My alarm goes off at five-thirty, but I've been awake for an hour already. The ceiling of my dorm room stares back at me, and all I can think about is Sandy's face when he sees me walk into that locker room.
I slip out of bed, grab my gear, and head for the shower. The hot water does nothing to calm the energy thrumming through me. Eight years since I've been on a team. Eight years of watching Sandy become the golden boy of college hockey while I sat on the sidelines.
Not anymore.
The walk to the arena is quiet. Campus is still sleeping, only a few early risers stumbling toward the library with coffee in hand. My gear bag bumps against my leg with each step.
The locker room door is heavy, metal and glass. I can hear voices inside––the team getting ready for practice. My hand pauses on the handle. This is it. The moment I've been planning since I convinced Coach Peterson to give me a shot.
I push the door open.
Conversations stop mid-sentence. Twenty pairs of eyes turn my way. I scan the room until I find my brother. He's halfway through lacing up his skates, confused to see me walking in. His eyes glance down at my gear.
"Cade? What are you doing here?" Sandy stands, confusion written all over his face.
I drop my bag on an empty bench, taking my time to answer. I don't mind letting him squirm a little.
The rest of the guys are quiet as they wait for my answer.
I say, "Practice starts at seven, right?"
"Cade." He steps closer, lowering his voice. "Seriously, what's going on? Did something happen? Do you need something?"
The concern in his voice almost makes me laugh. He thinks I'm here for him.
"Yeah, I need something." I start unpacking my gear, nice and slow. "I need to get dressed for practice."
Sandy's eyebrows shoot up. His eyes not leaving me. "Practice? What are you talking about?"
"Coach Peterson brought me on yesterday. Third-line center." I pull my jersey over my head, smoothing it down. "Surprise."
"You're joking." He looks around at the team, who are all watching us like we're the morning entertainment. "This is a joke, right? You have a bad fucking knee."
"Knee's fine." I sit down to lace my skates. "Turns out all those years of physical therapy works wonders."
"But you quit hockey. You said you were done. Said it's not worth breaking your knees over." His tone is getting a little sharp, and I'm happy to hear that I'm getting under his skin.
I shrug. "Changed my mind." I stand, testing the tightness of my laces. "People do that sometimes, Sandy. Change their minds. Try new things. Like fucking their brother's girlfriend, for example."
His face goes red. A few teammates shift uncomfortably. A few laugh, but I don't look at them. My attention is solely on Sanderson.
"That's what this is about?" Sandy's voice drops to a whisper. "Hannah? I thought everything was good."
"Nah, everything is good." I grab my stick, twirling it once. "This is about hockey. Always has been. You just forgot I was good at it too."
Coach Peterson walks in before Sandy can respond. "Everyone on the ice in five! Cade, stick with Morrison for warm-ups. He'll show you the drills."
"Got it, Coach." I flash him my best eager-rookie smile.
Sandy grabs my arm as I head for the door. "We need to talk about this. Did you tell mom?"
"There's nothing to talk about, Sand." I shake him off. "I'm on the team now. Better get used to it."
The ice welcomes me as my heart squeezes knowing that Sandy is shitting himself right now. My first few strides are tentative, muscles remembering what my brain never forgot. By the third lap, I'm flying. The cold air stings my face, but I'm grinning like an idiot.
Sandy watches from center ice, stick loose in his hands. His expression is unreadable, but I know him well enough to see the worry in his eyes. Good. Let him worry. Let him wonder what else I might take from him. After all, his girlfriend was mine before she even knew he existed.
Coach blows his whistle. "Line drills! Let's see what our new center can do!"
I line up with Morrison and the rest of the third line. Across the ice, Sandy takes his position with the first line.
The whistle blows again. I explode forward, stick handling through the cones like I never stopped playing. The puck feels natural. When we transition to shooting drills, my first shot rings off the crossbar and in.
"Nice shot, Connolly!" a teammate calls out, and I snicker because there are two Connolly's now. Who would've thought I'd be spending my Wednesday mornings here.
I catch Sandy's eye as I skate back to the line. He's not smiling.
This is just the beginning, brother. Just the fucking beginning.
Practice wraps up with conditioning drills that leave me gasping, but I'm feeling surprisingly strong. My body still remembers how satisfying practices are. The burn in my legs, the ache in my shoulders –– it all feels like coming home.
In the locker room, the guys peel off their gear and head for the showers. I take my time unlacing my skates, watching Sandy from the corner of my eye. He's shoving his equipment into his bag with more force than necessary, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
"Hey, Sanders," Morrison calls out, toweling off his hair. "Your brother's got some moves. Genetic thing?"
