Page 32

I wake to sunlight streaming through blinds I forgot to close and the unfamiliar but perfect weight of Hannah curled against my side. Her breathing is deep and even, her hair spread across my chest. For a moment, I just watch her—the slight part of her lips, the flutter of her eyelashes as she dreams, the peaceful expression I've never seen when she's awake and overthinking everything.

My face throbs, a dull reminder of last night's game and the high stick that took me out of it. The sight of Hannah in my bed—in my shirt, which she must have pulled on sometime during the night—the pain barely registers.

We're in this now. Together. Official. The thought should terrify me, send me running for the familiar safety of casual hookups and zero expectations. Instead, it feels like exhaling after holding my breath for years.

A sharp knock at the front door shatters the moment. I tense, immediately on guard. It's barely 8 AM on a Saturday. Nobody comes by this early unless something's wrong.

"Sandy?" Hannah mumbles, stirring against me, her voice thick with sleep.

"Someone's at the door," I explain, carefully extracting myself from her embrace. "Go back to sleep."

She makes a soft, disgruntled noise that I find ridiculously endearing, then rolls into the warm spot I've vacated, already drifting back to dreamland. I pull on a pair of boxers from my dresser, wincing as the movement pulls at sore muscles from the game.

The knocking comes again, more insistent this time. I pad down the hallway, irritation building with each step. Whoever's interrupting the first peaceful morning I've had in weeks better have a damn good reason.

I yank open the door without checking the peephole—a mistake I realize immediately when I find myself face to face with Cade.

"What the fuck?" The words escape before I can stop them.

My brother stands on my doorstep looking like hell—hair uncombed, dark circles under his eyes, wearing the same clothes from last night's game. His expression shifts from determined to shocked as he takes in my appearance—the bruised face, the boxer-only attire, the clear signs that I just rolled out of bed.

"Nice look," he says, gesturing to my nearly-naked state. "Can I come in?"

I don't move from the doorway. "What are you doing here, Cade? After the shit you pulled last night, bringing Megan to the game, you've got a lot of nerve showing up unannounced."

He has the grace to look momentarily ashamed, but it quickly hardens into defensiveness. "I have no right to be mad? That's hilarious coming from the guy who fucked my girlfriend."

"It was an accident, a misunderstanding."

"Yeah, you accidentally stuck your dick in her." He shakes his head in disgust. "That excuse is ridiculous."

I clench my jaw, torn between slamming the door in his face and dragging him inside to keep this argument private. Before I can decide, I hear soft footsteps behind me. I turn to see Hannah approaching, wearing nothing but my team shirt that falls to mid-thigh, her hair a sleep-tousled mess, her makeup from last night smudged beneath her eyes.

She freezes when she sees Cade, her eyes widening in obvious panic. "Oh."

Cade's expression goes through a rapid series of transformations—shock, hurt, anger, finally settling on a bitter resignation. "Wow. You didn't waste any time, did you?"

"It's not what it looks like," Hannah starts, then stops herself with a grimace. "Actually, it's exactly what it looks like. But it's not like we planned this."

"Sure seems like you did." Cade's voice is hard, his eyes darting between us. "Was this your plan all along, Sandy? Get me out of the way so you could have her for yourself?"

"That's not fair," I snap, my temper flaring despite my best efforts to stay calm. "You know damn well that's not how it happened."

"Do I?" He takes a step forward, into my space. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like my brother—who always wants what I have—swooped in the moment I had something good going. Just like the scholarship. Just like with Mom."

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" My voice rises, matching his intensity. "I earned that scholarship. And Mom? Jesus, Cade, just because she understood why I lost my shit over Megan doesn't mean—"

"Stop it, both of you!" Hannah intercepts, physically stepping between us despite being dwarfed by our heights. She places a hand on each of our chests, creating distance. "This isn't helping anything."

Cade looks down at her, his anger momentarily derailed by her intervention. "You shouldn't be in the middle of this, Hannah."

"Too late," she says with unexpected firmness. "I'm already in the middle. I've been in the middle since that night in your room."

