Page 7

Chapter 6

Four days. Four fucking days of nothing.

I toss my hockey helmet into my locker and slam the door. Practice was brutal today—Coach running us into the ground after our loss—but it's not the burning in my lungs or the ache in my muscles that's eating at me. It's the silence.

I check my phone for the hundredth time today. No messages from any unknown numbers. No sign of Hannah.

The days since that night have blurred together. Classes, practice, team meetings. I've been going through the motions, doing what I always do. Cleaned all my gear yesterday, had beers with the guys at Finnegan's on Tuesday, even managed to get most of my Econ paper done. On the surface, business as usual.

Except I can't stop checking my damn phone.

"Who you waiting on, a call from the NHL?" Cory jokes, slapping my shoulder as he passes.

"Your mom," I reply automatically, shoving the phone back in my pocket.

Lucy finally seems to have gotten the hint. After blowing up my phone for two straight days, she's gone quiet. Small mercies. I should be relieved, but instead, I find myself wondering if Hannah's done the same with Cade. If she went through with the breakup. If she told him why.

God, I hope not.

I keep picturing her face in the darkness of my brother's room, the way her body felt against mine, her strangled sobs as she realized what happened. I've hooked up with dozens of girls, but none of them stick in my brain like this. None of them leave this fucking itch I can't scratch.

Who are her friends? Where does she hang out between classes? Does she hit the library or one of those pretentious coffee shops Cade loves? Does she have a job? Study groups? I realize I know nothing about her except that she's my brother's girlfriend (ex-girlfriend?), she has the softest skin I've ever touched, and her taste still lingers on my tongue.

By day four, I can't take it anymore. The waiting, the wondering if she's ever going to reach out. I find myself driving to campus, to her dorm building, knowing it's a bad idea but unable to stop myself. I park my car and wait, feeling like a stalker but too far gone to care.

An hour passes. I'm about to give up when I spot her walking across the lot from the direction of the humanities building. My heart stutters in my chest.

She's wearing a loose cream sweater that falls off one shoulder, faded jeans that hug the curves I remember all too well, and ankle boots with a slight heel. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Even from this distance, I can see the dark circles under her eyes, the slight slump of her shoulders. She looks like she hasn't slept in days, and somehow it only makes her more beautiful.

I'm out of my truck before I can think better of it, striding toward her with purpose. She doesn't notice me at first, her eyes fixed on the ground, lost in thought. When she finally looks up and recognizes me, her face transforms—shock, then something that might be desire, instantly replaced by fury.

Her cheeks flush crimson as she glances around, clearly panicked that someone might see us together.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she hisses, her voice low but sharp.

"You didn't call," I say simply, stepping closer.

She backs away, clutching her books tighter to her chest. "Because I want nothing to do with you. Are you insane? Coming here in broad daylight where anyone could see us?"

I know she's lying. About wanting nothing to do with me, at least. I can see it in the way her pupils dilate, in the quick rise and fall of her chest. The same electricity that's been haunting me is crackling between us right now.

"Don't create a scene," I say, taking her elbow and steering her toward the shadow of the brick building.

She resists for a moment, then follows, her anger radiating off her in waves. The moment we're out of the main sightline, I back her against the wall, one hand braced beside her head, my body close enough to feel her heat but not quite touching.

"What do you want from me?" she demands, but her voice has lost some of its edge.

"I want to know if you told him," I say, though that's only part of the truth.

"Of course not." She stares up at me, defiant despite the tremor in her voice. "I broke up with him, just like we talked about. It's done."

"How'd he take it?"

Her eyes fill suddenly with tears, but she blinks them back fiercely. "How do you think? He's devastated. Confused. Angry."

I feel a stab of guilt, quickly followed by relief. "But he doesn't know about us?"

"There is no 'us,'" she snaps.

I lean in closer, driven by an impulse I can't control. "Isn't there?"

Her breath catches as I press my knee between her legs, just enough pressure to remind her of that night. I shouldn't be doing this. I know I shouldn't. This is my brother's girlfriend. This whole situation is fucked up beyond belief. But I can't stop myself, can't fight the pull she has on me.

"Stop," she whispers, but her body betrays her. She doesn't push me away. Doesn't try to leave.

