Page 29

The victory buzzes through campus like electricity, charging the air with a collective euphoria that's impossible to resist. Even me, who has never watched a hockey game before tonight, find myself swept up in the celebration, whooping and high-fiving strangers in team colors. Conference champions. Our team. Our school.

"There’s a party!" Greta announces as we file out of the arena with the crowd, her face flushed with excitement beneath her blue-streaked hair. "I just got texted the address. We have to go."

I hesitate, scanning the mass of bodies exiting around us. Somewhere in this building is Sanderson, likely in the locker room or still with medical staff. The image of him being helped off the ice, blood streaming down his face, replays in my mind for the hundredth time tonight.

"I should really check on Sanderson first," I say, pulling out my phone. My third unanswered text glows on the screen.

Are you okay? Please let me know you're alright.

"He'll probably be at the party," Lennox chimes in, linking her arm through mine.

"And besides," Finley adds, "they're probably still doing medical things. Or team things. Hockey things." She waves her hand vaguely. "You know."

I don't know, and that's the problem. This world of sports rituals and team dynamics is foreign territory to me. For all I understand, they could be painting themselves with the blood of their enemies or performing elaborate victory dances around their skates.

"Okay," I say, knowing I'm outnumbered. "But I'm not staying long."

An hour later, we approach a sprawling off-campus house already vibrating with bass that thrums through the sidewalk beneath our feet. Blue and white streamers flutter from the porch railing. A crude sign declaring "CHAMPIONS LIVE HERE" hangs crookedly above the door.

The vanilla vodka from our pre-game ritual still lingers warmly in my veins, not enough for intoxication but enough to soften the edges of my anxiety. Even so, I hang back as we reach the porch steps.

"I’m not sure this is a good idea?" I say, hesitating at the bottom. I don’t go to these things.

"Too late to back out now," Greta grins, guiding me forward with a hand between my shoulder blades. "Besides, we deserve to celebrate too. We sat through three periods of hockey!"

"Such sacrifice," Finley teases.

Inside, the house is a kaleidoscope of movement and sound. Bodies press together in the dim living room, dancing to music that feels more like a physical presence than an audible one. The sweet-sour scent of spilled beer mingles with perfume and sweat. Conversations overlap into incoherence, punctuated by bursts of laughter and occasional cheers.

How long has this party been going on for?

Lennox navigates the crowd with practiced ease, leading us toward the kitchen where an impromptu bar has been established on a folding table. Rodriguez, one of Sanderson’s teammates, mans the station, pouring drinks with the concentration of a mad scientist.

"Ladies!" he exclaims when he spots us. "What are you drinking?"

"Shots!" Greta declares before any of us can answer. "We're celebrating tonight!"

Rodriguez grins, lining up plastic cups and filling them with clear liquid. "The Wolves salute you," he says with a mock bow, passing them over.

I accept mine reluctantly, the sharp scent of cheap vodka making my nose wrinkle. The girls raise their cups in unison.

"To winning!" Finley cheers.

"To hot hockey players!" Lennox adds with a wink in my direction.

We touch cups and drink. The alcohol burns a path down my throat, settling like embers in my stomach. I suppress a cough, setting the empty cup on the counter with perhaps too much force.

"Seen Connolly?" I ask Rodriguez casually, trying to keep the desperation from my voice.

His expression shifts, subtle but noticeable. "Which one?"

The question throws me momentarily. Then heat flashes to my fingertips. What an asshole. "Sanderson."

"Medical's probably still checking him out," he says, glancing toward a hallway. "That high stick was nasty. But he'll be here. No way he'd miss this."

I nod, relief washing through me. At least someone has seen him, knows he's coming. The knot of worry in my chest loosens slightly. But I don’t think I like this…Rodriguez guy.

"Another round while you wait?" Rodriguez offers, already reaching for the bottle.

Before I can decline, Greta hands me another shot. "Loosen up, Hannah. You look like you're at a funeral, not a party."

