Page 30

I watch her disappear into the night, each step widening the chasm between us. Her shoulders shake with sobs she's trying to contain, and something inside me shatters. The pain in my face—the cut, the bruising, the dull throb behind my eyes—fades to background noise compared to this new, sharper ache.

"Fuck this," I mutter, pushing past Miller who's appeared at my side.

"Let her go, man," he advises, but his voice barely registers.

I'm already moving, long strides eating up the distance between us, my sole focus the retreating figure illuminated by intermittent streetlights. I don't run—running would attract attention, would make this even more of a spectacle than it already is—but I walk with purpose, with urgency, with the bone-deep certainty that I can't let her leave like this.

"Hannah!" I call, my voice rougher than intended. "Hannah, stop!"

She doesn't slow, doesn't turn, just wraps her arms tighter around herself as if physically holding herself together. The vulnerability in that simple gesture hits me harder than any high stick could. I did this. My silence, my distance, my failure to explain—I broke something precious, and now I might not get the chance to fix it.

"Hannah!" I try again, close enough now that she must hear me. "Please."

That one word—please—catches in my throat, unfamiliar and raw. I don't beg, don't plead, don't expose the softer parts of myself. Except with her. Always with her.

She stops abruptly but doesn't turn around. Her body is rigid, tension radiating from every line. I approach carefully, circling to face her, and the sight nearly knocks the wind from me.

Tears track through her makeup, black rivulets against pale skin. Her eyes—those expressive eyes that have looked at me with curiosity, with desire, with something I'd almost dare call affection—now shine with hurt and fury in equal measure. Her lower lip trembles despite her obvious attempt to control it.

"Just go back," she says, the words brittle as ice. "Go back to your party. To your friends. To that girl."

The alcohol on her breath mingles with the vanilla scent that's become so familiar to me. She's not drunk but she's had enough to amplify emotions already running dangerously high.

"I'm not going anywhere," I reply, keeping my voice low and steady. "Not until you hear me out."

"I've heard enough." She tries to move past me, but I step into her path. "Move, Sanderson."

"No." The word isn't harsh, just certain.

"I said move!" She shoves at my chest, the impact negligible against my larger frame but significant in its intent. "Go back inside to whatever her name is. She obviously knows you better than I do."

"That's not true." I catch her wrist gently as she pulls back for another ineffectual push. "You know me. The real me. That's what scares the hell out of me."

"Don't." She yanks her hand free. "Don't try to make this sound romantic or meaningful. I was an idiot to think any of this was real."

"It is real." I step closer, frustrated when she backs away. "Hannah, you have no idea how real this is for me."

"Then why?" The question explodes from her, raw and wounded. "Why ignore me all week? Why not answer my texts after you got hurt? Why act like I don't exist the moment your team wins?"

Each accusation lands like a body blow, and the worst part is that I have no defense because she's right. I did shut her out. I did leave her texts unanswered. I did fall back into old patterns the moment victory and alcohol loosened my grip on the careful walls I've built.

"I fucked up," I admit, the words inadequate but honest. "I handled everything wrong."

"You think?" Her laugh is hollow, nothing like the genuine sound I've come to crave. "I should have known better. This is who you are—the guy who gets what he wants and moves on. The player. The—"

"That's not who I am," I interrupt, heat rising in my voice despite my best efforts to stay calm. "Not anymore. Not with you."

"Save it for someone who hasn't seen you with your arms around another girl ten minutes after I walked in."

"My arms weren't—" I start to protest, then stop myself. The details don't matter when the effect is the same. "Come with me. Please. Let me explain properly."

"There's nothing to explain." She wipes angrily at her tears, smearing mascara further across her cheek. "You're Sanderson Connolly. The hockey player. The puck boy. Everyone warned me, and I thought I was special enough to be different. That's on me."

"You are different." I move closer again, relieved when she doesn't retreat this time. "Hannah, everything about you, about us, is different. Tonight doesn't change that."

"Tonight just showed me the truth," she counters, but I hear the smallest waver in her conviction.

"No, tonight showed you a fraction of a picture that makes no sense without context." I reach for her hand, and when she doesn't pull away, I take it as a victory. "Let me drive you home. We can talk in the car. After that, if you still want nothing to do with me, I'll respect that."

