Page 104 of Worth the Shot

“I should make your smoothie,” I say, because my brain defaults to caretaking. Classic trauma response—classic Delaney.

But he doesn’t let go.

His hands stay firm at my waist, not holding me hostage, but grounding me, like he wants to remind me I’m in the safest place in the world. His arms.

He studies me for a long moment, reading every shift in my face like he’s memorized it. It scares me how good he is at that. How effortless he makes it seem.

Slowly he releases me, letting his hands slide off my waist like he’s giving me the choice to stay or step back. I move half an inch away, because I need the air, but my chest stays right where he left it, pressed against him. “I’ll get your meds ready,” I say, steadying myself with a task. “And then you need to lie down for a while. You’re still symptomatic.”

“Yes, nurse,” he teases softly.

God help me, it works. A tiny smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Just when I turn toward the counter, I feel his fingers graze mine as I pass. It’s just a whisper of touch, but it's enough to make me stop breathing. Enough to make me want to turn back around and crawl right into his arms again. But I don’t. Instead I exhale, shaky and slow, gripping the counter until I feel present again.

I’m so disgustingly in love with this man it hurts.

Despite every part of me wanting to stay, I do have to go home at some point, even if it’s only to get myself fresh scrubs for work tomorrow. So I make sure he knows to take his meds, set him up on the couch again and leave before I can cave and fall right back into him.

By the time I get home, Jo and Emma are already sprawled on my couch with iced coffees, looking offensively calm for someone who has just survived the emotional equivalent of a natural disaster. Jo doesn’t even bother to look up from her phone.

“Why do you look like you just got back from war?”

I glare at her, mostly because she’s right. Emma meets me at the door and hands me a coffee like she’s greeting a wounded soldier returning from the front lines. That’s fair.

“How’s he doing? Shayne barely slept last night.”

I sigh. “He’s okay. In a lot of pain. Being a terrible patient. You know…Brennan.”

“Shayne said the puck was coming straight for him, but Brennan…”

“I know. Coach told me.”

We just look at each other, the kind of look that makes your chest tighten with equal parts relief and heartbreak. She pulls me into a hug and I melt into her because apparently physical affection is my new drug of choice. Jo ruins the moment like the gremlin she is by cutting in, aggressively, as she says, “So, can lover boy fend for himself tonight, or will you be doing your special house call services again?”

I refuse to give her the satisfaction, so I just say, “He’ll survive.” Meanwhile, part of me wants to be wrapped up in his arms, asleep on his chest like a koala.

On second thought, all of me wants that. Desperately.

“Girls’ night?” Emma asks, carefully.

“Of course,” I say easily. And it is easy. It feels good. Normal.

“WOO HOO!” Jo screams, launching herself off the couch. “I’ll get the booze!”

The rest of the afternoon is gossip, laughter, and Jo explaining her “new future husband,” who will absolutely be forgotten by Thursday. I roll my eyes.

Emma talks about plans for their first family vacation with Luca this summer, and somehow the three of us end up crying because time is fake and babies grow too fast.

After a few hours have passed, I check my phone to make sure Brennan hasn't texted. I know he’s probably fine, but I can’t help but worry about him. When you love someone like that, their pain has a way of settling into your chest, too.

When I see a text from him thirty minutes ago my heart pounds with worry. I click on it and relief immediately washes over me. It says: Missing you hurts worse than the ninety mile an hour puck.

My heart grows three sizes. It takes everything in me not to abandon girls’ night entirely and go straight to him. But the thing about us? It doesn’t need to be loud all the time.

“What’d he say?” Jo says from across the room.

I glance up and realize both she and Emma are watching me now.

“Oh, nothing,” I say, trying to play it off. “Just that he misses me.” But the tears gathering in my eyes say otherwise.