Sandy doesn't answer, just yanks the zipper on his duffel hard. He grabs his shower kit and stalks toward the bathroom, shoulders rigid with tension.
"You didn't tell him you were trying out?" Morrison asks, loud enough for half the team to hear.
I shrug, carefully neutral. "Nah."
Twenty minutes later, I emerge from the shower to find Sandy's stall empty. His gear's gone, not even a water bottle left behind. The message is clear –– he's done talking to me for now. Perfect.
The satisfaction curls warm in my chest as I dress for class. Let him run. Let him stew. Every minute he spends angry is another minute I've won.
My phone buzzes as I'm crossing campus. Byron's name flashes on the screen.
"What's up?" I answer, shifting my bag to my other shoulder.
"Where are you?"
"I'm heading to Econ," I say.
"Meet me at the library steps. I have to tell you something."
He ends the call.
I find him slumped on the stone steps, looking like he slept in his clothes. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and his usually perfect hair sticks up at odd angles.
"Jesus, man. Rough night?" I drop down beside him.
He runs both hands through his hair, making it worse. "Saylor broke up with me."
"What?" I sit up straighter. "Really? When?"
"Yesterday. Over text." He shakes his head, defeated. "We've been together for over a year, and she ends it with a fucking text message."
"That's cold." I pause, considering all the scenarios of why she would break up with him. "What did she say?"
"She dumped me because of you." He looks at me then.
Something twists in my gut––guilt maybe, that I'm somehow the reason. "Damn, that's ridiculous. She's always hated me, but that is…" I trail off, trying to put the pieces together.
"Yeah, well." Byron scrubs his face with his palms. "I need you to talk to her for me. Clear shit up or something."
I scoff. "Dude, she's not gonna talk to me. She probably broke up with you just to never see me again." The thought of that is ridiculous, but I'm probably spot on.
"I don't know what the big deal is here, Cade. She broke up with me over this bullshit. Your bullshit. You owe me. Please, just talk to her."
"Owe you for what? Your girlfriend's a psycho." I shake my head. "Sorry, man. You're better off without her. There's something seriously wrong with her if she'd throw away your relationship because of me ."
Byron's face hardens. "She's not a fucking psycho. You're bragging about cheating on Hannah, and she doesn't agree with what you did, or how you handled it. And you're my friend, so what the fuck does that say about me?"
I blow out hot air and shake my head. I take a moment to think, but my mind cannot wrap itself around it. How the hell am I responsible for their breakup?
I mutter, "This is getting complicated, and complicated is code for fucking crazy. She's mad because I cheated? What the hell is it to her?"
"You don't get it," Cade says, disappointed.
Oh, but I think I do get it. I snap, "I cheated on Hannah while she was fucking my brother." I catch a few eyes as people walk by. Just great. More shit for this campus to gossip about. "Things are fine now, but I don't understand how I'm the reason for Saylor dumping you ."
"Fuck it." He stands abruptly, grabbing his backpack. "I thought you'd help me since you've been crying nonstop about losing your girlfriend. Figured you would know how it feels and help me out."
Wow, he's really butt hurt right now.
"Hannah and Saylor are not the same," I say.
Byron shakes his head. "What the fuck's wrong with you?" He stares down at me. "I love her. All I asked was for you to talk to her. Smooth things over."
The raw pain in his voice makes me uncomfortable. I've never been in love, not really. Hannah was fun, exciting, but love? That's something else entirely.
"Then you need to talk to her," I say finally. "I'm probably just going to make shit worse."
He walks away, shoulders hunched against the morning chill, mumbling, "I just ask you for one fucking thing. Talk to her!" I watch him go, wondering if I should feel guiltier than I do.
My phone rings again as I'm heading to class––my mom. I debate letting it go to voicemail, but she'll just keep calling. I sigh, shaking my head. Shit.
"Mom," I answer.
"Cade Matthew Connolly, what is this I hear about you joining the hockey team?" Her voice is sharp with concern.
Of course. Sandy ran straight to mommy. "It's true. Had my first practice this morning."
"But your—"
"I'm fine. Have been for years." I cut her off, irritation rising. "Let me guess, Sandy called you?"
"He's worried about you. We both are. And your dad will be too once he hears about this."
"Right. Because you care so much about me." The bitterness seeps into my voice. "Where was this concern when I wanted to try lacrosse freshman year? Or track last spring?"
"That's different. Hockey is what injured you in the first place."