The tension between us is a living thing, heavy and insistent. I can see the conflict in her eyes—the same war I've been fighting with myself for four days. Desire versus guilt. Attraction versus loyalty. Wrong versus inevitable.

"Tell me you haven't thought about it," I challenge, my voice rough. "Tell me you haven't replayed that night in your head."

Her eyes flash. "Of course I have. It was the biggest mistake of my life."

"Was it?" I move my leg slightly, and her eyelids flutter.

"We can't do this," she says, but there's less conviction now. "Your brother—"

"Already lost you," I finish. "Because of a mistake we both made. A mistake that felt right in every way except who we are to each other."

A war rages behind her eyes, and for a moment I think she might give in. Might admit what I already know—that whatever happened between us that night wasn't just physical. That there's something here, something neither of us expected or wanted, but something we can't ignore.

Instead, she places her palms flat against my chest and pushes. Not hard, but firm. Decisive.

"I can't," she says, her voice stronger now. "I won't do this to him. Or to myself."

I step back, giving her space, fighting the urge to pull her into me. "Hannah—"

"No." She shakes her head, adjusting her sweater where it's slipped further down her shoulder. "This isn't happening. Not now, not ever. What happened was a mistake, and we both need to forget it."

She sidesteps me, moving back toward the main walkway. I don't try to stop her, though every instinct screams at me to.

"You know where to find me if you change your mind," I call after her, hating the desperation in my voice but unable to keep it contained.

She doesn't look back, doesn't acknowledge my words. Just walks away, her spine straight, her steps determined. But I notice the slight tremor in her hands as she pushes open the door.

I watch her disappear through those doors, and something snaps inside me. A familiar rush of adrenaline floods my system—the same feeling I get right before dropping gloves on the ice. I need to hit something. Hard.

Practice the next day is exactly what I need. I'm playing right wing, my usual position, but today I'm skating like I've got something to prove. Coach notices, eyes tracking me as I blow past our second line defense during scrimmage.

"Jesus Christ, Sanders," Miller, our starting defenseman, pants after I knock him on his ass for the third time. "Finally giving me some competition."

I don't respond, just circle back for another drill. My stick handling is sharp, precise. Every pass connects. Every shot hits its mark. I'm playing out of my mind, channeling whatever this is—frustration, anger, desire—into pure aggression on the ice.

Coach blows the whistle, waving us in. "Looking good out there, Connolly," he says, the rare compliment catching everyone's attention. "Whatever's lit a fire under your ass, keep it burning for Friday."

Friday. Conference semifinals against Northeastern. If Hannah won't talk to me, at least I can destroy someone on the ice.

After showering, a group of us head to Murphy's, the steakhouse just off campus where we always go before big games. It's tradition—the kind of superstitious bullshit that hockey players live by. Even with the semester workload and a fucking hurricane of personal drama, some things don't change.

"Yo, pass the bread," Cory says, reaching across the table.

Miller slides the basket over. "Coach was right. You were playing like a man possessed today, Sand."

I shrug, tearing a dinner roll in half. "Just focused."

"Focused on murdering Miller, maybe," Rodriguez jokes from the end of the table. "Those hits were savage, bro."

"Speaking of savage," Miller cuts in, leaning forward conspiratorially, "you see Northeastern's new first line center? Kid's a beast. Six-four, built like a truck."

"Yeah, well, their defense is shit," I say, stabbing at my steak. "Johnston can't hold the blue line, and if we cycle properly, we'll catch them in transition every time."

The guys nod, and we fall into the familiar rhythm of breaking down our opponents, picking apart weaknesses, strategizing. It's comfortable, this talk. Technical. Straightforward. Nothing like the mess with Hannah, where I don't know the rules or what move to make next.

"What about you, Sanders?" Cory asks, mouth full of potato. "You gonna control that temper, or are we gonna be on the PK all night because you can't keep your hands to yourself?"

The double meaning isn't lost on me. "I'll play clean," I mutter.

"Bullshit," Rodriguez laughs. "You've been gunning for Taylor since he high-sticked you last season."

"He deserved it," I say, but there's no real heat in it. "Fine. I'll focus on scoring instead of settling scores. Happy?"

"I'll believe it when I see it," Miller says, and the table erupts in laughter.

