Page 13

Morning practice with Sandy feels different today. The ice seems clearer somehow, the drills sharper, my lungs working better despite the early hour. Maybe it's the lack of tension between us, the absence of that constant undercurrent of competition that's been there since we were kids competing for Dad's attention.

"Your edges still need work," Sandy calls as I round the corner during our warm-up laps. "You're leaning too far into your turns."

"Your face needs work," I shoot back automatically, the childish retort slipping out before I can stop it.

To my surprise, Sandy bursts out laughing. "Wow, quality comeback. Did you learn that in your fancy business classes?"

"Nah, learned it from listening to you in high school," I grin, catching up to him. "Remember when Coach made you apologize to that ref and you said—"

"I'm sorry your eyes don't work right," Sandy finishes, his face lighting up at the memory. "God, Mom was so pissed when she found out."

"Grounded you for a week for being disrespectful," I confirm. "And you snuck out every night anyway."

"Not every night," he corrects, slowing as we approach the bench for a water break. "Just the important ones."

"Like Amanda's birthday party?" I grab my water bottle, squirting some on my face before taking a drink.

Sandy groans dramatically. "Don't remind me. I still have nightmares about her father finding me in that closet."

"Hilarious," I add, laughing.

"Not my finest moment."

"I don't know," I muse, watching him squirm at the memory. "You made it out the second-story window with your pants only half-on."

He shakes his head, laughing. "At least I didn't throw up in Mom's favorite houseplant after drinking Dad's scotch."

"So nasty."

"You were so drunk that you fell into it, knocked it over, and then you spent the rest of the night trying to glue the ceramic pot back together with toothpaste."

I shake my head, remembering my fourteen-year-old logic. "In my defense, the toothpaste was white and so was the pot."

"Your intelligence is questionable," Sandy says, then nods toward the ice where Coach is setting up for the next drill. "Speaking of which, let's see if time's improved you any or if you suck even more now."

The familiar competitive jab lands differently now — lighter somehow, more playful than pointed. We skate back out together, shoulders occasionally bumping, the easy rhythm of brotherhood restored.

"Remember, they like to trap in the neutral zone," Sandy says, leaning close to be heard over the crowd noise. We're sitting on the bench between shifts, my legs bouncing with nervous energy as I prepare for my next rotation. "Number 24 especially — he'll sneak in behind you if you're carrying the puck with your head down."

I nod, eyes tracking the play on the ice. Dartmouth is good — fast, disciplined, with a goalie who seems to have eight limbs instead of four. We're down 2-1 in the second period, and while I haven't embarrassed myself, I haven't exactly distinguished myself either.

"You're overthinking it," Sandy adds, noticing my tense posture. "Just play your game. Move your feet, keep it simple."

"That's funny coming from Mr. Between-the-Legs Goal last season," I mutter.

"That was different. I'd already established myself as a reliable player before I tried the fancy stuff."

He has a point, though I'd never admit it out loud. "So, what you're saying is I should be boring and basic."

"I'm saying you should be smart." His eyes follow the puck as it cycles around the boards on the far side. "Pick your moments. Build your confidence first."

Coach calls our line, and I hop over the boards, Sandy's advice echoing in my head. Keep it simple. Move your feet. My skates cut into the fresh ice, muscles firing as I position myself for the face-off.

For a few glorious minutes, everything clicks. I win the draw, feed a clean pass to Wilson on the wing, and drive toward the net. The puck comes back to me on a rebound, and I snap it toward the upper corner — only to have it snatched out of the air by the Dartmouth goalie's glove.

"Good look," Sandy says when I return to the bench, tapping my helmet with his glove. "Keep shooting like that."

But despite our efforts, Dartmouth adds another goal in the third period, and we can't close the gap. The final buzzer sounds with a 3-1 loss illuminated on the scoreboard.

The locker room afterward is subdued but not despondent. Coach gives his usual post-game assessment — areas to improve, moments to build on, reminders that the season is young. I sit in my stall, unlacing my skates with tired fingers, a strange mixture of disappointment and satisfaction warring in my chest. We lost, but I played. Actually played collegiate hockey, not just as some petty revenge against my brother, but because I deserved to be there.

"Party tonight. Same place as always," Morrison announces as guys start filtering toward the showers. "We'll drown our sorrows in cheap beer, as tradition dictates."

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the room. I glance at Sandy, who's packing his gear into his bag.

"You coming?" I ask, keeping my voice casual.

He hesitates. "Not really my scene anymore. Hannah's expecting me later."

"Come on," I press. Hannah can wait. "One beer. Team bonding and all that crap you're supposed to care about."