"No, what's different is that hockey is Sandy's thing. God forbid I encroach on golden boy's territory."
"Cade, that's not—"
I'm walking faster now, anger propelling me forward. "Name one time you've shown up for something that was just mine. One time you've come to watch me do anything that didn't involve Sanderson."
Silence stretches across the line.
"That's what I thought." My laugh is harsh. "Don't worry about me, Mom. Worry about why your favorite son is so threatened by a little competition."
I hang up before she can respond, shoving my phone deep in my pocket.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of lectures and note-taking, my mind replaying the morning's events on loop.
Friday night finds me on the bench, watching my first college hockey game from the sidelines. Coach made it clear––I'm backup for now, only going in if someone gets hurt or royally screws up. Fine by me. I've got the best seat in the house to study how this team operates.
The arena is packed with students painted in school colors. I spot Byron in the crowd with a few of our friends. He catches my eye and nods, our earlier argument apparently forgiven if not forgotten.
Sandy skates past me during warm-ups, eyes fixed straight ahead. He hasn't looked at me once since I suited up. While he's busy pretending I don't exist, I'm cataloging every play, every formation, every weakness in the opposing team's defense.
From the bench, I can see things Sandy can't. The way their left wing drops his shoulder before he shoots. How their center favors his right side on face-offs. The slight hesitation in their goalie's glove hand on high shots.
"What's going on?" Morrison leans over, following my gaze. The other guys are keeping their distance from me, but I don't blame them. I wouldn't want to get caught up in the Connolly family drama either.
"Number 17 telegraphs his shots. And their D-men are slow on the transition."
He whistles low. "Good eye, rookie."
The game starts fast and physical. Sandy dominates center ice, his passes crisp and accurate. I hate to admit it, but he's good. Better than good. Watching him play is reminding me of the brotherly pride I once had for him. We used to brag about having each other at home because it only made us better players.
But I'm not here to admire my brother. I'm here to learn, to adapt, to find the cracks in his armor. Every shift he takes, every play he makes, I'm filing it away for future reference.
By the third period, we're up 3-1. Sandy's got two assists and more ice time than anyone else. The crowd chants his name after a particularly impressive breakaway, and I watch him soak in the adoration like a plant turning toward sunlight.
Enjoy it while it lasts, brother. Your shadow's about to get a whole lot smaller.
Coach taps my shoulder with thirty seconds left. "You're in for the face-off. Let's see what you've got."
My heart hammers as I hop over the boards. This is it –– my first official moment as a college hockey player. Sandy's on the bench now, forced to watch as I take the ice in his arena, wearing his team's colors.
The puck drops. I win it cleanly, snapping it back to our defenseman. The final buzzer sounds before I can do much else, but it doesn't matter. I've made my mark.
As we file off the ice, Sandy brushes past me without a word. But I catch the look in his eyes ––surprise, worry, maybe even a hint of respect.
Saturday night finds me in front of Byron's door with two cold six-packs. He opens it wearing yesterday's sweatpants and a shirt that's seen better days.
"Party tonight," I say, holding up the beer. "You in?"
He shakes his head, not even bothering to take the offered drink. "Not feeling it, man."
"Come on. Free alcohol, loud music, girls who aren't Saylor—"
"Pass." He starts to close the door, then pauses. "Have fun though."
I don't push it. Sometimes you need to wallow, and Byron's earned his moping time. "Text me if you change your mind."
Three hours later, I'm standing in a living room, nursing my third beer and surveying the crowd. The place is packed –– wall-to-wall bodies moving to bass-heavy music that vibrates through the floorboards. Red solo cups litter every surface, and someone's already broken a lamp in the corner.
My eyes scan for Sandy and Hannah out of paranoia, but they're nowhere to be seen. Good. Without my brother's presence, I can actually relax, maybe even enjoy myself.
A brunette in a crop top catches my eye from across the room. She's dancing with her friends, hair swaying as she moves. When she notices me looking, she smiles –– not the shy, look-away kind, but the confident come-talk-to-me variety. I make a mental note to find her later.
"Yo, Connolly!" Jake appears at my elbow, already well on his way to drunk. "Didn't know you were coming."
"Yeah." I clink my cup against his. "Good turnout."
"Always is." He grins, scanning the crowd.
Morrison and a few other teammates join us. Without Sandy around, they're different –– looser, more willing to include me in their conversations.
"That move you pulled in practice," Morrison whistles, shaking his head. "Where'd you learn that?"
"YouTube," I deadpan, and they all laugh.