"Fuck all of you," I reply, but I'm grinning despite myself. These assholes know me too well.

"Your backcheck was lazy as shit today, though," Cory says, turning serious. "You're so focused on offense you're leaving the zone too early. We can't afford that against Northeastern."

He's right, and I know it. "I'll stay home more," I say. "But someone needs to put the puck in the net, and no offense, but you couldn't hit water if you fell out of a boat right now."

"Ohhhhh!" The table erupts again, and Cory throws a roll at my head.

"Last three games, asshole. Check the stats."

I duck the roll and point my fork at him. "Lucky bounces. Your shot's been wide right all season. Need me to show you where the net is?"

The ribbing continues through dinner, the easy camaraderie of teammates who trust each other on the ice if nowhere else. For a few hours, I almost forget about Hannah. Almost.

But later, alone in my apartment, her face swims back into focus. The way she looked pressed against that wall, defiant and wanting at the same time. I wonder what Cade knows, what she told him. If he's as broken up as she said.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm calling him. The phone rings three times before he picks up.

"What?" His voice is clipped, distant.

"Hey," I say, immediately regretting this decision. "Just checking in. Haven't heard from you."

"I'm kind of in the middle of something," he says, and I can hear voices in the background. "If it's not an emergency..."

Guilt hits me like a blindside check, stealing my breath. We've always been different as night and day, but still brothers. Still family. Now there's this wall between us, one I built without him even knowing.

"No emergency," I say quickly. "Just…you good?"

A pause. "Not really," he finally says, his voice lower. "But I don't want to talk about it."

"Shit, okay. I’ll let you get back to it."

"Yeah, I've gotta go. Talk later."

The line goes dead before I can respond. I sit there, phone in hand, feeling like the piece of shit I am. I didn't want this. Didn't plan to wake up with my dick inside of his girlfriend. But as I toss my phone aside and fall back on my couch, I know she must’ve been real treasure if he’s torn up about it.

I close my eyes, but it only makes the images of her more vivid. The feeling of her around me, so tight, so perfect.

"Fuck," I mutter, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. This is so far beyond crossing a line.

I should back off. Give her space. Let her and Cade figure their shit out, even if that means they get back together.

But fuck, I hope it doesn’t happen––as selfish as that sounds.

I want her.

More than I've wanted anyone in a long time.

And while I'll give her space—for now—I'm not giving up.

Not when I know, beyond any doubt, that she might feel the same way.

The crying has finally subsided, mostly. I still feel the occasional wave crash over me without warning, but at least I can make it through a lecture without excusing myself to the bathroom. Progress, I guess.

The guilt, though—that lingers like a permanent shadow, following me everywhere. Cade hasn't called or texted since our confrontation outside the humanities building, which somehow makes me feel both better and worse. Better because I don't have to face his hurt and confusion. Worse because his silence feels like confirmation that whatever we had is truly over.

I hear people talking about the hockey game this Friday. Conference semifinals. It shouldn't matter to me at all, but I find myself listening more intently whenever Sanderson's name comes up in conversation. I'm curious about him in a way I don't want to be. Why haven't I seen him around campus before? What is he studying? Is he actually a good athlete, or just riding the bench?

And why—why—did Cade never once mention that his brother attended the same college? Why didn't he ever introduce us?

The thought sends an uncomfortable realization through me. Maybe Cade was never that serious about me. Maybe he was keeping his options open, compartmentalizing his life. If that's true, then maybe the breakup was inevitable.

On Friday night, someone knocks on my door. I ignore it at first, assuming it's my RA checking on why I've been such a hermit lately. But then I hear a familiar voice.

"Hannah! Open up! I know you're in there—I can hear you breathing."

Lennox. I drag myself off the bed and open the door. She stands there with a shopping bag in one hand and her laptop in the other, eyebrows raised at my disheveled appearance.

"Wow," she says, pushing past me into the room. "You look like shit."

"Thanks," I mutter, closing the door behind her.

"Lucky for you," she continues, unpacking the bag, "I come bearing gifts. Sour Patch Kids, chocolate-covered pretzels, those weird Scandinavian licorice things you like, and…" She holds up her laptop. "The entire collected works of early 2000s rom-coms. Your favorite cinematic era of questionable feminism and unrealistic expectations."

