Page 11

The locker room smells like decades of sweat baked into the walls, an aroma that's distinctly hockey — equal parts disgusting and comforting. I'm fifteen minutes early, hoping to avoid the crush of players and the inevitable stares that will follow yesterday's drama. Word travels fast on this campus, and nothing travels faster than juicy gossip about one of the Connolly brothers.

I'm tying my left skate when Coach Peterson's voice booms across the room. "Connolly. My office."

Perfect. Just what I need to start this Monday morning. I follow him into the cramped space he calls an office, really more of a storage closet that's been upgraded with a desk and a photo of his glory days playing for Minnesota.

"Sit," he says, gesturing to the lone chair across from him.

I comply, bracing myself for whatever's coming. Kicked off the team? Demoted to water boy? A lecture on team unity and not screwing your best friend's girlfriend?

Instead, he slides a folder across the desk. "Eligibility paperwork. Athletic department needs it by Wednesday."

I blink, caught off guard. "You're keeping me on the team?"

"Why wouldn't I?" He leans back, eyebrows raised. "You think I give a shit about your personal drama? Wilson has a fur baby mama and Morrison failed Organic Chemistry three times. Unless you're planning to start a fistfight with the entire team, your personal life is none of my business."

The knot in my chest loosens slightly. "Yes, sir."

"We're playing Dartmouth Saturday. Tobias is officially out with that groin pull, so I need you ready for third-line center. That means you're skating every drill, memorizing every play, and finding chemistry with your linemates. Think you can handle that?"

My mouth goes dry. "This Saturday?"

"College hockey waits for no man, Connolly. I need to know if you're serious about this or if you're just here to piss off your brother."

The question pierces through my carefully constructed excuses. Am I serious? Do I actually want this, or is it just another arena for my petty revenge?

"I'm serious," I say, and am surprised to find I mean it. "I want to play. For real."

He studies me for a moment, then nods. "Good. Because I'm not in the business of wasting roster spots on daddy issues. Practice starts in ten. Go on."

I exit his office into a locker room that's now half-full, guys banging equipment around and talking shit about weekend conquests. Jake spots me from across the room and approaches, a knowing grin on his face.

"Heard you had quite the Sunday, Connolly."

"Sure did," I mutter, returning to my stall.

"You sure did." He drops his voice lower. "For what it's worth, Byron will get over it. Man's too lazy to hold a grudge for long."

I hope he's right, but before I can respond, Sandy walks in. Our eyes meet across the room, and I know it's time to have the conversation I've been dreading. I wait until he's stowed his gear, then make my way over.

"Can we talk?" I ask, jerking my head toward the hallway.

Confusion flickers across his face, but he follows me out. We stand awkwardly in the corridor, the sounds of the locker room muffled behind us.

"What's up?" he asks, leaning against the wall.

I take a deep breath. "I was too hard on you. About Hannah. The whole situation."

His eyebrows shoot up. This was clearly the last thing he expected to hear. "We really talking about this first thing in the morning, Cade?"

"I was a dick. I shouldn't have called your ex. It was cruel of me, and the truth is, that girl is batshit crazy." The admission feels like releasing a weight I've been carrying for months. "I can't believe I brought her to one of your games. Look, I know I was wrong. And I know everything's been okay, but now I'm here in your space, playing hockey. I know how it all looks, brother, and maybe I begged Coach for a chance just to fuck with you."

A cautious look touches his face. "What the fuck is going on here? Is this a joke? Are you fucking with me?"

I smile at him. "Let's just say I've gained some perspective lately." I run a hand through my hair, still damp from my morning shower. "Hannah's a good girl. Take care of her, okay."

"I will." He studies me, head tilted slightly. "But that's not all, is it?" He almost laughs. "Where the fuck is this conversation going right now? You sound like dad."

I laugh. "And you are too much like mom. But, uh. No… I did something fucked up. Like way more fucked up than what you did."

"Jesus, Cade. What did you do?"

I huff, running a hand through my hair again. "I slept with Byron's girlfriend. Well, they were broken up only two days." I can't quite meet his eyes as I say it. "I convinced Saylor to tell him that we hooked up, so we went and told him yesterday."

Sandy just shakes his head, not in judgment but in something close to disbelief. "Are you fucking crazy? Byron and Saylor broke up? And you and her…"

"Yeah. At the party on Saturday. Byron wanted me to talk to her because he said I could help him out if I did. So, when I saw her at the party, we were both drunk, and…" I trail off, because excuses ring hollow, even to me. "Anyway, the point is, I'm a hypocrite. I've been giving you shit for months about the same kind of mistake I just made, only mine was deliberate. A selfish fucking act whereas yours was a mistake, and I realize how much of a fucking turd I am." I lean my head up and sigh. It feels good to say that aloud. "I am a piece of shit, Sandy."

