Page 27

"So, you're telling me you've never seen him play?" Lennox stares at me across our usual table in the dining hall, her fork suspended halfway to her mouth. "Not even once?"

I shrug, picking at my salad. "I'm not really a sports person."

"It's not about sports," Greta interjects, leaning forward with the intensity she usually reserves for discussing workout routines. "It's about watching your boyfriend in his element. Being supportive."

"He's not my—" I start automatically, then catch myself. "I mean, we haven't exactly defined things."

"Defined things?" Finley rolls her eyes. "Hannah, you have been like magnets. He spent the night at your dorm. What's left to define?"

The memory of that night makes me shiver—my dorm then his bedroom the next night, the way he looked at me like I was something precious. We haven't put labels on whatever is growing between us, but it's undeniably significant, undeniably real.

"Fine," I mutter. "I should see him play. But isn’t hockey so…violent."

"That's the best part," Lennox says with a grin that borders on feral. "All those big guys slamming into each other, fighting for dominance."

"You make it sound like National Geographic," I laugh.

"Nature documentary or not, we're all going," Greta declares, pulling out her phone. "When's the game?"

"Friday," I say. "It's the conference finals, apparently. James says it's a big deal."

"James?" Finley questions, eyebrows raised.

I feel heat rise to my cheeks. "That's his name. His real name."

"Not Sanderson? Not Sandy?" Lennox teases. "My my, you have reached the inner circle, girlfriend."

"Stop," I shriek, but there's no heat in it. The truth is, I like knowing this small, intimate detail that few others do. I like the way his eyes soften when I use his name, the way it feels like a secret shared between us.

"So, Friday," Greta brings us back on track. "We'll need tickets. And team colors. Do they have merch?"

"I have no idea," I admit. "This is all new to me."

"Leave it to me," Lennox says, already typing on her phone. "I'll get us tickets in the student section. It'll be an experience."

"Speaking of experiences," Finley leans forward, eyes sparkling with curiosity, "how are things going with you two? Details, please. Some of us are living vicariously."

I hesitate, not sure how much to share. Sanderson and I haven't exactly been hiding our relationship, but it still feels new, fragile, something to be protected from the outside.

"It's good," I say simply. "Really good."

"That's all we get?" Lennox groans. "After I covered for you with the RA? Come on."

"What more do you want?" I ask, though I know exactly what they're fishing for.

"Is he as good in bed as rumors suggest?" Greta asks bluntly.

"Greta!" Finley gasps, but she's leaning forward too, clearly interested in the answer.

The memory of Sanderson’s hands, his mouth, the way he seemed to know exactly what I needed before I did, flashes through my mind. "I don't kiss and tell," I say primly, but I can feel the blush giving me away.

"That good, huh?" Lennox says with a knowing smile. "I knew it."

"Can we please talk about something else?" I beg. "Like the Bio Ethics final that's going to destroy me next week?"

"Boring," Lennox dismisses with a wave. "Has he said it yet?"

"Said what?"

"The L-word," Finley clarifies.

"It's way too soon for that," I laugh. Wow, they think I’m living in a freaking fairytale.

"Time is relative when it comes to feelings," Greta says with surprising wisdom. "My parents got engaged after three months. They've been married for twenty-six years."

"Well, we're not anywhere near engagement," I say firmly. "We're just…figuring things out."

"But you like him," Lennox presses. "Like, really like him."

I think about Sanderson—not just the physical attraction, though that's certainly potent, but the way he listens when I talk, the unexpected depth I've discovered beneath his jock exterior, the tender way he holds me after we make love.

"Yeah," I admit softly. "I really do."

The girls exchange knowing looks, and I brace myself for more teasing. Instead, Finley reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.

"I'm happy for you, Han," she says sincerely. "After everything with Cade, you deserve someone who makes you smile like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're doing right now," Greta points out. "All dreamy and soft. It's disgustingly cute."

I roll my eyes, but I can't deny the heat spreading through my chest. It's nice having friends who support me, who are genuinely happy for my happiness, even if they express it through relentless teasing.

"So," Lennox says, bringing us back to the original topic. "Hockey game. We'll meet at my dorm at six, pregame a little, then head over together. Wear something blue and white."

"Pregame?" I question. "It's a sporting event, not a frat party."

"Oh, sweet summer child," Greta laughs. "You have so much to learn about college athletics."

"Fine," I smile, knowing resistance is futile. "But I'm not doing body shots or whatever barbaric ritual you're planning."

"Body shots? You need to get out more," Lennox grins. "Now, are you going to see him before the game? Offer some, ah, stress relief?"

I check my phone out of habit, but there are no new messages from him. We've both been busy—me with end-of-semester projects, him with extra practices for the championship—so our communication has been sporadic this week. Still, a small part of me notes that it's been different, less frequent than the constant texts we were exchanging just days ago.