Despite everything, I feel a smile tug at my lips. "You didn't have to do this."

"Yeah, well," she shrugs, arranging the candy on my desk, "I haven't seen you in days. You're talkative on texts anymore. You broke up with your boyfriend? I mean, come on."

I sit cross-legged on my bed, watching her set everything up. "How did you know about the breakup?"

"Small campus," she says, not looking at me. "Plus, Cade's been moping around like someone ran over his dog."

Something in my chest twists painfully. "He has?"

Lennox turns to me then, arms crossed. "Okay, enough. What happened? One minute you're all 'tonight's the night, I'm finally going to sex him up,' and the next, you're ghosting everyone and he looks like death."

I open my mouth to give the same vague excuses I've been rehearsing, but instead, to my horror, I burst into tears.

"Shit," Lennox sits beside me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "Hannah, what is it? What did he do?"

I shake my head, unable to form words through the sobs.

"Did he pressure you?" Her voice hardens. "Did he hurt you? Because I swear to God—"

"No," I manage to choke out. "No, it wasn't him. It was me. I did something. I made a huge mistake. A massive, life-altering mistake, and I can't…I can't even…"

"Hey, hey," she soothes, rubbing my back. "Whatever it is, it can't be that bad."

I laugh, a wet, hysterical sound. "Oh, it can. It really, really can."

She waits while I pull myself together, handing me tissues from my nightstand.

"I can't tell you," I finally say. "It's too embarrassing. Too awful."

"Hannah," she says firmly, "I'm your best friend. Nothing you tell me could make me think less of you. Nothing."

I stare at her, weighing my options. The secret is crushing me. Maybe sharing it would help. But the thought of saying it out loud…

"You have to swear," I whisper. "You have to swear on your firstborn child that you will never, ever tell another soul."

Lennox rolls her eyes. "I swear on my hypothetical, currently non-existent future spawn that whatever you tell me goes to the grave."

"No, I'm serious," I insist. "This isn't like the time I told you I shoplifted that lip gloss in ninth grade. This is serious. This is nuclear. You can't tell anyone. Not your sister, not Greta, not Finley, not your journal, not your therapist. No one."

She sobers, seeing the desperation in my eyes. "I swear, Hannah. Whatever it is, it's between us."

I take a deep breath, then another. "That night…the night I was supposed to…with Cade…"

"Yeah?"

"I went to his apartment like I planned. And he had texted me that he was home, so I let myself in. It was dark, and I could see someone was asleep in his bed."

Lennox nods, encouraging me to continue.

"And I––God, this is so stupid. I had this whole plan, right? The lingerie, the surprise…I was going to be all sexy and confident and finally take that step with him."

"Right."

"So I got into bed with him. And we…started…you know." I can feel my face burning with shame. "And it was good. Really good. Better than I expected, honestly. But then…" My voice cracks.

"What?" Lennox leans closer.

"It wasn't Cade," I whisper.

Her brow furrows. "What do you mean it wasn't Cade?"

"It. Wasn't. Cade." I enunciate each word, leaning in. The sound of it making me cringe.

"Then who the fuck was it?" she asks horrified.

I inhale, trying not to cry. "It was his brother. It was Sanderson."

Lennox's jaw literally drops. "What the actual fuck?"

"I didn't know!" I gasp, talking faster now, the words tumbling out. "It was dark, and he was asleep, and Cade had literally texted me that he would be home, and they look similar enough in the dark, and I just…I didn't…who checks to make sure the person in their boyfriend's bed is actually their boyfriend? Who needs to do that? What kind of situation is that? And we were, you know, doing it, and then I said Cade’s name, so he grabbed his phone and shown his light on my face, and I realized, and he realized, but it was already…we had already…" I bury my face in my hands. "It was the single most humiliating moment of my entire life."

Lennox is silent for so long that I peek through my fingers to make sure she's still breathing.

"Let me get this straight," she finally says, her voice unusually high. "You accidentally had sex with Cade's brother?"

I nod miserably.

"Because it was dark and you couldn't see his face?"

"Yes!"

"And Cade had told you he was home, but he wasn't?"

"Yes! He texted me saying to let him know when I got home, so I assumed he was there waiting for me!"