She hesitates, weighing options behind those tear-reddened eyes.

"Please," I add, the word still uncomfortable but necessary. "It's cold, you've been drinking, and I don't want you walking home alone like this."

"I'm perfectly capable of walking back to my dorm," she says, but the fight is draining from her voice.

"I know you are. But I'd feel better if you didn't have to."

She studies me for a long moment, as if searching for any sign of insincerity. Finally, she sighs. "Fine. But only because I don't want you following me all the way back like some lost puppy."

A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Even hurt and angry, she hasn't lost the sharp edge that first caught my attention. "My car's back by the house."

She tenses visibly. "I'll wait here."

"I'll be quick," I promise, already turning to jog back toward the party.

Inside, the celebration continues unabated, music throbbing through the floorboards, bodies packed together in the dim light. I push through the crowd toward the kitchen where I left my keys, ignoring the occasional pat on the back, the offers of drinks, the curious glances.

Rodriguez intercepts me at the doorway. "Everything cool, man?"

"No," I say honestly. "But it will be."

He nods, understanding without needing details. That's the thing about true teammates—they have your back without requiring explanations. "Need anything?"

"Just my keys," I reply, spotting them on the counter.

As I turn to leave, Lucy appears, drink in hand, eyes scanning me with practiced interest. "Leaving so soon, champ? The party's just getting started."

"I've got somewhere to be," I say, already moving past her.

"With your brother’s ex?" Her smile is knowing, almost predatory. "The one you slept with?"

Something in her tone—dismissive, condescending—raises my hackles. "Her name is Hannah," I correct, the words sharper than intended. "And yeah, I'm going after her because she matters to me."

I don't wait for her response, just push through the crowd toward the door, keys clutched tight in my hand. The cool night air is a relief after the stuffy heat of the party, clearing my head for what comes next.

Hannah is still waiting where I left her, arms wrapped around herself against the chill. She looks smaller, more vulnerable, the anger temporarily eclipsed by exhaustion. My chest tightens at the sight.

I pull up beside her, leaning across to open the passenger door. She slides in without a word, keeping her body angled away from me, gaze fixed firmly on the window.

I don't immediately put the car in drive. Instead, I turn to face her, needing to establish at least one thing before we go anywhere. "I would never cheat on you, Hannah. I need you to know that."

She doesn't look at me. "Are we even together enough for that to be possible?"

The question hits harder than I expected. "What?"

"We never defined anything," she says, still staring out the window. "I don't know what we are. What I am to you."

"You're everything," I say simply, the words escaping before I can filter them. "And that terrifies me."

Now she does turn, surprise momentarily replacing hurt in her expression. "What?"

I shift the car into drive, needing something to do with my hands. "Can we go somewhere to talk? Not your dorm, not the party, somewhere…neutral."

She hesitates, then nods once, a short, jerky movement. "Fine."

I pull away from the curb, the silence between us thick with unspoken words. I want to fill it, to start explaining immediately, but I know better. She needs this moment to collect herself, to process, to decide how much she's willing to hear.

We drive for several minutes in complete silence, the only sounds the hum of the engine and the occasional sniffle from Hannah as she tries to regain control. I don't head toward campus, instead taking the turn toward my apartment.

"Where are we going?" she asks immediately, her voice tight.

"My place," I say, then quickly add, "Just to talk. You're free to leave whenever you want. I just…I need to take some pain medication, and all my stuff is there."

She glances at me, really looks at me for the first time since getting in the car, and I see concern flicker across her face. "Your head hurts."

"Like a bitch," I admit, wincing as we pass under a streetlight that sends a spike of pain through my temple. "But that's not important right now."

"It is," she argues, ever practical even in the midst of emotional turmoil. "You were injured. You need to take care of yourself."

"I will. After we talk."

"Your health comes first," she insists. "Take me to your apartment. You can take your medication, and then…then we'll see."

It's not forgiveness, not reconciliation, but it's a start. "Thank you."

We lapse into silence again, but it feels marginally less hostile now. When I steal glances at her profile, I can see her mind working, processing, weighing what she knows against what she feels.

"Cade came to see me on Monday," I say finally, unable to bear the silence any longer. "He brought someone with him. Someone I hoped I'd never see again."

