Page 23

The bench beneath me is hard and unforgiving, a constant reminder of my position on the team — third string, dressed and ready but unlikely to see ice time unless disaster strikes. Around me, the arena pulses with energy, the crowd an ocean of school colors and painted faces. The familiar soundtrack of a hockey game — skate blades cutting ice, sticks slapping pucks, bodies colliding against boards — fades to background noise as I track the play, mentally recording formations and strategies.

I've made peace with watching from the sidelines. Three weeks ago, I would have seethed with resentment, cataloging every mistake the second-string players make, silently arguing my case for why I should be out there instead. But something has shifted inside me. Hockey is not the battleground where I fight for recognition, no longer the arena where I prove my worth against Sandy's shadow. It's just a game — one I love, one I'm still determined to excel at, but just a game nonetheless.

The bench dips beside me as someone takes the vacant spot. Sandy, helmet off, sweat dampening his hair after the last period. His presence no longer triggers the automatic tension it once did, another small evolution in our complicated relationship.

"Mom's having dinner this weekend," he says without preamble, eyes on the other players piling in. "She wants to meet Cade's new girlfriend."

I bite back a laugh at his phrasing, so typical of Sandy. The dutiful son, the messenger for our mother. Some things never change, even as everything else transforms around us. For a moment, I'm tempted to make a cutting remark about his perpetual momma's boy status, the kind of casual cruelty that used to define our interactions. But the impulse fades as quickly as it appears.

"What's the dinner for?" I ask instead, genuine curiosity replacing the desire to cause pain.

Sandy shrugs, his shoulder pads making the gesture more pronounced. "No special occasion. Just thought it might be nice to do a double date thing. Me and Hannah. Mom can meet Saylor."

I turn to stare at him, trying to imagine the scenario he's proposing. Dinner with my mother, my brother, his girlfriend — who is my ex — and Saylor. The potential for havoc seems astronomically high.

"You're joking, right?" The disbelief in my voice is palpable.

"What?" Sandy glances at me, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Still not over it?"

I process this information slowly. Sandy, extending an olive branch in the form of a dinner invitation. Does my mom even know about this? Whose idea was this? My relationship with Saylor is no longer hidden but I haven't thought about family introductions.

A month ago, I would have immediately declined. Would have protected myself from the vulnerability of presenting Saylor to my mom, from the potential awkwardness of sitting across from Hannah at a dinner table. But the man I'm trying to become — the man I am because of Saylor — doesn't hide from difficult situations or uncomfortable growth.

"I'm assuming Sunday?" I ask, the decision settling comfortably in my chest.

Surprise flickers across Sandy's face, quickly replaced by a smile. "Yeah. Six o'clock."

He pats my shoulder as he rises, a gesture somewhere between encouragement and gratitude. "Coach wants you ready," he adds. "Matheson's looking sluggish out there."

I nod, though we both know it's unlikely I'll see ice time today.

The game proceeds with predictable intensity. We take an early lead, lose it in the second period, fight to regain momentum in the third. Sandy scores the winning goal with less than two minutes remaining — a beautiful top-shelf snipe that showcases exactly why he's the star of the team. As our teammates flood the ice in celebration, I find myself cheering without reservation, without the bitter undercurrent of jealousy that once tainted my appreciation of his talent.

Another small evolution. Another step toward becoming someone I can respect when I look in the mirror.

"You haven't been paying attention to a word I've said," Saylor accuses, though the smile playing at her lips takes any sting from the words.

We're sprawled across my bed, studying but mostly just existing in the same space. Her legs are draped over mine, a textbook open but ignored on her lap. My own notebooks lie forgotten beside me, my mind preoccupied with thoughts of Sunday's dinner.

"Sorry," I admit, running a hand through my hair. "Just thinking."

"About?" She closes her book, giving me her full attention.

"My mom wants us to come to dinner on Sunday," I say, watching her expression carefully. "At her house I have yet to see. Sandy and Hannah will be there too."