I take the cup, forcing a smile. One more won't hurt, and maybe it will calm the restless energy that's been building since I watched Sanderson crumple to the ice, since I lost sight of him in the chaos that followed.

The second shot goes down easier than the first. Lennox grabs my hand, pulling me toward the living room where furniture has been pushed aside to create a dance floor.

"Come on," she shouts over the music. "Standing around won't make him appear faster!"

She's right. Worrying won't conjure Sanderson out of thin air. I let her lead me into the throng of dancers, the four of us forming a protective circle against the crush of bodies. The music pulses, a physical force that makes thinking impossible. For a few minutes, I surrender to it, moving without thought, letting the rhythm wash away the anxiety that's been my constant companion.

The alcohol hums pleasantly in my veins, not enough to impair but enough to blur the sharp edges of my concerns. I lose track of time, song blending into song, until Greta grabs my arm mid-dance, her fingers digging into my skin.

"He's here," she says directly into my ear.

My heart stutters, then races. I follow her gaze across the room to where a group of guys have just entered, greeted by cheers and raised cups. The team, still flushed with victory, creates a gravitational force that draws attention from every corner of the party.

And there, in the center of it all, is Sanderson.

The sight of him stops the air in my lungs. His face bears the evidence of the game—an angry red line cuts across his left cheekbone, already darkening to purple around the edges. His eye is swollen, though not completely shut. Someone has handed him a beer, which he sips while laughing at something Miller says beside him.

He looks different here, I realize with a strange lurch in my stomach. Removed from the soft intimacy of my dorm room or the quiet focus of the library, he exists in this space with a confidence that borders on arrogance. His stance is wider, his smile sharper. He's louder, more animated, high on victory and surrounded by his tribe.

I don't know this Sanderson. This is the player I've heard rumors about, the campus athlete with the reputation that precedes him. The guy who, according to Lennox's frequent commentary, "gets around."

As I watch, a cluster of girls approaches the team, squealing congratulations. They're beautiful in that effortless way that seems to come naturally to some women—glossy hair, perfect makeup, bodies displayed in outfits designed to draw attention. One of them touches his arm, leaning close to examine his injured face with exaggerated concern. He says something in response that makes her laugh, her hand lingering on his bicep.

My stomach twists uncomfortably. Sanderson doesn't move away from her touch. If anything, he leans closer, head tilted down to hear her over the music. They look good together, I think with a peculiar detachment. Like they belong in the same world, understand the same unspoken language.

"Hey." Lennox appears at my elbow, following my gaze. "That’s nothing."

I nod automatically, though the lie is obvious. It’s definitely something. Lennox studies me for a moment, then sighs.

"This is his scene," she says, not unkindly. "Always has been. The hockey guys, the puck bunnies, the parties."

"Puck bunnies?" I repeat, the term unfamiliar.

"Girls who go after hockey players," she explains. "Like groupies, but specifically for hockey."

I watch as the girl touches Sanderson’s face now, fingertips hovering just above the cut on his cheekbone. The intimacy of the gesture makes something cold settle in my chest. He doesn't belong to me, I remind myself. We've never defined what we are to each other.

"I need another drink," I announce, turning away from the scene.

Back in the kitchen, I find Rodriguez still at his post. "Two more," I say, holding up two fingers before I can reconsider.

He raises an eyebrow but complies, pouring vodka into fresh cups. I down one immediately, then take the second, moving toward a relatively quiet corner of the kitchen.

The alcohol burns less now, my body already adjusting to its presence. The warmth spreads faster, dulling the sharp edges of my emotions. I'm not a drinker typically—a glass of wine with dinner, maybe, or the occasional cocktail at a birthday celebration. But tonight, the vodka feels like armor against the confusing scene unfolding in the other room.

Sanderson in his element.

That's what this is, I realize. Not the vulnerable man who whispered his real name against my skin. This is the hockey player, the teammate, the guy whose reputation Lennox warned me about before I even knew him. Before I let myself fall.

I finish the second shot, the room shifting pleasantly around the edges. Not drunk, but definitely not sober. Somewhere in between, where everything feels slightly less real, slightly less important.