Hannah shifts slightly in her seat, curiosity warring with reserve. "Who?"

"My ex from high school. Megan." Even saying her name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. "She's the reason I have trust issues. The reason I've kept people at arm's length for years."

Hannah doesn't speak, but I can feel the quality of her attention changing, sharpening.

"We were together senior year," I continue, focusing on the road rather than her reaction. "I thought it was serious. When I got my scholarship here, she…took it personally. Like I was abandoning her. We broke up."

I grip the steering wheel tighter, the next part still difficult to say even years later. "A week later, she texted saying she was pregnant."

Hannah's sharp intake of breath is the only sound in the car. I risk a glance at her face, finding shock and something that might be empathy in her expression. She’s waiting patiently for me to continue.

"For two months, I was a complete wreck," I continue, the words coming easier now that I've begun. "I thought my life was over—my hockey career, college, everything. I was trying to figure out how to support a kid, whether I should defer school, if I'd lose my scholarship. It was…hell."

I turn onto my street, the familiar route requiring little concentration. "Then I found out she made the whole thing up. As some kind of twisted revenge for leaving. To teach me a 'lesson' about thinking I was too good for her."

"James," Hannah breathes, the name a balm on my raw nerves. "That's awful."

"Yeah, it was." I pull into my parking spot, turning off the engine but making no move to exit the car. "And that's who Cade brought to my apartment Monday morning. That's why I've been distant all week. Not because of the game, not because I was losing interest in you. Because my brother deliberately dragged up the worst period of my life as some kind of sick revenge."

"Revenge for what?" she asks, though I think she already knows the answer.

"For you," I say simply.

Understanding dawns in her eyes. "That's why you were playing so aggressively tonight."

I nod. "They were both there. Cade brought her just to fuck with me. I saw them right across from the penalty box. I couldn't miss them even if I tried."

"So, when I saw you with that girl at the party—"

"I was already in a fucked-up headspace," I finish for her. "Between Cade's mind games, getting injured, missing the end of the biggest game of the season…I was on autopilot. Falling back into old patterns."

She's quiet for a moment, processing. "Why didn't you tell me any of this?" she asks finally, her voice soft but steady. "I would have understood."

"Pride," I admit. "Shame. Not wanting you to see that part of me. Megan made me think it was a miscarriage, so I almost threw everything away until one of her friend’s told me she was sending me pictures from google. I googled it and…it was the same pictures she was sending me. I was fucked up over it for a while because I thought I loved Megan. Turns out, I was just young. I was the guy who got completely played by someone he trusted. The guy who fell apart over a girl who turned out to be manipulative as hell. I don’t tell anybody about that time. I didn't want you thinking I was lying about it or judge me."

"I would never have judged you," she says with such conviction that I almost believe her.

"I’m sorry I didn’t tell you," I say. "It was selfish of me, but I didn’t want to talk about it. That's on me."

She looks down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. "That’s heavy, Sanderson. I’m sorry that it all happened."

I grab her hand, relieved she intertwines her fingers in mine. "It’s all in the past."

"Okay," she says, understanding.

"I want us to be together," I say simply.

Her eyes meet mine, caution and hope battling in their depths.

"Officially, exclusively, whatever label makes sense to you. I want this, Hannah. I want you. I haven't looked at another girl since that night in Cade’s room. I haven't wanted to."

Her lips part in surprise. I turn to her, but before she can respond, a sharp pain lances through my head, radiating from the cut on my cheekbone down into my neck. I can't suppress the wince, the involuntary tightening of my features.

"Let’s get you inside," she says immediately, concern displacing everything else. "You need to take medicine now."

"It’ll pass," I try to argue, but she's already opening her door.

"No, you're in pain, and we can continue this conversation inside."

I follow her lead, oddly comforted by her take-charge attitude even in the midst of our unresolved issues. I fumble with the keys, my coordination suffering as the headache intensifies.

Inside, I head straight for the kitchen where I left the pills prescribed by the medical staff. Hannah follows, hovering in the doorway as I down two tablets with a glass of water.

"Strong stuff," I explain, setting the glass down. "Should kick in soon."

"Good." She crosses her arms, suddenly looking uncertain now that we're in my space. "You should probably rest."

"Not until we finish this conversation," I insist. "Not until we're okay."