Lennox's eyes narrow. "But he wasn't. Where was he?"

"I don't know," I admit. "He said his phone died and he crashed at Jake's after some party. But he'd specifically made it sound like he'd be home."

"That's…weird," she says slowly.

"No, what's weird is that I SLEPT WITH HIS brOTHER!" I half-shout, then immediately lower my voice. "Lennox, do you understand what I did? I was supposed to have my first time with my boyfriend, and instead I had it with his brother by mistake. Who does that happen to? What kind of sick joke is that?"

"A pretty fucked up one," she admits. "So that's why you broke up with him? Because you…and his brother?"

"Of course, that's why! How could I possibly face him after that? How could I ever look him in the eyes again without seeing his brother? Without remembering what I did?"

"But Cade doesn't know?"

I shake my head. "No. And he can never know. It would destroy him."

"Have you talked to Sanderson since?" she asks carefully.

I hesitate, then nod. "He waited outside my dorm a few days ago. Cornered me around the building."

"What did he want?" she gasps in shock.

"To make sure I hadn't told Cade. That's all he cares about—keeping this a secret." I twist a tissue between my fingers. "Not that I blame him. Cade would never forgive either of us if he found out."

"So, what happens now?"

"Nothing," I say firmly. "Absolutely nothing. I broke up with Cade. I told Sanderson to leave me alone. I'm going to focus on school and pretend this never happened."

Lennox studies me for a long moment. "So…was Sanderson's dick really as big as the rumors say? Monster-sized?"

"Lennox!" My face burns so hot I'm surprised my skin doesn't melt off. I cover my face with my hands but can't help nodding slightly.

She bursts into laughter, falling backward onto my bed. "Oh my God! You lucky bitch! Your slept with the legendary Sanderson cock, and you didn't even have to wait in line!"

"It's not funny!" But her laughter is infectious, and I find myself laughing despite the absurdity of it all. "It was the worst night of my life. A huge mistake!"

"A disaster with a monster dick," she says, wiping tears from her eyes. "Some girls have all the luck."

"That’s not luck," I tell her and a comfortable silence fills the room.

She sits up, still grinning. "Sanderson is a total puck boy, Han. All he cares about is hockey, he parties hard, and has quite the reputation."

My stomach sinks. "Reputation? Like…he's slept with the whole campus? So, that means I, too, slept with the whole campus!?"

Lennox shrugs. "I don't know about the whole campus, but he gets around. Never had a girlfriend that I've heard of. He's more of a hookup kind of guy."

Great. Just great. Not only did I sleep with my boyfriend's brother, but I'm also just another notch on a bedpost. The disgust I feel for the situation—for myself—intensifies.

"He and Cade are nothing alike," Lennox adds. "It's weird they're even related."

I think of Sanderson's intensity, the way he backed me against that wall, the heat in his eyes. So different from Cade's gentle warmth.

"Yeah," I agree quietly. "Nothing alike."

Eventually, I pull Lennox into a hug. "Thank you," I murmur. "For listening. For not judging. For keeping this secret."

"Always," she promises. "But are you sure you're okay? You didn’t have to break up with him."

I nod against her shoulder. "I just want to move on. I want nothing to do with either of them. I just want to forget this ever happened."

But even as I say the words, I wonder if forgetting is possible when the memory of that night is branded so vividly into my mind.

I throw myself into schoolwork with renewed vigor. Papers, projects, readings—anything to keep my mind occupied. Professor Henley even comments on my "refreshing level of engagement" in Bio Ethics, which would feel like more of a victory if I weren't using academia to escape my personal failures.

On Sunday, I call my mom. It's overdue—I usually check in weekly—and I need a dose of normalcy.

"Hannah Banana!" Her voice is sunshine through the phone. "I was just thinking about you. How's my favorite daughter?"

"I'm your only daughter," I laugh.

"All the more reason you're my favorite. How are things? How's that handsome boyfriend of yours? Cale?"

"Cade," I correct, a pang in my chest. "And, um, actually, we broke up."

A beat of silence. "Oh, honey. What happened?"

I've prepared for this. "It just wasn't working out. We want different things."

"Different things?" She sounds skeptical. "Like what?"