We fall into easy hockey talk –– discussing plays, they roast each other's mistakes, debate which NHL team has the best odds this season. It feels natural, like I've been part of this team for years instead of days. Maybe this is what it would've been like if I'd never quit.
Movement near the kitchen catches my attention, and I nearly choke on my beer.
Saylor.
Here.
At a party.
She's wearing tight black jeans that hug every curve and a deep green top that makes her skin glow under the party lights. Her hair falls in waves around her shoulders, and she's laughing at something one of her friends said. The sound carries over the music, bright and genuine.
I've never seen her like this –– relaxed, happy, free from the perpetual scowl she usually wears around me. She's even smiling. It's unsettling.
Jake follows my gaze and grins. "That's Mina, my girlfriend. The one in the middle."
"And the one in green?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Her friend, Saylor. She's—" He stops for a second to swallow his drink. "She's Mina's roommate, but she never comes to these things."
As if sensing our attention, Saylor looks our way. Her smile doesn't falter when she sees me.
Jake's face brightens as he raises his hand in a half-wave at his girlfriend, and Mina dances over to him, her smile widening as she approaches. She wraps herself around Jake while her two friends hang back, surveying the scene with caution.
"Ladies, this is Cade," Jake announces, gesturing toward me with his beer. "Just joined the team."
Saylor's eyebrows shoot up, her lips pressing into a thin line. She exhales forcefully, the sound somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. Her reaction is so dramatic it's comical.
"Say––" I begin, the nickname slipping out automatically, though I've never called her that before. I've heard Byron use it enough times that it feels familiar somehow.
She shakes her head sharply, cutting me off before I can finish. The beer buzzes pleasantly through my system, dulling the edges of my irritation. Her friend is staring at me with unabashed curiosity, while Mina whispers something to Jake. They clearly have no idea who I am to Saylor, which means Saylor hasn't been sharing stories. Small mercies.
"Saylor," I call out, louder this time, determined to break through whatever wall she's built between us.
She pivots away, presenting me with her back –– a dismissal so clear it might as well be written in neon.
"Damn," Jake laughs, oblivious to the tension. "Mina, I think your friend is ignoring my new teammate."
Mina glances at me, then leans toward Saylor. They exchange whispers, heads bent together. After a moment, Saylor shrugs, the gesture both defiant and resigned.
"Saylor," I repeat, patience evaporating with each passing second. My voice carries an edge now. What is her problem? I didn't want to believe that she broke up with Byron because of me, but now I'm starting to think it's the only reason she did. Watching her ignore me feels personal in a way I don't understand.
"Saylor," I say again.
"What?" The word snaps like a whip, sharp enough to make Jake laugh awkwardly.
"Damn," I say, unable to hide my disbelief. "What––"
"I don't want to talk to you," she interrupts, each word carved in ice.
Jake shifts his weight, looking between us with growing amusement. "What's going on here?"
"Why don't you ask her?" I suggest, gesturing toward Saylor with my cup.
"I hate him," she states flatly, still refusing to look at me directly. The words land like stones, heavy and immovable.
Something hot flares in my chest –– anger or embarrassment. "What the fuck did I do?" The question explodes from my mouth harshly.
"You already know." Her voice is oddly calm now, which only fuels my frustration.
"I just want to talk." I try to soften my tone, aware of our audience.
Jake's curiosity finally gets the better of him. "How do you guys know each other?" He scratches his face, trying to hide his laugh.
We speak at the same time, our words tangling in the air. "She's Byron's girlfriend," I say, while she counters with, "My ex."
The contradiction hangs between us. We lock eyes, mutual challenge sparking in the space between our bodies.
"Your ex?" The surprise in my voice is genuine. Byron mentioned the official breakup status, but she's quick to flaunt it, and I don't approve of this.
She nods once. Her lips press into a thin line that somehow communicates more than words could.
"Can we get out of here?" Saylor turns to her friends, clearly done with this encounter.
A feeling of annoyance rises in my throat. Byron will kill me if I let her walk away without at least trying to smooth things over. Beyond that, something about her dismissal rubs against a raw spot in my ego. I've never been the type of guy women actively avoid.
Before I can think better of it, my fingers wrap around her upper arm –– not painful, but firm enough that she can't easily shake me off. I know better than to try for her hand, she'd recoil and storm off. I steer her through the crowd, ignoring her protests until we reach a bedroom down the hall.
The door clicks shut behind us, and I turn the lock. The sound seems abnormally loud in the sudden quiet room.
"Are you fucking crazy? I don't want to be in a room with you!" Her voice quivers with outrage.