I place my hand over hers where it rests on my chest, a silent show of support that doesn't escape Cade's notice. His jaw tightens, but to my surprise, he takes a deep breath and steps back.

"Look," he says after a moment, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "I didn't come here to fight."

"Then why did you come?" I ask, my suspicion evident.

He gestures to my face. It’s aching like a bitch. "I saw what happened at the game. That high-stick was brutal. I wanted…I just needed to make sure you were okay."

His confession catches me off guard. After everything—the fight in the quad, bringing Megan to the game—the last thing I expected was concern.

"I'm fine," I say, more curtly than intended. "Takes more than that to keep me down."

Hannah shoots me a look that clearly says be nice, and I swallow the defensive retort that rises automatically. She's right. This olive branch, small as it is, deserves acknowledgment.

"Doctors say no permanent damage," I add, slightly less aggressively. "Just looks worse than it is."

Cade nods, seemingly satisfied with this assessment. His gaze shifts to Hannah, something complicated flashing in his eyes before he looks away. "I should go."

"Don't," Hannah says quickly, surprising both of us. "Please. Stay for a minute."

Cade hesitates, clearly caught between pride and something else—maybe curiosity, maybe the same nagging sense of unfinished business that's been hanging between us for too long.

"Fine," he says with obvious reluctance. "One minute."

We move into the living room, the three of us forming an awkward triangle—Cade on the armchair, Hannah and I on the couch, a careful foot of space between us that feels both necessary and ridiculous given what Cade already knows.

Hannah breaks the tense silence first. "I owe you an apology, Cade."

This catches both of us off guard. Cade's eyebrows shoot up.

She nods, her hands twisting together in her lap. "I realized something during all this." Her eyes search the ground and then she looks at Cade. "We barely knew each other."

Cade starts to protest, but she holds up a hand, stopping him. "Think about it. Two months of dating, and what did we really know about each other? Did you know my favorite book? Why I chose my major? What happened with my dad that made me so cautious?"

He's silent, his expression confirming her point.

"And I didn't know you either," she continues softly. "I didn't know about your family, you never mentioned you had a brother who played hockey, and truthfully, I had never seen you angry until you came my dorm."

"So what?" Cade asks, but the edge has gone from his voice. "People get to know each other over time."

"Exactly," Hannah says. "And I think…I think you're going to find someone so much better suited for you than me. Someone who gets you from the start, who shares your interests and priorities. And one day, this whole situation will just be a funny story you tell at parties."

Cade stares at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shifts his gaze to me. "And you? Where do you fit in this little scenario?"

I clear my throat, suddenly nervous in a way I haven't been since asking coach to let me switch from defense to right wing freshman year. "Hannah and I want to make this—us—official."

"Official," Cade repeats flatly.

Hannah leans forward, her earnestness almost tangible. "But only if you can give us your blessing, Cade. It matters to us—to both of us—that you're okay with it."

Hannah gives me a reassuring nod, even though we pretty much made it official last night. However, this conversation, her apology––our apologies to each other are important. We can accept our indifference and move forward.

Cade barks out a laugh that holds more disbelief than humor. "You want my blessing? To date my brother after you were with me? That's…that's something."

"I know it's a lot to ask," Hannah acknowledges. "But you're a good guy, Cade. You always have been. Even when I didn't know you well, I knew that much."

He's quiet for so long that I start to think he might just walk out. Then he sighs, the sound carrying the weight of resignation. "If you're seriously that happy together…then be together. What the hell do I care?"

It's not exactly a ringing endorsement, but it's something. I stand, extending my hand to him, a peace offering that feels long overdue. "Thank you."

He studies my hand for a moment, then accepts it, using the grip to pull me into a brief, awkward hug. As we connect, he murmurs near my ear, "You better thank Mom for this."

The words hit me with unexpected force. I pull back, searching his face. "Mom?"

He nods, a hint of his usual smirk returning. "Who do you think I talked to at 11 PM last night after the game? She told me to stop being a punk and remember we're brothers first, rivals second."

