Page 26

Morning light filters through my blinds, warming patches of empty bed beside me. The absence of Hannah is physical, a hollow space where her warmth should be. I reach for my phone before I'm fully awake, typing out a message with sleep-clumsy fingers.

Morning. My bed feels too big without you in it.

Sappy, maybe, but honest. I've never been one to miss someone's presence, to wake up wanting anything but coffee and solitude. But Hannah has changed that.

I don't wait for her response, dragging myself out of bed and into the shower. Under the hot spray, I replay last night—Hannah in my apartment, her curious eyes taking in the space I've created for myself, the way she looked curled up in my bed like she belonged there. The memory is enough to make me consider skipping morning practice, something I haven't done since freshman year.

Instead, I finish my shower and throw on a pair of shorts, planning the rest of my morning—protein shake, quick review of game film, then practice at nine.

A distinctive knock interrupts my thoughts—three quick raps, pause, two more. Only one person knocks like that.

Cade.

I hesitate, hand on the doorknob. We haven't spoken since the fight, and I'm not sure I'm ready for whatever conversation awaits on the other side of this door. But avoiding him won't fix anything, and if Hannah and I are going to have any real chance, I need to address the Cade-shaped elephant in the room.

I pull the door open, steeling myself.

Cade stands in the hallway, dressed in khakis and a button-down, his hair neatly combed, an odd smile playing at his lips. He looks like he's heading to a job interview, not stopping by his estranged brother's apartment at 7 AM.

"Hey," he says, the greeting awkwardly bright. "Got a minute?"

"Depends," I say cautiously. "What for?"

"I have a surprise." His smile widens. "In the living room."

"How the fuck did you get in here?"

"Door was unlocked. Relax, Sandy. I brought a real treat. Come on."

Something in his tone sets off warning bells, but curiosity wins out. I follow him down the hallway, bare feet silent on the hardwood, a strange tension building with each step.

"Ta-da!" Cade says with theatrical flourish as we enter the living room.

For a moment, I think I'm still asleep, caught in some bizarre dream where past and present collide. Because sitting on my couch, legs crossed, smile as practiced as I remember, is Megan Davis.

My first girlfriend. My first love. My first lesson in how cruel people can be.

"James!" she exclaims, rising from the couch with fluid grace. "Look at you!"

Her use of my first name sends a jolt through me, wrong and jarring from her lips. Only two people call me James—my mother, and now Hannah. Not this ghost from my past who has no right to such intimacy.

"What are you doing here?" The words come out flat, emotion locked down tight as memories flood back.

Senior year of high school. Captain of the hockey team. College scouts at every game. And Megan—beautiful, popular Megan who everyone wanted and somehow wanted me. Six months of first love intensity, planning our futures, making promises neither of us could keep.

Then the acceptance letter from this university, full hockey scholarship, a path away from our small town. I'd thought she'd be happy for me. Instead, she'd been furious, accusing me of abandoning her, of thinking I was too good for her. The breakup had been ugly, painful, but necessary.

A week later, the text that changed everything: I'm pregnant.

Two months of panic, of secret meetings to discuss options, of my future suddenly derailed. My grades slipped. My hockey suffered. I became a shell of myself.

Until the night I found her at a party, drunk and carefree, confiding in a friend that she'd "fixed her Sandy problem" with a fake pregnancy scare. That she'd teach me to "think with the right head next time."

I haven't seen her since that night. Until now, with her standing in my living room like the last four years never happened.

"James?" she says, taking a step toward me. "It’s been so long. How are you?"

"Don't call me that," I say, my voice low. Something must show on my face, because she stops advancing, her smile faltering slightly.

"Sandy, then," she amends. "How are you? You look good."

I turn to Cade, ignoring her question. "Why is she here?"

Cade's smile has an edge of cruelty I've rarely seen in my brother. "I ran into her at the bar last night. We got talking about old times, and she mentioned she moved here. Thought you'd want to catch up."

The deliberate calculation in his voice makes it clear—this isn't a coincidence. This is payback.

"Both of you need to leave," I say, keeping my voice even through sheer force of will. "Now."

"Don't be like that," Megan says, her voice taking on the honeyed tone I once found irresistible. "I just wanted to see you. Talk about old times."