When I return to the living room, Sanderson is still surrounded—teammates, admirers, the girls with their perfect hair and knowing smiles. One of them says something that makes the group laugh, her shoulder casually bumping on his shoulder. I can't hear the words over the music, but the familiarity in her posture speaks volumes.

And then, as if sensing my presence, he looks up.

Our eyes lock across the crowded room, and everything stops. The music fades to background noise, the people between us blur into insignificance. For a moment, we are the only two people in this crowded house, connected by an invisible thread that pulls taut between us.

I see the exact moment he realizes it’s me. His expression shifts, the easy smile faltering, something complicated flashing in his eyes. Surprise, certainly. Guilt, maybe. Relief, possibly. Too many emotions to decipher in that brief moment.

I start moving toward him without conscious decision, my feet carrying me forward through the press of bodies. The girl beside him is still talking, unaware that she's lost his attention. His gaze remains fixed on me, steady and unreadable as I approach.

When I reach the edge of their circle, the conversation falters, heads turning to register my presence. The girl with her hand on his shoulder gives me a quick once-over, her smile never wavering though something assessing enters her eyes.

"Sanderson," I say, the name emerging softer than I intended.

"Hannah," he responds, and something in his tone makes my heart twist. Not cold, exactly, but carefully neutral. Controlled in a way he's never been with me before. "You’re here?"

"I was at the game," I say, suddenly hyperaware of the many eyes watching this exchange. "I saw you got hit."

"Just a scratch," he shrugs, gesturing to his face. "Had worse."

The nonchalance in his tone feels jarring after the intimacy we've shared. This is the version of him I imagine he presents to everyone else—slightly detached, casually confident, unbothered by things as trivial as facial injuries or worried girlfriends.

Girlfriend? The word surfaces unexpectedly in my thoughts. Is that what I am? We've never said as much.

The uncomfortable silence stretches a beat too long before I break it. "What's going on here?" I ask, gesturing vaguely to the scene around us.

He takes a swig of his beer, his movements loose and relaxed in a way that tells me it's not his first. "Celebrating the win," he says simply. "Conference champs."

One of his teammates—Miller, I think—raises his cup in agreement. "Damn right we are!"

The group cheers, the momentary awkwardness forgotten by everyone except me. I'm acutely conscious of the beautiful girl still standing close to Sanderson, her shoulder nearly touching his. She's watching me with undisguised curiosity now, something knowing in her expression.

"You must be Cade’s ex," she says, her voice sugar-sweet but her eyes calculating. "I've heard about you."

Heat rises to my cheeks. Cade’s ex. Not Sanderson’s girlfriend, not even Hannah. Just a whore like Cade said, a whore who slept with his brother.

"It's Hannah," I say, aiming for dignity despite the alcohol making my thoughts slightly fuzzy. "And you are?"

"An old friend," she replies, her smile sharpening. "We go way back, don't we, Sandy?"

Sandy. The nickname feels oddly intimate coming from her lips, more intimate somehow than James, which he claims he shares only with his mother and me.

Before he can answer, she continues, her voice carrying just enough to reach the teammates clustered nearby. "Though I guess tonight's special. The boys always celebrate wins in their own ways. Don't we, Sandy?" She raises an eyebrow, her meaning unmistakably sexual despite the innocent lilt in her voice.

Something cold slides down my spine at her words, at the knowing looks exchanged among the players. The vodka churns in my stomach, suddenly nauseating instead of comforting.

"Hannah—" Sanderson starts, but it's too late.

The careful walls I've built—the rational explanations for his distance, the benefit of the doubt I've been giving him all week—crumble in an instant. This isn't about hockey focus or pre-game nerves. This is about who he really is, who he's always been. And it's not the man he presented, not the man I thought I knew.

I turn and push through the crowd, tears burning behind my eyes, threatening to spill over. The music is too loud, the bodies too close, the air too thick with heat and perfume and spilled beer. I need out, now, before the first tear falls.