Her eyebrows rise slightly at the mention of Hannah, but her expression remains open. "That sounds nice," she says, though a question lurks beneath the statement.

"It might be awkward," I acknowledge. "Hannah and I…" I drop my hand on her. "I haven't talked to her since she's been with Sandy."

"Does your mom know about that?" She tilts her head. God, she's cute.

"Probably not the details. Unless my brother told her. I don't think so though." I trace idle patterns on her ankle, considering. "It's okay if you'd rather not go. I can say something came up."

Part of me hopes she'll take the out. Not because of Hannah or Sandy, but because of my mother — her questions, her observations, her uncanny ability to call me out. She'll know that Saylor has changed me. Bringing Saylor into that environment feels exponentially more vulnerable than introducing her to friends or teammates.

"No, we should go," Saylor says. Her hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "It's important. Family is important. Your brother is with Hannah, and you don't seem so mad about it anymore. I kind of want to show you off. Show Sanderson that you've matured."

I give her a small smile because she's right.

The simple acceptance, the willingness to face potential discomfort for my sake, tightens something in my chest. I tug her closer, until she's settled against me, her head on my shoulder.

"When did you get so funny?" I murmur against her hair.

She laughs, the sound vibrating through my chest. "I've always been funny. You were just too busy hating your brother to notice."

I can't argue with that assessment, so I kiss her instead, gratitude and affection and desire all mingled together in the press of my lips against hers.

My mom's new house sits on a quiet street of similar homes, all meticulous lawns and good landscaping. It's smaller than the house I grew up in — the one my father kept in the divorce, along with most of their shared assets — but far more inviting. Bright flowers line the front walk, and the door is painted blue that would have been too whimsical for my father's taste.

After years in a series of rentals, this place represents a fresh start for her. A life defined by her own choices rather than her ex-husband's preferences. I understand the significance in a way I couldn't have before.

"Your mom has great taste," Saylor says as we approach the front door, her hand warm in mine. She's dressed simply but elegantly in a sundress that makes her eyes look bright and her hair falls loose around her shoulders. The cut on her lip has healed completely, no visible trace remaining of that chaotic night at Byron's.

"She does now," I agree, remembering the ornate, uncomfortable furniture my father insisted on in our childhood home. "You'll like her. She's nothing like me."

Saylor laughs. "So, she's not stubborn, competitive, or unnecessarily complicated?"

"Exactly. Complete opposite."

The door opens before we can knock, revealing my mother in her cooking apron and a welcoming smile. She's lost weight since the last time I've seen her, and her hair is shorter. She looks younger somehow, unburdened in a way I don't remember seeing during my teen years.

"Cade!" She pulls me into a hug, then steps back to examine me with the particular scrutiny only mothers can achieve. "You look so good."

"Mom, this is Saylor," I say, drawing her forward with gentle pressure on her lower back. "Saylor, my mom, Elizabeth."

"It's so nice to meet you," Saylor says, extending her hand.

"The pleasure is all mine." My mother ignores the offered hand in favor of a quick hug. "I've heard that you've been keeping Cade good company."

Saylor glances at me, a question in her eyes.

"From Sandy, mostly," my mother clarifies with a knowing smile. "Cade's never been one for sharing details."

An understatement of epic proportions. I've inherited my father's emotional reticence, a trait I'm slowly unlearning with Saylor's patient help.

"Come in, come in. Sandy and Hannah aren't here yet." She steps back, ushering us into a bright entryway. "Dinner's nearly ready, but I wanted to give you the tour first. It's not much, but it's mine, and I'm rather proud of it."

The house is modestly sized but thoughtfully designed. A comfortable living room flows into an open kitchen and dining area, with large windows that fill the space with natural light. Nothing like the formal, compartmentalized rooms of my childhood home, where function always took a backseat to appearance.

"This is beautiful," Saylor says, her genuine tone obvious as she gawks around the room. "I love how open it is."