"Nothing to talk about," I say flatly.

"Actually," she continues as if I hadn't spoken, "Cade was telling me all about what happened with his girlfriend. History repeating itself, huh?"

The implication hits me hard. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She gives me a look of practiced sympathy. "Come on, James. You've always had a thing for the wrong girls. When are you going to learn?"

I feel like I’m in a dream right now. What the fuck? My hands clench at my sides, jaw tight enough to crack teeth. "You don't know anything about anything, Megan."

"I know she was dating your brother until…you know," Megan says, glancing at Cade with a conspiratorial smile. "Sounds messy."

"Okay, we're done here." I move to the front door, holding it open. "Get out."

Cade steps forward, playing the reasonable one. "Sandy, come on. She just wants to talk. Maybe clear the air—"

"There's nothing to clear," I cut him off. "What she did—what you're doing right now—it's not something we 'talk' about. It's something we leave in the past where it belongs."

"Still so dramatic," Megan sighs. "This is why we didn't work, you know. Everything was always so intense with you. Just fucking chill."

The laugh that escapes me is harsh, humorless. "We didn't work because you lied about being pregnant to try to trap me. Remember that?"

Her expression shifts, the practiced smile faltering. "I was young and stupid. People make mistakes. You’re not perfect."

"That wasn't a mistake. That was manipulation. Now get out of my apartment."

Cade steps between us, hands raised in placating gesture. "Why don't you wait in the car, Megan? Let me talk to my brother for a minute."

She hesitates, then nods, retrieving her purse from the couch. As she passes me, she pauses. "For what it's worth, I am sorry. We were kids, and I would’ve done anything to make you stay."

I say nothing, holding the door until she's through it, then turning to face my brother.

"Cade, what the fuck," I snap.

Cade’s face hardens. "That was a reminder."

"Of what?" I feel sick to my stomach, meeting his eyes.

"Of what you truly deserve. Of why you don’t do relationships. Why sleeping with the whole fucking campus is a lot better than being in a fucking relationship."

I scoff. "Hannah is nothing like Megan."

He laughs. "She doesn’t need to be, brother. But you…" he says with an arrogant smirk. "You are still the fucking same. Once this whole fascination with Hannah is over guess who will be waiting for her with wide open arms."

"Leave," I snap. I don’t want to do anything stupid like lay my brother flat on his fucking ass right now.

He pats my arm. "Hannah came to fuck me that night. If you think what you have with her is real…you just wait." He steps out of the house, turning back to me to laugh in my face.

I slam the front door, rubbing my jaw. Then I stand perfectly still, breathing through the anger, the old hurt, the fresh wound of my fucking brother who knows how to get under my skin.

Then I'm moving, throwing on gym clothes, grabbing my keys and hockey bag, needing to get out, to move, to channel this toxic cocktail of emotions into something physical before it consumes me.

Twenty minutes later, I'm at the rink, nearly two hours early for practice. The ice is empty, the lights half-dimmed—perfect. I lace up my skates, my movements sharp, angry. The first step onto the ice brings instant relief, the familiar bite of blade against surface grounding me in the present.

I push off hard, circling the rink at full speed, letting cold air burn my lungs until the edge of rage dulls slightly. Then drills—crossovers, stops, starts, pushing my body until sweat soaks my practice jersey despite the chill.

I don't hear the others arrive, lost in the rhythm of puck against stick, the hollow sound of shots hitting the back of the empty net. A hand on my shoulder startles me back to awareness.

"Little early, aren't you?" Coach asks, expression somewhere between impressed and concerned.

"Needed the ice time," I say, breathing hard.

He studies me for a moment, then nods. "Team's here. Let's run line drills."

Practice officially begins, the rink filling with the sounds of skates, sticks, shouted directions. I move through the familiar routines on autopilot, my body responding to years of training while my mind remains elsewhere—half in the past with Megan, half in the present with Hannah, wondering how something that felt so right last night could seem so fragile in the harsh light of morning.

"Sanders!" Coach's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You're up."

I take my position for the breakaway drill, eyes focused on the goal, the defender, the space between. When the whistle blows, I'm moving, faster and harder than necessary, shouldering past Miller with enough force to send him sprawling across the ice.