"Hannah!" Sanderson's voice carries over the noise, urgent now. "Stop!"

But I'm already moving, faster than I thought possible in the packed space. Past the kitchen, past where Rodriguez watches with concern, past Lennox who reaches for me as I hurry by. Out the front door, down the porch steps, into the cool night air that shocks my overheated skin.

The first tear falls as I reach the sidewalk, followed quickly by a second, then a flood I can't control. I walk faster, not even sure where I'm heading, just needing distance from the house, from the party, from him.

"Hannah, stop!" His voice again, closer now. He's followed me out, of course he has.

I don't turn around, don't slow my pace. My arms wrap around myself, a futile shield against the evening chill and the pain blooming in my chest.

Footsteps pound on the pavement behind me, gaining quickly. "God damn it, Hannah, will you just wait?"

His hand catches my elbow, gentle despite the urgency in his voice. I stop then, but only because running would make me look even more pathetic.

"What?" I demand, turning to face him, not bothering to hide the tears streaming down my face. "What could you possibly have to say?"

Sanderson stands before me, breath coming fast, his injured face stark in the yellowish glow of the streetlamp. The confident hockey player from moments ago is gone, replaced by someone who looks almost as lost as I feel.

"It's not what you think," he says, the words falling flat between us.

"Isn't it?" My voice breaks, betraying me. "Because what I think is that I've been fooling myself. Thinking I knew you. Thinking I mattered."

"You do matter," he insists, stepping closer. "That girl in there—"

"It's not about her," I interrupt, though in part, it is. "It's about you. Who you are when you're not with me. Who you've always been."

He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I've seen a hundred times, now made strange by the context. "You knew who I was when we met."

"Did I?" The question is genuine despite the bite in my tone. "Because I thought I was getting to know the real you. James, not Sanderson or Sandy or whoever that guy back there is. But maybe this—" I gesture toward the house, the party, the life he leads when I'm not there "—maybe this is the real you. And I was just…what? A challenge? Something new? Oh, I know––your brother’s ex-girlfriend who you had to swoop in to save?"

"Are you serious, Han? It's not like that," he says, and for the first time since I've known him, he won't meet my eyes.

"Then what is it like?" I demand, my voice rising despite my best efforts. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you got exactly what you wanted, and now you're back to your real life, your real friends, your—"

"Stop," he cuts in, a flash of anger surfacing. "You have no idea what this week has been like for me."

"Because you won't talk to me!" The words explode from me, weeks of uncertainty finally finding voice. "You shut me out. You were distant. You made me think it was about hockey, but it was this, wasn’t it. It was always this." I point to the party, pointing at the version of him I don’t like.

He takes a step toward me, hands reaching, but I back away. The hurt that flashes across his face might have moved me once, but now it just adds to the confusion swirling inside me.

"Hannah," he says, his voice lower now, urgent. "Just let me explain."

But what is there to explain? That he has a life I know nothing about? That the world he inhabits when I'm not there is so different from the one we've created together? That perhaps I've been naive, believing I could be enough for someone like him?

"I can't do this," I say, the fight draining out of me, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

I turn to leave, expecting him to follow, to argue, to persuade. But he doesn't. When I glance back, he's still standing under the streetlamp, shoulders slumped, watching me go with an expression I can't begin to decipher.

The tears come harder now as I walk away, blurring the familiar campus landmarks into smears of light and shadow. Four shots of vodka on an empty stomach was a mistake, I realize belatedly. The world tilts slightly with each step, grief and alcohol combining into a potent disorientation.

But I keep walking, one foot in front of the other, away from the party, away from Sanderson, away from the brief, beautiful fantasy that someone like him could truly see someone like me. That what we shared might be real, might be lasting, might be enough to overcome the vast differences in our worlds.

Behind me, I hear a muffled curse, the sound of his voice calling my name once more. I don't turn around. I can't. If I see his face again—that injured, beautiful face—I might falter. Might listen. Might believe whatever explanation he offers, because part of me desperately wants to.

And that's the most dangerous thing of all.