My mom beams, clearly pleased by the compliment. "That's exactly what sold me on it. Now, let me show you the rest before I need to check on the roast."

She leads us down a hallway, pointing out the features she's added since moving in — built-in bookshelves in the home office, a skylight in the main bathroom, new flooring throughout. The pride in her voice as she describes these changes reminds me that my mother is more than just "Mom" — she's a woman who survived a difficult marriage, who rebuilt her life on her own terms, who found joy and purpose beyond the roles of wife and mother.

"And this is the guest room," she says, opening a door to reveal a serene space in shades of blue and cream. "Not that I have many guests, but I like having it ready just in case one of you boys needs a place to crash."

"Gosh, it's so nice," Saylor gasps, admiring the simple decor.

"Why don't you two look down the hall while I check on dinner?" my mother suggests. "Cade, tell me honestly if there's anything you'd change. I value your eye for design."

As her footsteps retreat down the hall, I turn to Saylor with a raised eyebrow. "My eye for design? She must be confusing me with someone else."

"You have good taste in girlfriends. Sanderson thinks so too," Saylor points out with a teasing smile as I chuckle. "That counts for something."

I pull her into the guest room, closing the door behind us with deliberate slowness. "Speaking of good taste," I murmur, backing her against the wall, "have I told you how incredible you look today?"

Her cheeks flush with color, eyes widening. "Cade! Your mother is literally down the hall."

"I'm just appreciating the view," I defend, though my hands on her waist and my body pressed against hers suggest other intentions.

I lean in, lips finding that sensitive spot on her neck. Her breath catches, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.

"Cade," she scolds, even as her head tilts to give me better access. "It's your mom's house."

"Just a kiss," I promise, moving to capture her mouth with mine.

The kiss deepens quickly, her resistance melting as her arms wind around my neck. I'm constantly amazed by this. How quickly this turns into need, how perfectly we fit together, and how the smallest contact can evolve into consuming hunger.

She pulls away first, breathing uneven, lips deliciously pink from our kiss. "Okay," she breathes, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Okay," I counter, stealing one more quick kiss before opening the door. "Come on, we should help my mom in the kitchen."

The backyard, visible through the kitchen windows, is small but charming. There's a wooden deck with potted plants, a small garden plot in one corner, a bird feeder that's attracted several colorful visitors.

"This is perfect for entertaining," Saylor comments, leaning against the counter as she takes in the view. "I can just imagine summer barbecues out there."

My mother glances up from the oven where she's checking the roast. "That's the plan. I've already picked out furniture for the deck." She straightens, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Cade, would you mind setting the table? Plates are in that cabinet, silverware in the drawer below."

I move to comply, familiar with the rhythm of helping in the kitchen from childhood, when Mom insisted I learn basic cooking skills. "Need help with anything else?"

"Just the salad to finish." She works as she speaks, efficient movements born of decades of practice. "You seem good, sweetheart. Better than I've seen you in a long time."

The observation is casual but pointed, her way of inviting confidences without pushing. "I am good," I confirm, arranging plates on the dining table. "Hockey helps. Keeps me focused, gives me an outlet."

"And her?" My mother's gaze shifts meaningfully toward Saylor, who's examining the collection of family photos on the refrigerator.

I follow her gaze, watching as Saylor leans closer to study a particular photo — Sandy and me as children, gap-toothed and sunburned after a day at the lake. Something warm unfurls in my chest at the sight of her interest in my past, in the pieces that made me who I am.

"She's a big part of it," I admit, voice low enough that only my mother can hear. "She sees me. The real me, not just the parts I want people to see."

My mother's hand rests briefly on my arm, a touch filled with understanding. "Those are the ones worth keeping, Cade."

I turn back to the table, arranging silverware with more attention than the task requires. When I glance up again, Saylor has moved to the island, sitting on a stool as she looks out at the garden. Sunlight catches in her hair, turning it to golden brown.