"Like…I want to focus on school, and he wants…" What did Cade want? I realize I don't even know. "It doesn't matter. It wasn't right."

Mom sighs. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Breakups are hard, even when they're for the best."

"Yeah."

"Are you doing okay? Getting out? Seeing friends?"

I think of the past week spent hiding in my room. "Not really."

"That settles it. I'm sending you some money. Take those girls of yours out for that fancy green tea you like."

"Matcha green tea," I smile.

"Whatever it's called. You need friend time. Promise me?"

I smile despite myself. "I promise."

"I love you. How is everything else?"

"Other than that, I guess it’s good."

"I would love to catch up, but I’m out at lunch with Paulette. I will talk to you later. I love you."

"Love you too, Mom."

After we hang up, I text our group chat.

Hannah: Matcha run tomorrow? Mom's treat.

Lennox: YESSS was beginning to think you'd died

Finley: I have class at 11 but free before that!

Greta: Only if they have those protein balls I like

Hannah: 9:30 at The Grind?

Everyone agrees, and for the first time in days, I feel a flutter of something close to normalcy.

"…and then he says, 'That's not what the book says,' and Professor Wilson just stares at him for ten whole seconds before going, 'I wrote the book.'" Finley snorts into her vanilla latte. "Tyler wanted to disappear."

We're sitting at a corner table at The Grind, the coffee shop where not too long ago I was spilling matcha down Cade's shirt and pants. I push the memory away, focusing instead on the cup between my hands, the familiar chatter of my friends.

"Classic Tyler," Lennox rolls her eyes. "Always trying to be the smartest guy in the room."

"Speaking of smart guys," Greta says, flexing her arm dramatically, "did I tell you what my new trainer said about my form? Apparently, I've been doing deadlifts wrong for like, six months."

"No way," Finley gasps with exaggerated shock. "The great Greta, form queen, doing something wrong?"

"Shut up," Greta throws a napkin at her. "It was a minor adjustment. He said my hip hinge was too shallow."

"Ooh, hip hinge," Lennox wiggles her eyebrows. "Sexy."

"It's functional anatomy," Greta protests, but she's smiling. "You guys should come with me sometime. The endorphin rush is better than sex."

"Hard disagree," Lennox says, glancing at me. "Right, Hannah?"

Before I can answer, the bell above the door chimes. And because the universe hates me, Cade walks in.

I inhale sharply, my grip tightening on my cup. Lennox, bless her, immediately places a reassuring hand on my forearm.

Cade's eyes sweep the café, landing on our table. For a moment, we lock gazes, and I see a storm of emotions cross his face—surprise, hurt, anger. Then his expression hardens, jaw clenching as he deliberately looks away.

I watch as he orders, his shoulders rigid, his movements stiff. Everything about him screams discomfort. When he leaves with his drink, I let out a breath.

"Okay, what was that with Cade?" Finley asks, looking between me and the door.

"You guys broke up, right?" Greta asks.

I nod, unable to find my voice.

"Things didn't work out," Lennox jumps in smoothly. "Hannah's ready to move on."

"His loss," Finley declares loyally. "You're a catch, Han."

I manage a weak smile, grateful for friends who don't press for details. "Thanks."

The conversation shifts back to Greta's gym adventures, but my mind stays on Cade, on the anger in his eyes. I hadn't expected him to be happy to see me, but the intensity of his reaction caught me off guard.

Back in my room that evening, I find myself dissecting what it means to be an "ex." The word feels strange applied to Cade and me. We never slept together. We barely did anything physical beyond some heated kissing sessions. We dated for less than two months.

So why does it hurt so much? Why did he look at me with such betrayal? How much did he actually like me?

I think about his apparent anger at the café, the way he couldn't even bear to be in the same room as me. He must have liked me more than I realized. The thought brings a fresh wave of guilt.

But in the cusp of a breakup, there's nothing to do but move forward. I've cried enough tears. I've confided in Lennox, and somehow, sharing the burden has made it lighter. The only way past this is through it, and the only way through it is to put it behind me completely.

I pull out my Bio Ethics textbook, determined to focus on something I can control. As I flip to the chapter on medical confidentiality, I try to convince myself that forgetting is possible. That I can leave this mistake—and both Connolly brothers—in the past where they belong.