"Aren’t we, though?" she asks, vulnerability creeping into her voice. "Okay?"

I move closer, stopping just short of touching her. "I want to be. More than anything. But that's up to you."

She looks up at me, studying my face as if searching for any sign of insincerity. "I was scared tonight," she admits quietly. "Seeing you in that context—surrounded by teammates, by those girls, by everything I'm not part of. I felt like I was getting a glimpse of the real Sanderson Connolly, and he didn't need me at all."

"That's how it is being a part of the team. My face is beat, and the guys still wanted me to come out. It’s just how it is, and it’s not as bad as you think," I say, shaking my head despite the pain it causes. "We’re not out fucking everything that walks. We just like to cool off after a game, and parties are fun. I’ll show you now that we’re official. I can’t hide from the team, and I don’t give a fuck about what Cade will do next because now you know the secrets he was trying to spill during the fight. That version you saw tonight is just another side to me." I sigh, running my hands through my hair. "Don’t we all have sides to ourselves that not everyone sees?"

She shrugs like she might agree. "I guess you haven’t seen me with a pack of golden retrievers yet, so yeah, I guess I understand."

I chuckle, trying to imagine that. "I definitely need to see that side of you."

"I promise that you’re the first person I’ve ever felt like this for, Han. Our circumstances were not the best but––"

"Our moments have been pretty good."

I smile and then drop my mouth because it hurts my face.

I take a step closer, close enough that I can catch the faint vanilla scent that clings to her skin. "I've found something I didn't even know I was looking for." My voice drops lower, rougher. "Like every day I get to see you is a good day, no matter what else happens. Like you matter more than hockey, more than my future, more than anything."

She blinks rapidly, fresh tears threatening. "James—"

"I'm falling in love with you, Hannah Porter," I interrupt, the words flowing now that I've started. "Maybe I've already fallen. And it terrifies me because I've never felt this way before, never been this vulnerable with anyone. But I'd rather be scared with you than feeling safe with anyone else."

A tear escapes, tracking down her cheek, and I can't stop myself from reaching up to brush it away. The contact seems to break something open between us, because suddenly she's moving forward, closing the distance, her arms wrapping around my waist as she presses her face into my chest.

I hold her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other splayed across her back, feeling her heartbeat through the thin material of her sweater. We stand like that for what might be minutes or hours, time losing meaning in the simple fact of her in my arms again.

"I was so worried when you got hurt," she murmurs against my shirt. "And then you didn't answer my texts, and I thought maybe…maybe you were done with me and regretted everything."

"Never," I state, tightening my arms around her. "I don’t regret a single thing, Hannah."

She pulls back just enough to look up at me, her makeup smudged, her eyes still red-rimmed, and yet more beautiful to me than any perfectly polished puck bunny could ever be.

"I'm still mad at you," she informs me, though the curve of her lips suggests otherwise.

"You have every right to be." I brush a strand of hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. "I should have told you about Cade, about Megan, about all of it."

"Yes, you should have," she agrees. "No more secrets. If we're going to do this—really do this—I need to know you'll talk to me. Even about the hard stuff. Especially about the hard stuff."

"I promise," I say, meaning it more than any promise I've ever made. "No more secrets."

She searches my face, seeming satisfied with what she finds there. "Good. Because I think I might be falling in love with you too, and I'd rather not do it alone."

The words hit me like a body check and a perfect pass all at once—knocking the wind out of me even as they fill me with unexpected joy. I lean down slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull away if she wants to.

She doesn't. Instead, she rises on her tiptoes, meeting me halfway, her lips soft and certain against mine. The kiss is gentle, cautious at first, then deepening as the last barriers between us dissolve. Her hands find their way into my hair, careful to avoid the injured side of my face, while mine settle at her waist, holding her steady against me.

When we finally break apart, both slightly breathless, I rest my forehead against hers, mindful of my injury. "Don’t leave tonight," I whisper. "Just…stay with me."

She nods, her eyes never leaving mine. "Okay."

It's not a resolution, not entirely. We still have things to work through, trust to rebuild, boundaries to establish. But it's a beginning—or perhaps a new beginning, stronger than the first because it's built on honesty and vulnerability rather than confusion and circumstance.

And for tonight, that's more than enough.