The knowledge that Cade turned to our mother—and that she, in her no-nonsense way, encouraged him to be the bigger person—fills me with a complicated joy. I haven't told her about any of this yet, too ashamed of the mess we've made, too uncertain of how to explain it. But of course, Cade confided in her. They've always had a different kind of relationship than her and I. I’m just glad she talked some sense into him, and he was able to get all this shit off his chest.

His gaze shifts between Hannah and me once more, then he shrugs, an eloquent gesture that somehow encompasses everything—acceptance, lingering hurt, reluctant support. "As long as you're both happy, I guess."

Then he looks directly at me, his expression softening slightly. "Sorry about your face."

I wave it off, knowing he's referring to more than just the injury. "Hockey happens."

"Yeah." With that, he heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "Just…don't fuck this up, okay? Either of you."

It's as close to a blessing as we're going to get, and honestly, it's more than I expected. I nod, acknowledging both the warning and the implicit forgiveness it carries.

When the door closes behind him, Hannah lets out a long, shaky breath, as if she's been holding it since he arrived. Then, with a sudden burst of energy that catches me completely off guard, she launches herself at me, arms wrapping around my neck as she practically climbs me like a tree.

"We did it!" she exclaims, her face alight with relief and something that looks suspiciously like joy. "We got through the worst of it!"

I catch her, hands automatically finding her thighs to support her as she wraps her legs around my waist. Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I find myself grinning despite the pull it causes on my injured cheek.

"Does this mean I can officially call you my girlfriend now?" I ask, only half-joking.

"Yes," she declares, pressing a quick, firm kiss to my lips. "And I can call you my boyfriend. James Sanderson Connolly––right wing hockey player, unexpectedly good communicator, the guy with the ‘monster dick’ is my boyfriend."

I throw my head back and laugh. "What? Monster dick?"

She shrugs. "When you sleep around, the gossip is pure gold. You should already know they say you have a monster dick."

I laugh, holding onto her thighs tightly, and then I admit, "I know."

"And I know that you’re going to be the best boyfriend, James."

I smile at her. The title shouldn't affect me the way it does. I've always scoffed at labels, at the neediness they represent. But hearing it from Hannah's lips, seeing the genuine happiness in her eyes, makes something in my chest expand almost painfully.

"Boyfriend," I repeat, testing the word. "I like it."

" Best boyfriend," she says decisively.

I spin us around, heading back toward the bedroom with Hannah still wrapped around me like the world's most perfect octopus. "Is that so?"

"Mm-hmm," she hums against my neck. "And since your brother was decent enough to give us his blessing, I think we should celebrate."

"You read my mind, Porter," I murmur, kicking the bedroom door closed behind us.

Sometimes, the universe has better plans than we could ever scheme up ourselves. And sometimes, what looks like the biggest mistake of your life turns out to be the best thing that ever happened to you.

I lean down to kiss her, losing myself in the sensation, in the promise of more perfect moments to come.

"Your edge work in the neutral zone is elite level, Connolly. The way you create space for yourself—that's something we can't teach."

I nod, trying to maintain a professional expression despite the surreal feeling of sitting across from three NHL scouts in Coach's office. The bruising on my face has faded to a sickly yellow-green, but at least the swelling's gone down enough that I can see properly out of both eyes.

"We were impressed with how you bounced back after that turnover in the second period," says the scout from Toronto, a former defenseman with salt-and-pepper hair and hands that bear the telltale crooked fingers of a career spent blocking shots. "Lot of guys would've gotten stuck in their head. You came back and made the play that tied the game."

"The high-stick was unfortunate timing," adds the Carolina representative. "But the game film from the rest of your season speaks for itself."

Coach sits behind his desk, uncharacteristically quiet, letting this play out without interference. His subtle nod when I catch his eye tells me everything I need to know—this is going better than either of us expected after I got knocked out of the championship game.

"So, what happens now?" I ask, the question that's been burning in my mind since I got the text to meet them here.

The scouts exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them.

"You've got options," says Toronto finally. "You've got one more year of NCAA eligibility. Another season here would let you develop your game, maybe captain the team." He nods toward Coach, who confirms with a slight inclination of his head.

"Or?" I prompt, not missing the implied alternative.