Sandy rolls his eyes, but I can see him considering it. "Fine. One beer. Then I'm out."

"One beer," I agree solemnly.

The party is busy, music pulsing from speakers positioned in every corner, red cups littering every surface. Sandy and I arrived together, and despite his initial reluctance, he seems to be enjoying himself. Three beers in (so much for "one and done"), we've claimed a corner of the living room, reminiscing about childhood disasters and hockey tournaments past.

"Remember Coach Davis?" Sandy asks, taking a swig from his cup. "The one with the hairpiece?"

I snort, nearly choking on my drink. "God, that thing was like a dead animal on his head. Didn't it fall off during that tournament in Buffalo?"

"Right into the penalty box," Sandy confirms, eyes crinkling with mirth. "And Benny thought it was a rat and started screaming."

"Game misconduct for 'actions detrimental to the dignity of the sport,'" I quote, mimicking the referee's pompous tone.

We dissolve into laughter, the kind that feels cleansing and necessary. Sandy's phone buzzes, and he checks it, a soft smile replacing his laughter.

"Hannah?" I guess, noticing the way his expression changes.

He nods, thumbs flying across the screen as he types a response.

"Look at you, all domesticated," I tease. "Next thing you know, you'll be shopping for throw pillows and learning what 'taupe' means."

"Shut up," he mumbles, but there's no heat in it.

"Seriously though," I say, lowering my voice slightly. "You guys good?"

Sandy pockets his phone, his expression turning thoughtful. "Yeah, we are. She's… she's the real deal, Cade."

"Wow. James Sanderson Connolly, settled down. Never thought I'd see the day."

"People change," he says simply.

The words hang between us, unexpectedly weighty amid the party chaos. I think about how we've both changed — him stepping out of our father's shadow, me finally confronting my own insecurities instead of projecting them onto others. Both of us learning, slowly and imperfectly, to be better men than the examples we were given.

"Don't go soft on me now," I warn, breaking the moment before it turns too serious. "We've still got a season to win."

"We?" he echoes, eyebrows raised. "Since when are you a team player?"

"Since I realized how much nicer it is when people aren't actively hoping I'll fail."

Sandy laughs, clapping me on the shoulder. "Took you long enough to figure that out."

"Yeah, well, some lessons take longer to learn than others."

"Like 'don't sleep with your best friend's ex'?"

I wince, the reminder still fresh. "Low blow."

"Too soon?"

"Maybe give it another decade or two."

"How is it with Byron?"

I blow out hot air dramatically staring forward. "Fuck, Sand. I don't know. But something I do know is that you're a better man than me. If there's anything I learned, it's that."

We fall into companionable silence, watching the party unfold around us. Morrison attempting to do a handstand against the wall. Wilson flirting with a girl from the swim team. Jake and Mina dancing in the center of the room, oblivious to everything but each other.

No sign of Saylor or Byron, thankfully. Some wounds are still too raw for casual encounters.

"You know," Sandy says thoughtfully, "when we were kids, I used to be jealous of you."

I nearly choke on my beer. "Get the fuck outta here with that, Sand." There's no way Sandy was jealous of me. He's better looking than me, was blessed with the bigger cockle doodle do, and he's a good athlete. Cocky as fuck too. He knows he's the shit.

"You are so smart, Cade. Everything academic came so easily to you. Mom was always showing off your report cards, your science fair trophies." He shrugs. "Meanwhile, I was struggling through basic algebra."

The confession floors me. All those years I spent resenting him for his athletic talent, his easy popularity, his golden-boy status in our father's eyes — and he was envying me?

"That's… I never knew that."

"We weren't exactly having heart-to-hearts about our feelings." He smirks. "Still aren't, if we're being honest."

"Well, this conversation has officially gotten too emotional for my comfort level," I declare, finishing my beer. "Want another?"

"Nah, I should head out. Hannah's waiting."

"Whipped," I cough into my hand.

Sandy flips me off, but he's grinning. "You'll understand someday. When you find a girl who can handle all your shit."

"There goes the entire campus," I sigh dramatically.

He stands, stretching. "See you at practice Monday?"

"Will do." I raise my beer and chug the rest.

As he leaves, I'm struck by an unfamiliar feeling — something like contentment, or maybe peace. Whatever it is, it's new and fragile and worth protecting. For the first time in years, I'm not defining myself in opposition to Sandy, or anyone else for that matter.

I'm just Cade.

And as I'm glancing around the party at what to do next, a pair of seething eyes captures mine across the room.

Saylor.