yes or a no, Porter?" I counter, pulling on my jeans.

"It's a yes," she says with a soft smile. "Same study room as yesterday."

"I'll be there." I finish dressing, then sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly reluctant to leave. "Hannah, about last night…"

"I meant what I said," she interrupts gently. "No regrets."

"Me neither," I assure her. "It's just—I want you to know this isn't…I don't usually…" I run a hand through my hair, frustrated by my inability to find the right words. "This matters to me. You matter."

Her expression softens. "You matter to me too."

It's not a declaration of love, but it's enough for now—this mutual acknowledgment that we're in uncharted territory together, that what's happening between us is significant.

I lean down to kiss her goodbye, intending a quick peck, but she pulls me closer, deepening the kiss until I'm tempted to forget about practice, about classes, about everything except her.

"You're making it very hard to leave," I murmur against her lips.

"That's the point," she whispers back, and I can feel her smile.

With considerable effort, I pull away, pressing one final kiss to her forehead. "I'll see you tonight."

"Tonight," she agrees.

I force myself to stand, to gather my keys and phone, to walk to the door like a rational human being and not someone who's just discovered a fundamental truth about himself.

At the door, I turn back for one last look. She's sitting up in bed, sheet wrapped around her, hair tousled from sleep and my fingers, watching me with an expression I can't quite read.

"Bye, James," she says softly, and the sound of my name on her lips nearly undoes my resolve to leave.

"Bye, Hannah," I manage, then slip out the door before I can change my mind.

The hallway is mercifully empty as I make my way to the stairwell, not wanting to risk the elevator and potential witnesses. But even if I encountered the entire women's volleyball team right now, I doubt it would dampen the ridiculous smile spreading across my face.

I step out into the crisp morning air, the campus still quiet in the early hour. My car is where I left it, but somehow everything else feels different—sharper, clearer, more vivid. Like I've been seeing the world through a filter that's suddenly been removed.

My phone buzzes in my pocket as I unlock the car. It's a text from Miller, followed quickly by several more from the team group chat:

Miller: Where the hell are you? Coach is looking for you. Practice in 20.

Cory: 5 bucks says he's with his brother’s ex.

Peterson: Make it 10. No way he stayed all night.

Rodriguez: If he got lucky, I'm buying him a beer. If he struck out, he's buying ME a beer.

I shake my head, typing a quick response:

Sanderson: On my way. Traffic.

Miller: Traffic at 6am? Try again.

I ignore the follow-up, tossing my phone onto the passenger seat as I start the engine. They can give me shit all they want; nothing's going to ruin this morning.

"Nice of you to join us, Connolly," Coach says dryly as I jog onto the ice, five minutes late despite breaking several speed limits to get here.

"Sorry, Coach. Won't happen again."

He gives me a look that says he's heard that before but doesn't push it. "Get warmed up. We're running the power play in five."

Practice moves at a brutal pace, but I barely feel the burn in my legs, the strain in my lungs. I'm operating on pure adrenaline and whatever this new feeling is—this lightness that makes everything seem easier, more fluid.

"Someone got laid," Cory mutters as we line up for a drill.

I glare at him.

"Holy shit, you did!" He stares at me, then breaks into a grin. "Your brother’s ex…again?"

I ignore him, focusing on the drill, but the guys are like dogs with a bone, refusing to let it go. By the time we hit the showers, the entire team seems to be in on the bet about whether I spent the night with Hannah.

"Just tell us and put us out of our misery," Miller pleads as we change after practice. "Did you or didn't you?"

"None of your business," I say, pulling on a clean shirt.

"That's a yes," Peterson declares triumphantly. "Pay up, losers."

"It could be a no," Rodriguez argues. "Maybe he's just respecting her privacy."

"Have you met Sandy?" Cory laughs. "Since when does he respect anyone's privacy?"

"I'm right here, you know," I remind them.

"So?" Miller prompts. "Are we celebrating or consoling?"

I consider telling them to fuck off, to keep Hannah's name out of their locker room gossip. But I also know these guys—they'll just keep pushing until they get something.

"We're not discussing this," I say firmly. "But I will say yesterday went well."

A chorus of whoops and hollers follows this non-answer, echoing off the locker room walls. Coach sticks his head in, eyebrows raised.

"If y’all are done with your tea party, some of us have classes to teach."

"Yes, Coach," we chorus, like the well-trained athletes we occasionally are.

As we file out of the locker room, Miller falls into step beside me. "Seriously, though, you good?"

I glance at him. "I'm good. Really good, actually."

He studies me for a moment, then nods. "Glad to hear it. Just be careful, man. Brother's exes, man. I don’t know."

"I know," I sigh. "Trust me, I know."

Cade. In my Hannah-induced haze, I'd almost forgotten about my brother. Almost, but not quite. The guilt never fully disappears, just retreats temporarily when I'm with her.

"Have you talked to him?" Miller asks, reading my mind.

"No."

"Shit, bro," Miller says.

"What would I even say? 'Sorry I slept with your ex…again, but don't worry, I'm falling for her'?"

The words slip out before I can stop them, and Miller's eyes widen.

"Falling for her? Shit, Sandy, that's not in the playbook."

"Tell me about it," I mutter, already regretting the admission.

"So, it's serious? Not just a hookup?"

I hesitate, then nod. "Yeah. It's pretty serious. For me."

"Wow." He lets out a low whistle. "Never thought I'd see the day. Sanderson Connolly, whipped."

"Not whipped," I protest, though without conviction. "Just…invested."

"Uh-huh." His grin is insufferable. "Well, if she's got you saying words like 'invested,' she must be pretty special."

"She is," I say simply.

He claps me on the shoulder. "Then maybe it's worth making things right with Cade. Not for his sake, but for yours. And hers. If he wants to stay mad, that’s on him, but you can’t hide it forever."

I know he's right. If Hannah and I are going to have any chance at a real relationship, the situation with Cade will always be the elephant in the room until I address it without a fight. But the thought of reaching out to my brother, of trying to explain feelings I'm just beginning to understand myself, is daunting.

"I'll think about it," I promise, which is more than I was willing to consider a day ago.

Miller nods, satisfied for now. "That's a start. Now go get educated, you degenerate. I'll see you at film review later."

We part ways, he heads for the engineering building, me toward the business school for my Sports Management class. As I walk, I pull out my phone, ignoring the team chat notifications to send a quick text to Hannah:

Still thinking about this morning. Can't wait for tonight.

Her reply comes quickly:

Focus on your classes, Connolly. Not all of us can coast on our athletic skills.

I grin, typing back:

Is that what you think I do? Coast?

Prove me wrong. What's your GPA?

3.7, actually. Surprised?

There's a pause, then:

Impressed. Maybe there's more to you than just a pretty face and hockey skills.

So, you think I'm pretty?

I think you're fishing for compliments when you should be paying attention in class.

Class doesn't start for 10 minutes. Plenty of time for you to tell me how pretty I am.

Your ego is big enough without my help. Focus on your education, James. I'll see you tonight.

Just like that, my name again. Two syllables that feel different coming from her. Special. I'm smiling as I pocket my phone and head into class, not even caring that I probably look like an idiot.

James Sanderson Connolly is hooked. Who would have thought?