"Or," Carolina picks up, "you could sign an entry-level contract after the semester ends. Start with our AHL affiliate in Chicago, get accustomed to the professional pace. There's no guarantee you'd see NHL ice next season, but the development path would be accelerated."

My heart rate kicks up a notch. An actual offer—not just interest, not just potential, but a concrete path forward. I've dreamed about this moment since I was eight years old, shooting pucks at trash cans in our driveway while Dad called out drills.

"We're not the only teams interested," the third scout adds, his Pittsburgh accent thick despite years away from the city. "But we're the ones sitting here today because we see something specific in your game that fits our systems."

I take a deep breath, trying to process everything they're saying without letting my expression give away the adrenaline surge coursing through my veins.

"You don't need to decide today," Coach finally interjects, his voice grounding me back in the present. "This is about opening a dialogue, letting James know where he stands."

The use of my first name—rare from Coach—underscores the significance of this meeting. This isn't just another post-game analysis or strategy session. This is my future taking shape in real time.

"I appreciate that," I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. "I want to finish the semester strong, talk to my family. Make sure whatever decision I make is the right one."

All three scouts nod approvingly. This is the answer they expected, the mature response that confirms I'm not just a skilled player but someone who thinks long-term.

"We'll be in touch," Toronto says, standing and extending his hand. "In the meantime, keep working on that one-timer. It's already a weapon, but consistency is what separates the AHL from the Show."

I shake each of their hands, mind already racing ahead to practice drills I can run, video I should review, adjustments to make to my off-ice training. And then, cutting through the hockey calculations, a single thought surfaces that changes everything:

Hannah.

Whatever decision I make now affects her too. Staying means another year together at school. Leaving means distance, complications, choices neither of us anticipated making so soon. The realization should terrify me—this additional layer of complexity to an already life-altering decision—but instead, it feels right. Important. Necessary.

Coach walks the scouts out, leaving me alone in his office for a moment to collect my thoughts. My phone buzzes in my pocket—a text from Hannah.

Meeting over yet? Dying to hear how it went. I'm by the fountain.

A smile spreads across my face as I type back: On my way. Good news.

Coach returns, closing the door behind him. His expression is serious but not stern—proud, maybe, with a hint of the paternal concern he shows when he thinks no one's looking.

"That went well," he says simply.

"Yeah," I agree. "Better than I expected after the injury."

"Told you." He sits on the edge of his desk rather than behind it, a subtle shift that changes the dynamic from coach-player to something more like mentor-protégé. "They saw what I've been seeing all season. What I saw when I recruited you four years ago. You've got the tools, Sanderson."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak past the sudden tightness in my throat. Coach has never been effusive with praise—his philosophy always more stick than carrot—which makes this moment all the more significant.

"Whatever you decide, I'll support it," he continues. "Stay, go, doesn't matter. You've earned the right to choose your path."

"Thank you." The words feel inadequate but necessary. "For everything."

He waves away my gratitude with characteristic gruffness. "Thank me by making the right choice for you. Not for the scouts, not for your family, not for some girl—" He pauses, noting my expression. "Though I hear that particular situation has…resolved itself?"

I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. Coach knows everything that happens on his team, whether we want him to or not. "You could say that. You could also say I have a girlfriend now."

He shakes his head, but there's a glimmer of amusement beneath his disapproval. "Just make sure your personal life doesn't interfere with your decisions about your future. This is your career we're talking about."

"It won't," I assure him, though I'm not entirely convinced. Hannah factors into my calculations now in ways I couldn't have anticipated a month ago.

Coach studies me for a moment, then nods, apparently satisfied. "Go on, then. I'm sure you've got someone waiting to hear about this meeting."

I don't bother denying it, just grab my bag and head for the door. As I reach it, Coach calls after me: "Connolly."

I turn, hand on the doorknob.

"I'm proud of you," he says, the words so unexpected I almost don't register them. "Not just for the hockey. For how you've handled everything this season. Shows character."

Coming from Coach, this is the equivalent of a tearful speech. I nod, unable to find the right response, and slip out the door before the moment becomes uncomfortable for both of us.