"That's…a lot to process."

"Tell me about it." I lean against the wall next to him. "The crazy thing is Hannah's honesty is what inspired me to tell Byron. She didn't hide what happened with you two. She owned it. And as much as it hurt, it was better than finding out some other way."

Sandy nods slowly. "Yeah. She's always been upfront about things, even when it's hard."

We stand in silence for a moment, the weight of shared mistakes creating a strange new bond between us.

"The thing is," I continue, "I know I've got problems. I need to be better — less arrogant, less entitled, less of an ass in general."

Sandy chuckles. "Less like dad, bro. Trust me. But self-improvement looks good on you, little brother."

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it. I'm still going to steal your starting spot."

He laughs outright at that, clapping me on the shoulder. "No, you're fucking not."

The moment stretches between us, something healing in its simplicity. Brothers again, after too long as adversaries.

"So, what now?" he asks. "With you and Byron?"

"No idea."

Sandy sighs, the sound of someone who's seen this movie before. "Here's some big brother advice: let it go. All of it. The competition, the grudges, the self-righteousness. It's exhausting, and it doesn't get you anywhere good."

"Just like that? Let it go?" I scoff.

"It's not easy. But it's necessary." His eyes meet mine, serious now. "Trust me on this one, Cade. You're too much like dad and look at how unhappy that motherfucker is."

I nod, though I'm not sure I can do what he's suggesting. Some things are easier said than done. Some things are also genetic, aren't they? Or are they just environmental?

Coach's voice bellows from the locker room, calling us all to the ice. Sandy pushes off the wall, movement breaking the moment.

"Coming?" he asks.

"Right behind you."

I'm one minute late to Economics, not because I lost track of time but because I spent sixty seconds outside the classroom door debating whether to skip entirely. But cowardice isn't going to fix anything, so I push through, scanning the room for Byron.

Byron sits in his usual spot, the chair next to him vacant. I walk over and slide into it without asking, dropping my backpack to the floor with a thud that makes students glance our way.

Byron exhales sharply but doesn't move away.

Martinez starts her lecture on market equilibrium, and I realize Byron doesn't have a pen — just like every other class for the past years. Some things never change. I pull an extra from my bag and slide it across the desk toward him, not looking at him directly.

He hesitates, then takes it. When I glance over, he's staring straight ahead, but there's a slight softening around his brow that wasn't there before.

We spend the next hour in silence, taking notes and pretending to be deeply fascinated by supply and demand curves. But something has shifted, a tentative bridge forming across the chasm of yesterday's betrayal. We've been friends too long to throw it all away for a girl.

As Martinez wraps up, I wonder why I couldn't do this with Sandy. Why it took a new, bigger mistake to put the old one in perspective. As I think more about it, the more I hate to admit that everything with Sandy was always a competition, a battle for attention and approval in a household where those things were conditional. Our parents pitted us against each other from day one — Sandy the athlete, me the academic. Never enough room for both of us to succeed in the same arena.

The realization is uncomfortable but necessary. If I want to move forward — really move forward, not just perform some temporary version of growth — I need to recognize these patterns and break them.

Class ends, and Byron and I pack up in continued silence. We exit together, still not speaking but not actively avoiding each other either. The hallway is crowded with students rushing to their next classes, and my stomach drops when I spot a familiar face head twenty feet ahead.

Saylor stands in the distance. She hasn't seen us yet, focused on something in her bag.

Byron and I exchange a glance, silent communication passing between us. Without a word, we veer to the right, taking the long way around to avoid her completely. It's petty, probably, but it feels like solidarity. Bros before… well, you know.

She looks up just as we're passing, her expression shifting from surprise to hurt to resignation in the span of seconds. I feel a brief twinge of something — regret? guilt? — but push it aside. She made her opinion of me perfectly clear through Byron, and I'm not going to waste energy pursuing someone who thinks I'm pathetic and insecure. Someone who would lie to my face after I tried to convince her that honesty was the only path forward.

As we continue down the hall, Byron finally breaks his silence. "You didn't have to give me a pen."

"You never have one," I reply, the familiar exchange almost comforting in its predictability.

"I'll give it back after class on Wednesday," he says, which is as close to forgiveness as I'm likely to get right now.

"Keep it. I've got more."

He nods, the gesture containing multitudes. We're not back to normal. But we're not not, either. And right now, that's enough.