Seeing her like this… I pause for a moment, imagining this was our house. Saylor perched in our kitchen, waiting for me to cook her dinner after a long day at work. Then it quickly turns into her being pregnant with our baby, and then two kids running around her as I set the table. A shiver runs through me because I can see it. I can picture us together for a long time. This woman is worth keeping.

The vision settles in my chest, right where my heart beats, not a fantasy but a possibility. I think it might be something she would want too.

The doorbell interrupts my reverie, announcing Sandy and Hannah's arrival. My mother hurries to answer, leaving Saylor and me alone in the kitchen.

"Everything okay?" she asks, noticing my expression. "You looked miles away just now."

I cross to her, drawn by an irresistible gravitational pull. "Just thinking about how I cannot wait to graduate and get a place together," I say honestly.

Her smile is worth a million dollars. "Are you serious? That's what you're thinking about right now? That's years from now."

I nod, pecking her lips. "We'll talk about it later."

Sandy's voice carries from the entryway, followed by Hannah's lighter tones and my mother's welcoming responses. I offer Saylor my hand, which she takes without hesitation.

"Ready?" I ask.

"For dinner with your mother, your brother, and your ex? What could possibly go wrong?" Her tone is light, teasing, but I catch the flicker of anxiety beneath.

"It'll be fine, baby," I assure her, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. "First of many."

We move toward the voices, hands still linked. Sandy enters the kitchen first, looking relaxed in casual clothes rather than his usual athletic gear. Hannah follows, her smile a bit hesitant but genuine.

"Hey," Sandy says, clapping me on the shoulder. His eyes move to Saylor, warming with recognition. "Good to see you again, Saylor."

"You too," she replies, her grip on my hand tightening slightly.

Hannah steps forward, her gaze moving between us with curious assessment. "Hi, Saylor. It's good to see you."

"Likewise," Saylor says, and I detect no falseness in their polite smiles.

Hannah turns to me next, a ghost of our shared history passing between us. We were friends before we were anything else, a fact I'd nearly forgotten in the drama of our breakup and its aftermath.

I extend my fist toward her, calling a friendly truce. "Hey, Han."

Her eyes crinkle with surprised amusement at the gesture, at the nickname I haven't used since the fight. After a moment's hesitation, she bumps her knuckles against mine. "Hi, Cade."

The exchange is briefer, simpler, less awkward than I anticipated. Looking at her now, I can appreciate objectively that she's beautiful, that we once shared something. But the emotional charge that once accompanied those observations is absent. What remains instead is a fondness tinged with nostalgia, like seeing an old friend.

It's crazy, really — even when we were dating, even when we were physically intimate, mine and Hannah's connection always had this quality of comfortable friendship at its core. Nothing like the consuming fire I feel with Saylor, the challenge and companionship and desire all tangled together into something I can barely comprehend, let alone define.

"Dinner's ready," my mother announces, carrying a platter to the table. "Sandy, would you open the wine?"

I grin at him. Momma's boy being put to work. I can sit back and relax for the rest of the night now.

We arrange ourselves around the table — my mother at the head, Sandy and Hannah on one side, Saylor and me on the other. The setting sun casts long shadows through the windows, painting everything in warm golden light. The roast beef is perfectly cooked, the potatoes crisp, the conversation flowing with surprising ease.

My mother asks Saylor about her studies, her future plans, her family back home. Sandy shares stories from the hockey team. Hannah talks about her volunteering at the exotic animal shelter, her excitement palpable as she describes working with cool animals.

Throughout it all, Saylor's hand occasionally finds mine beneath the table, a silent communication of support and connection. I listen more than I speak, observing the interactions around me with newfound appreciation for these people who form the foundation of my life.

"So, when did you two start dating?" my mother asks eventually, the question directed at both of us. "Sandy mentioned it was recent."

Saylor and I exchange glances, a silent negotiation about how much to reveal.