"I don't know," I say honestly. "He's been pretty focused on hockey this week. Conference finals are apparently a big deal."

"They are," Greta confirms. "Scouts come to those games. It could affect his future."

"Exactly," I nod. "So, I'm giving him space to focus."

"Very mature," Finley approves. "Just make sure you wear something hot to the game. Give him extra motivation."

"I'm pretty sure his scholarship is motivation enough," I say dryly.

"Trust me," Lennox says with authority, "nothing motivates a guy like knowing his girl is watching and looking fine as hell."

"His girl," I repeat, testing how the words feel. Not bad, actually. Not bad at all.

The conversation shifts to Finley’s boy problems, finals and summer plans, but my mind keeps drifting back to Sanderson. It's been three days since I've seen him, the longest we've gone without contact since our relationship began. I miss him with an intensity that surprises me—his smile, his laugh, the way he makes me feel both safe and exhilarated at the same time.

After lunch, I walk to my afternoon class alone, the early spring sunshine warming my shoulders. On impulse, I pull out my phone and text him.

Lunch with the girls. They're coming to your game Friday. No pressure, but now I have witnesses if you lose.

His response comes faster than I expected.

Tell them to bring signs. Preferably embarrassing ones with your face on them.

I smile, imagining his reaction to that particular horror.

Don't tempt Lennox. She's already talking about "pregaming."

Great. Just what I need—drunk girls screaming my name while I'm trying to focus.

I'll keep them in line. Mostly. Miss you.

There's a pause before his next message, longer than his usual quick replies:

Miss you too. Sorry I've been MIA. Coach has us on double practices.

No worries. Want to grab dinner tonight? I could bring food to you.

Another pause, this one stretching long enough that I reach my classroom before the response comes.

Can't tonight. Film review and team meeting. Rain check?

A small pang of disappointment hits, sharper than it should be for such a reasonable excuse. We're both busy, after all. It's end of semester crunch time, plus his championship game. It makes perfect sense that he can't drop everything for dinner.

So why does it feel like something's off?

No problem, I type back. Tomorrow?

Probably not. We have morning and afternoon meetings, plus I have a paper due.

Now the feeling intensifies—a slight but persistent sense that he's pulling away, creating distance where there was none before.

Everything okay? I ask, unable to keep the concern from bleeding into the message.

Just stressed about the game. It's a big one—scouts from three NHL teams will be there. Could make or break my chances.

The explanation is perfectly reasonable, rational even. Of course he's stressed about a game that important. Of course he needs to focus.

I understand, I assure him. I'll let you concentrate. Just know I'm here if you need anything.

Thanks, Hannah. See you Friday.

I slip my phone into my bag as the professor begins the lecture, pushing away the nagging sense of unease. Sanderson is busy with hockey, focused on a championship that could determine his future. It's not about me, not about us. And maybe it's good to have this little bit of space, this reminder that we're individuals with our own priorities and passions.

Still, as the week progresses, the feeling persists. Our texts remain sporadic, perfunctory. He's unfailingly polite, unfailingly kind, but there's a new distance in his communications, a guardedness that wasn't there before. When I suggest meeting for coffee between his practices on Thursday, he deflects again—another team meeting, another paper, another legitimate excuse that leaves me with the distinct impression he's avoiding me.

"Am I being paranoid?" I ask Lennox on Thursday night as we study in her room, notes spread across her floor in organized chaos.

"About what?" she asks, not looking up from her textbook.

"Sanderson. He's been…weird this week. Distant."

That gets her attention. She sets down her highlighter, fixing me with a serious look. "Distant how?"

"Just…not available. Which makes sense with the championship coming up, but––"

"But your anxiety brain is telling you he's ghosting you," she finishes for me.

"Maybe?" I sigh, flopping back against her bed. "Is that crazy?"

"Not crazy, but probably not accurate either," she says thoughtfully. "From what I've seen, that boy is stupid in love with you. One busy week isn't going to change that."

"He's not in love with me," I protest automatically, though the words send a flutter through my chest.

"Sure," she says dryly. "Keep telling yourself that. Look, he's an athlete before a championship game. They get weird, focused, tunnel vision. It's not personal."

"You're right," I agree.

"I'm definitely right," she corrects. "And tomorrow you'll see him play, looking all hot and athletic, and everything will be fine."

"Fine," I echo, not entirely convinced but willing to wait and see.

"Now, more importantly," she pulls something from under her bed, "what are you wearing tomorrow?"

She holds up a crop top in the team colors, cut low enough to be borderline indecent.

"Absolutely not," I say firmly. "It's still March. I'd freeze to death."

"Beauty is pain," she intones solemnly.

"Beauty is pneumonia, apparently," I counter. "I'll find something blue that covers my vital organs, thanks."