The rink always feels different after a meeting like this—the familiar smells of ice and sweat and athletic tape suddenly tinged with possibility, with futures branching in directions I'd only imagined in distant daydreams. I walk through the players' tunnel, past the locker room where Miller and Rodriguez are arguing about some video game, past the equipment room where our sticks are being prepped for tomorrow's optional skate.

Outside, spring sunshine hits me like a physical force after the artificial chill of the arena. I strip off my team jacket, draping it over one arm as I make my way across campus toward the central fountain where Hannah waits.

I spot her immediately—perched on the fountain's edge, legs crossed at the ankle, a textbook open on her lap though she's clearly not reading it, her eyes scanning the paths leading to her position. When she sees me, her entire face lights up in a way that makes my chest tight with a feeling I'm still getting used to.

"Well?" she calls as I approach, closing her book without marking her place. "How did it go?"

I can't hold back my grin as I reach her. "They want me. Entry-level contract, AHL to start with potential for call-ups next season."

"Sanders!" She leaps up, throwing her arms around my neck with such enthusiasm that her book tumbles forgotten to the grass. "That's incredible!"

I lift her, spinning us in a circle that makes her laugh, the sound drawing curious glances from students passing by. When I set her down, I keep my arms around her waist, unwilling to break contact.

"I haven't decided anything yet," I clarify, needing her to understand this isn't settled. "I could still stay another year, finish my degree, play my senior season."

Her expression turns serious, those perceptive eyes studying my face. "What do you want to do?"

It's the right question—not what she wants, not what would be easier for us, but what I want. Another reason why this woman continues to surprise me in the best possible ways.

"I don't know yet," I admit. "But I want you to be part of the decision-making process. Whatever happens affects both of us now."

Something softens in her gaze, a vulnerability that matches the one I'm still learning to show her. "I want you to do what’s best for you, James. But we can talk, and we'll figure it out," she says, the simple statement carrying more weight than elaborate promises.

"Together," I agree, bending to kiss her.

She meets me halfway, her lips soft and certain against mine. The kiss deepens, neither of us caring that we're in the middle of the quad, visible to anyone passing by. Let them look. Let them see. I want the whole campus to know that Hannah Porter—brilliant, beautiful, unexpected Hannah—is mine.

When we finally break apart, both slightly breathless, I rest my forehead against hers. "I should probably mention that I officially told Coach you're my girlfriend," I murmur, enjoying the blush that spreads across her cheeks.

"Did you now?" she asks, trying and failing to look disapproving. "Making announcements without consulting me?"

"Would you prefer I use a different term? Partner? Significant other? The woman who accidentally slept with me and then decided to keep me around?"

She swats my arm, but she's laughing. "Girlfriend works just fine, thank you."

"Good, because I like the sound of it." I capture her hand, bringing it to my lips for a quick kiss. "Hannah Porter, girlfriend of James Sanderson Connolly. Has a nice ring to it."

"Better than 'Hannah Porter, the girl who mistook her boyfriend's brother for her boyfriend,'" she says dryly.

I wince dramatically. "We're never living that down, are we?"

"Probably not," she admits, squeezing my hand. "But I'm pretty okay with how things turned out."

As we walk away from the fountain, her hand in mine, the afternoon sun warm on our faces, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders that I hadn't fully acknowledged was there. Whatever comes next—whether I stay or go, whether hockey leads me to Toronto or Carolina or somewhere else entirely—I'm facing it with Hannah beside me.

It's not how I expected this season to end. It's not the path I would have chosen if someone had laid out the options in advance. But standing here now, with Hannah smiling up at me like I'm something worth choosing despite all the complications, I wouldn't change a single fucking thing.

Sometimes life's best prizes come disguised as its worst mistakes. Sometimes perfect moments emerge from imperfect circumstances. And sometimes, when you least expect it, you find exactly what you need in the last place you thought to look.

I pull Hannah closer, stealing another kiss before we continue across the quad, and silently thank whatever twist of fate brought us together—messy, backward, and absolutely perfect.

I hope you enjoyed this book! Thank you for reading.