Under the bedroom's soft lamp light, I can see her properly. Cheeks flushed from alcohol and eyes bright.
"What the hell is your problem, huh?" I demand, my patience exhausted by her childish behavior. The beer in my system stirs.
"Besides the fact that I'm here to get drunk and forget all my problems?" Her laugh lacks any trace of humor. "Let's see, you're a condescending cheating asshole with a head bigger than Mars. I can't fucking stand you. And your best friend, who is now my ex, defends your dumb ass. And all he fucking cares about is playing video games!"
The absurdity of her grievances catches me off guard. "So," I fight back a laugh and fail, "you're pissed that Byron backs me up and plays video games?"
"I'm leaving." She moves toward the door, but I stand my ground, blocking her exit.
"Move," she demands, her face tilted up to mine. From this close, I can smell the sharp tang of vodka on her breath, see the tiny flecks of gold in her brown eyes.
"You're not going anywhere." My voice drops lower, a strange tension settling between us.
"Fuck off!" Suddenly her hands are on my chest, shoving against me. I don't budge, but the contact sends an unexpected jolt through my system.
A chuckle escapes me as I step forward, eliminating the space she tried to create. "Keep your crazy ass hands off of me."
She retreats a step, but her glare remains defiant. "Or what?"
"Or nothing, Saylor. We're not leaving this room until we can have a simple conversation."
She crosses her arms over her chest, which only serves to emphasize the curves beneath.
"I'm assuming you hate cheaters," I begin, testing my theory. The conversation has to start somewhere, and if I don't start now, we'll continue to bicker nonsense.
Her silence is answer enough, her gaze boring into mine without yielding an inch.
I say, "I own what I did that night. I don't think I need to spell it out for anyone, but trust me when I tell you, I had good reasons."
"There are no good reasons to cheat," she says, the first sensible thing she's contributed to this conversation.
"Are you going to let me talk or just continue to degrade me?" The frustration in my voice is evident.
"Degrade you."
I shake my head, letting out a long sigh. This is going nowhere, but I'm committed now…for Byron's sake.
"Hannah wouldn't sleep with me. No matter how hard I tried. It didn't matter how romantic I was, the shit I would do for her. She would run away before something got too serious. Like if a moment got too intense, she would make up an excuse and bolt."
Saylor's expression doesn't change.
"So, I got really drunk one night at one of these parties." I gesture vaguely at our surroundings. "And I hooked up with someone who really wanted me, and to be honest, Saylor, it felt fucking good to be wanted."
The admission costs me something, opens a vulnerability I hadn't intended to share. But now that I've started, the words keep coming.
"You've seen me this past year. You may have not liked me because you think I'm cocky or whatever, but I own my shit. Before this thing with Hannah, I was good. I'm a good fucking person. I'm smart. I volunteer my time and shit."
Her eyes narrow slightly, and I realize I'm rambling, my defenses rising like walls with each word.
"I take accountability for how much I fucked up that night with Hannah, but you know what makes this all okay?" I pause, meeting her glare with my own. "Hannah was fucking my brother, thinking it was me. Which means she didn't even have the guts to turn on the lights or call out my name. She was with my brother while I was fucking somebody else, so it's all not that big of a deal."
A small, cruel part of me enjoys watching it register on Saylor's face –– the slight widening of her eyes, the parting of her lips as this new perspective makes its way into that tiny walnut brain.
But she recovers quickly, her expression hardening once more. "What about the fact that you're on the hockey team just to get back at your brother?"
Her words hit their mark with frightening accuracy. Heat rises to my face, anger mingling with something deeper –– shame, perhaps, at having my motives so clearly exposed.
"Do me a favor and don't fucking say that aloud again, okay?" My voice lowers, gaining an intensity that makes her blink. "I know you don't care for me, but what I'm doing here is not just to get back at my brother. I'd appreciate it if you could keep that to yourself."
I draw a steadying breath and add, "Now it's your turn to talk."
Her face transforms as unexpected laughter bubbles from her lips –– not amusement, but mockery. "It's my turn to talk?" she questions, as if the very idea is ridiculous.
I nod, waiting. There's a knock at the door as the doorknob jiggles. Without looking away from her, I shout, "Fuck off!"
Silence falls between us, heavy with unspoken words and misplaced anger. The muffled sounds of the party continue beyond the door, but in here, time seems suspended.
"Talk," I say again, my voice softer now, almost a request but more of a command.
Her eyes meet mine, and for the first time ever in my time of knowing her, I wonder what stories she's hiding behind that wall of hostility.
.