"A few weeks ago, officially," I say carefully. "But we've known each other for a while."

"Through Byron, right?" Hannah asks, clearly trying to place the connection.

"Yes," Saylor confirms. "We were in the same friend group, though Cade and I didn't exactly get along at first."

Sandy laughs at this understatement. I would normally kick him under the table, but instead, I laugh too.

"The best relationships often start that way," my mom observes with a knowing smile. "Your father and I couldn't stand each other when we first met."

I want to add, and you still can't . But then Sandy would probably kick me under the table, and I'm not trying to be an asshole at dinner.

The comparison to my parents' relationship should alarm me, given its eventual implosion. Instead, I find myself focusing on the differences — the honesty Saylor and I have fought for, the real communication we're learning together, the way we challenge each other to grow rather than shrinking to accommodate each other's flaws.

"Well, I'm glad you finally figured it out," Sandy says, raising his glass in a toast. "Took you long enough."

"Whatever that means," my mom replies, just wanting to take a drink.

"Where is dad?" I ask.

My mom shrugs. "Living his life, doing his thing." Her eyes are empty as she speaks, and I normally don't acknowledge that pain.

"You deserve more, mom," I say. "This house is perfect. I’m happy for you."

My mom's smile widens. "Thank you, Cade." She reaches for me, rubbing my shoulders. "That means so much to me."

Sandy is watching me closely. When my eyes meet his, I can sense the silent pride, the silent thank you. It's taken me years to accept the divorce, and I don't ever mention my dad. Especially never this casually. I could never handle the tears or the pain so obvious on my mom's face.

I grip onto Saylor's knee under the table, glancing at her. She gives me a knowing nod.

My mother watches this exchange with visible satisfaction, a mother seeing her son settled and happy. Hannah and Sandy share a look of their own, a silent communication born of their time together.

"So, how's the team looking for State?" Mom asks Sandy, passing the bowl of roasted potatoes his way. "Coach thinks you have a shot this year?"

Sandy loads his plate with a generous serving. "If we can stay healthy. Defense is solid, but our scoring's been inconsistent."

I catch Saylor's eye after releasing her knee, giving her a subtle wink. She's been mostly quiet during dinner, feeling her way through the family dynamics. But she's handling it better than I expected, asking thoughtful questions and laughing at all the right moments.

"Cade's been working on his defense," Sandy adds, catching me off guard. "Coach mentioned it yesterday."

"Really?" Mom turns to me, eyebrows raised. "I thought you were always more offense-minded."

I shrug, cutting into my roast beef. "Team needs strong defenders. Figured I should be versatile."

"Translation: Coach made him drill defense for three straight practices," Sandy clarifies with a smirk.

"Keep talking and I'll tell Mom about your first date with Hannah," I threaten, pointing my fork at him.

Hannah turns pink, coughing with the food in her mouth.

I chuckle. "I'm sorry. Too soon?"

Sandy shakes his head with a smile, pointing his fork back at me. "Then I'll have to tell everyone about yours with Saylor."

"Boys," my mom begins to scold, but I bark out a laugh.

"Touche, fucker––I mean brother."

Sandy leans back and laughs. I mimic his body language, leaning back in my chair and laughing with him. We see eye to eye right now, and the laughter in my chest is bubbling up because we just made everyone else feel extremely uncomfortable at the expense of our own humor. Our Connolly brother specialty at a family dinner. Glad we are officially back to regular programming.

I take a slow sip of my water, enjoying the discomfort.

"Back to hockey," Sandy says. "It would be nice to be champs."

Saylor catches my eye again, a small smile playing at her lips. I can tell she's enjoying this glimpse into my family, seeing the sides of me with my brother.

"This roast is amazing," Saylor says, gracefully changing the subject. "Would you mind sharing the recipe?"