"What the fuck, Sandy?" he demands, scrambling to his feet.

I ignore him, driving the puck into the net with vicious precision, then circling back for the next repetition.

"Easy," Peterson warns as we line up again. "Save it for the game."

Again the whistle, again I charge forward, this time catching Rodriguez with an elbow that earns me a hard shove in return.

"Cool it, Connolly," Coach calls from the sidelines. "This is practice, not the damn Stanley Cup finals."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The rest of practice continues in this vein—me pushing too hard, the guys growing increasingly wary, Coach's warnings becoming more pointed.

Finally, he blows the whistle for a water break and crooks his finger at me. "A word, Sanderson."

I skate over, bracing for the lecture.

"Whatever's eating you," he says without preamble, "deal with it before Friday's game. I need your fire, but I need it controlled. Channeled. This—" he gestures to where Rodriguez is rotating his shoulder, wincing from our last collision, "—isn't helping anyone."

"Yes, Coach," I say automatically.

"I mean it, Sanderson. You're one of our best, but you're not irreplaceable. Get your head straight." His expression softens slightly. "Everything okay outside the rink?"

The question catches me off guard—Coach rarely ventures into personal territory. "Fine," I say, the lie obvious to both of us.

He sighs. "Work on your passing game today. You're rushing shots, missing opportunities. The championship isn't won by one player trying to do everything himself. Remember that."

"Yes, Coach."

"Good. Now get back out there and try not to injure any my starting lineup."

I rejoin practice with marginally better control, focusing on the technical aspects—clean passes, proper positioning, the fundamentals that have become second nature over years of training. Slowly, the physical exertion does what it always does—burns away the excess emotion, leaves clarity in its wake.

By the time we hit the showers, I'm exhausted but calmer, the morning's confrontation relegated to background noise rather than consuming fire.

"What the hell has gotten into you?" Miller asks as we change, his voice pitched low for privacy.

"Yeah," I say, pulling on a clean shirt. "Sorry. Just family shit."

He nods, understanding without needing details. "Brothers, right? Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em."

"Something like that."

"Well, whatever it is, use it Friday," he advises. "Northeastern won't know what hit them."

"That's the plan," I agree, grateful for his easy acceptance.

My phone buzzes as I'm packing up my gear. Hannah.

Good morning. Just saw your text. My bed felt empty too. Hang out tonight?

The message sends warmth through me, a direct counter to the cold dread Megan's appearance triggered. For a moment, I consider accepting, pushing past the morning's events, pretending none of it happened.

But Cade's words echo in my head— Remember how that ended —and beneath the anger at his interference lies a splinter of fear. What if he's right? What if I am setting us both up for disaster? What if I hurt Hannah the way I've hurt others, or she hurts me the way Megan did?

I stare at my phone, typing and deleting responses several times before settling on:

Can't tonight. Extra stuff for conference finals. Come to the game Friday?

Her reply is immediate: Wouldn't miss it. I’ll be there.

Won’t be seeing much of me until then. Just focused on hockey this week. Big game.

I understand. Good luck with practice. Call me after?

Will do.

I put my phone away, ignoring the disappointed looks from my teammates.

"What?" I demand.

"Nothing," Cory says, raising his hands in surrender. "Just thought everything was going good, Sandy."

I correct him automatically. "I've got other things on my mind right now."

"Like beating Northeastern on Friday," Peterson says, clapping me on the shoulder. "Right priorities, man."

"Exactly," I agree, though hockey is only part of what's occupying my thoughts.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of classes and film review, my focus narrower than usual, centered on the immediate tasks at hand rather than the larger questions looming. I don't call Hannah that night, telling myself I need to focus, that a little distance is prudent after the intensity of recent days.

The truth, which I admit only in the darkness of my bedroom, staring at the ceiling where constellations of glow-in-the-dark stars have lingered since freshman year, is that I'm scared. Not of Cade, not even of hurting Hannah, though that fear is certainly present.

I'm scared of how much I care. Of how quickly she's become essential. Of how easily it could all fall apart.

Because what does that say of me?

It means I’m weak.