"Boring," she sighs, but she's smiling. "At least let me do your makeup."

"Deal," I agree, knowing this particular battle isn't worth fighting.

The rest of the night passes in comfortable study rhythm, interspersed with outfit planning for the game and speculation about how many goals Sanderson will score. By the time I return to my dorm, I've mostly convinced myself that everything is fine, that my worries are just the product of academic stress and emotional aftershocks from the intensity of our relationship's beginning.

Friday arrives with a buzz of anticipation that has nothing to do with classes and everything to do with the evening ahead. Despite my initial reluctance, I find myself genuinely excited to see Sanderson play, to witness this important part of his life.

I dig through my closet, finding a blue sweater that brings out my eyes and a white scarf with subtle silver threads running through it. Not exactly team spirit gear, but close enough to show support without sacrificing my dignity or warmth.

As promised, Lennox arrives at my dorm at five, makeup bag in hand like she's preparing for battle. "Sit," she commands, pointing to my desk chair. "This is going to take a while."

An hour later, I hardly recognize the woman in the mirror—smoky eyes, defined cheekbones, lips a shade darker and fuller than my natural color. "Is this really necessary for a hockey game?" I ask, though I can't deny she's done an impressive job.

"Trust me," she says, applying a final touch of setting spray. "The lighting in that arena is brutal."

Greta and Finley arrive soon after, both decked out in university colors, Greta with blue streaks in her blonde hair, Finley with the team logo painted on her cheek.

"I feel underdressed," I comment, taking in their enthusiasm.

"You look perfect," Finley assures me. "Classy fan, not crazed groupie."

"Though there's nothing wrong with crazed groupie," Lennox adds, applying another layer of lip gloss. "Alright, ladies. Time to pregame."

"Pregaming" turns out to be less debauched than I feared—just a single shot of vanilla vodka in Lennox's room, a toast to victory, and then we're walking across campus toward the athletic complex, joining the stream of students and locals heading for the arena.

I've passed the building countless times but never been inside. From the exterior, it's an imposing structure of glass and steel, modern and sleek against the traditional brick of the surrounding campus. Tonight, it's transformed—lights blazing from every window, a massive banner over the entrance proclaiming "CONFERENCE FINALS" in bold letters, people everywhere, dressed in team colors, voices raised in excited conversation.

"Wow," I breathe as we approach. "I didn't realize it was such a big deal."

"Hockey's huge here," Greta explains. "Perks of being so close to Canada."

We join the queue at the entrance, the excitement palpable as we inch forward. Inside, the atmosphere intensifies—the corridor packed with students and alumni, the air thick with anticipation and the smell of popcorn, hot dogs, and beer. The sounds of conversation, laughter, and distant music blend into a wall of noise that makes my head spin.

"This way!" Lennox shouts over the din, grabbing my hand to pull me through the crowd toward the student section entrance.

We emerge from the corridor into the arena proper, and I stop short, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer scale of it. The ice gleams under bright lights, pristine and perfect. Seats rise in steep tiers around the oval rink, already filling with spectators. On the far side, a pep band plays fight songs, their brass instruments adding to the cacophony. The scoreboard hangs from the center of the ceiling, massive screens displaying team logos and promotional videos.

It's not just the size or the noise that strikes me, but the feeling in the air—a collective excitement, an almost electric charge of shared anticipation. This is a place where moments matter, where memories are made, where ordinary students become heroes for a night.

And somewhere in the building, preparing for the biggest game of his college career, is Sanderson. My James. About to skate onto this impossibly bright stage with hundreds of eyes watching his every move.

No wonder he's been distant. No wonder he's been focused. This isn't just a game—it's his future, his dream, his chance to prove himself on a scale I can barely comprehend.

"Hannah?" Finley touches my arm, concern in her eyes. "You okay?"

I nod, finding my voice. "Yeah. Just…taking it all in."

"First hockey game is always overwhelming," she says sympathetically. "Come on, let's find our seats before the team comes out. You don't want to miss their entrance."

I follow her up the stairs to where Greta and Lennox have already claimed a row, right at the edge of the student section with a perfect view of the ice. As I settle in, I pull out my phone and type a quick message to Sanderson.

Just arrived. The arena is incredible. Good luck tonight. I believe in you.

That last part might’ve been too corny, but oh, well. I don't expect a response—he's surely in final preparations by now—but sending the words out into the universe feels important, a small connection between us across the distance of this enormous space.

I put my phone away and turn my attention to the ice, to the crowd, to this new experience that's about to unfold. Whatever's been going on with Sanderson this week, whatever's caused the distance between us, I'll face it after the game. For now, I'm here to support him, to witness this important game, to be part of something that clearly means the world to him.

The lights dim suddenly, and the crowd roars in anticipation. It's starting.