"Of course, dear. It's quite simple, actually. The secret is in the marinade…"

As Mom launches into her cooking techniques, I feel Saylor's hand find mine under the table, her fingers intertwining with mine in a way that's become second nature. Even this small contact centers me, grounds me in the reality that she's here, with my family, navigating this potentially awkward situation with grace.

"Seconds, anyone?" Mom asks, standing to collect empty plates.

Everyone shakes their head, saying they're full.

"I'll help," I offer, rising from my chair.

Sandy joins me, gathering silverware while I stack plates. In the kitchen, we fall into our old routine — Mom scraping leftovers into containers, me rinsing dishes, Sandy loading the dishwasher.

"Saylor seems nice," Mom says, her tone carefully casual. "Smart girl."

"She is," I agree, passing her a cleaned plate.

"And you two met through…" She trails off, clearly fishing.

Sandy says, "Byron. Cade stole her from him."

"I didn't steal—" I start automatically, then catch myself, laughing. "It's…"

My mom watches me fluster. "The important thing is you seem happy. Both of you."

"He's not even trying to be better than me in hockey," Sandy adds, arranging glasses in the top rack. "Imagine that."

"Never thought I would ever be okay being second best."

"You are not second best," my mom argues, but I laugh.

I put a hand on her shoulder. "Mom, it's okay. Sandy's really good, and he deserves the wins and success and the recognition for it."

"Never thought I'd see the day where you're admitting I'm better than you." Sandy laughs.

"Boys," Mom interjects with practiced patience. "Some things never change."

Sandy grins at me over her head. "Like Cade's need to arrange the dishwasher like the perfectionist he is."

"Or Sandy's inability to properly rinse a dish?"

Mom sighs dramatically, though I catch the smile she's trying to hide. "I forgot how exhausting it is having you both in the same room."

She wipes her hands on a dish towel and heads toward the living room. "I'm going to check on the girls. Try not to break anything while I'm gone."

As soon as she's out of earshot, Sandy turns to me. "Seriously though. You good?"

The question feels weighted with more meaning than its simple words suggest. Am I good with Mom? With Saylor? With Hannah being here? With hockey? With us?

"Yeah," I answer. "I am." And I actually mean it.

"Took you long enough," he says, but there's no judgment in it, just brotherly acknowledgment.

"Are you good?" I retort.

"Not perfect. Just figured my shit out before you did."

"By like a month."

"Still counts."

I grab the dish towel, wiping down the counter. "When did we become actual adults? With girlfriends and family dinners and everything?"

"Speak for yourself. I'm still planning to run away and join the circus."

"The circus. You mean the NHL? What about Han?"

Sandy half shrugs. "I'll ask her to marry me eventually."

"Damn, dude. See, I know how to pick them."

Sandy laughs, shaking my shoulders. "I'll give you that."

We finish cleaning in comfortable silence, the banter settling into both familiar and new. The competitive edge that defined our relationship for so long has softened into something healthier — the kind of brotherhood I didn't know was possible between us.

When we join the girls in the living room, I find Saylor engaged in animated conversation with Hannah, their heads bent together over something on Hannah's phone. Mom watches from her armchair, a satisfied expression on her face that I recognize from childhood — her "my plan is working" look.

I settle next to Saylor on the couch, my arm naturally finding its place around her shoulders. She leans into me without breaking her conversation, the simple gesture makes me want her in every way. I kiss her shoulder. She leans her head on me as my mom talks with Hannah. Sandy defends himself against something my mom said as I watch in amusement.

I don't know how I got to this moment, but fuck…healing all the shitty parts of me was worth it.

As the evening winds down, as Saylor leans heavier against my side, drowsy from food and laughter, I realize something I never expected: I'm happy. Not the fleeting happiness of a good grade or being better than my brother, but something deeper and more substantial. Something built on honesty and growth and connections that matter. I'm grateful for every detour, every obstacle, every unexpected turn that led me here.

To this moment. To Saylor.

Someone worth fighting for. Worth changing for.

Someone that feels suspiciously like home.

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