Page 107 of Worth the Shot

We pause. Just for a heartbeat. Long enough to look at each other and say everything without words. I cup her face, brushing damp hair from her cheek, my thumb tracing her jaw and I kiss her slowly while finally sliding into her until there’s no space left. Until there’s no clear line where I end and she begins. She gasps, nails digging into my back, and I move carefully, deliberately, drawing it all out. When I feel her tighten and start to spiral, I slow again.

“Wait for me, baby,” I whisper. She nods, eyes glassy, skin glowing, like she’s right on the edge of something beautiful and terrifying. I hold her there, breathing her in. “Just hold on for me, Laney.” I thrust once. Twice. Three times—and then she crashes into me, screaming my name like she’s claiming it, and I lose it with her, completely undone. The world disappears and there’s nothing but her.

We lie there afterward, breathless, bodies still trembling and time meaningless. I wrap the sheet around us and pull her close, skin to skin. She turns to face me, resting her head on my chest. I smooth her hair back, over and over, pulling us so far into the moment that nothing else exists. Just us, this bed and two people who chose each other. Who choose to figure life out as it comes. I want to stay here and memorize this version of us, because these quiet moments are the ones that matter most in the long run—the ones we forget to protect. As much as I love hearing her scream my name, the times she whispers it are the most sacred. The most important. They’re the ones that usually come before something I’ll carry with me forever.

“Bren?” she whispers.

“Yeah” I murmur, my lips brushing her hair, my hand still moving in slow, patient strokes. “I’m here.”

She shifts slightly, like she’s working up the courage to say something fragile. Her fingers trace lazy, absent lines across my chest. “I just—” She exhales softly. “I don’t ever want to lose you. Know a life without this.”

The words hit me harder than anything she could’ve said. I tilt my head down so she has to look at me, my thumb brushing along her jaw. “You don’t have to,” I tell her, quietly but firmly. “Not without me. Not ever.”

Her eyes shine, and not with tears this time, but with something steadier. Something sure. She presses her forehead into my chest again, like she’s letting the truth of that settle into her bones. “Okay,” she says. Just one word. Simple. Heavy. Brave.

I hold her tighter, kissing the crown of her head, committing the weight of her body and the sound of her breathing to memory, because this is the part I never want to forget.

She smiles and threads her fingers through mine like she already knows I’m not going anywhere. “Me and you,” she says, like it’s a fact. “I love you, Brennan.”

I kiss her then. The kind of kiss you remember long after everything else fades. I rest my forehead against hers, breathing her in. Our noses brush and our eyes stay locked.

“I love you, Delaney Collins,” I say. “And in every lifetime, every single version of it and every place we land…there will always be a me and you.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Brennan

I am not a patient man. At least, not when it comes to my career. These last few weeks have dragged like wet cement, and today I finally get to step back on the ice with the guys. Granted, I’ll be in the dreaded yellow non-contact jersey, which means I will absolutely be roasted alive. I can already hear Wes calling me “Princess” before we even finish warming up. Whatever, let them chirp. I can take it.

I get to the rink much earlier than usual, and for a second, I’m not even sure why I’m this nervous. I can’t decide if it’s the puck, the thought of getting hit again, the guys and trying to fall back into a rhythm they’ve been in without me, or the quiet fear that maybe I’m a step off and I won’t even realize it until it’s too late. A few weeks shouldn’t be enough to throw me, but it feels like it is.

There’s also the whole ordeal with Matt, but that’s not something I need to worry about anymore. Right after my accident, he reached out to Delaney to ask how I was, and they had their conversation, said what they needed to say, and got whatever closure was left between them. He backed down, reluctantly, because I think a part of him knew he’d lost that fight a long time ago. And even though she chose me—clearly, without hesitation—I still don’t trust him. Not yet. Maybe that’s unfair, or maybe it’s just instinct. Either way, it doesn’t matter right now.

Because the second I step onto the ice, none of that can come with me. Not the doubt. Not the noise. Not the version of me that starts overthinking every shift instead of just playing the game the way I know how. I’ve been that guy before, the one who gets in his own head and starts chasing something instead of trusting it. The last time that happened, I lost more than just my game. I’m not doing that again, not when we’re this close to playoffs and definitely not when I finally have someone who chose me at my worst, not the version of me everyone else expects.

I push through the anxiety and head out there, realizing I’m first on the ice. Perfect. I take a few laps, then a few more, pushing my edges, feeling the give of the blades under me. It’s familiar, but not quite right yet, like my body remembers but doesn’t fully trust me. Shayne steps on the ice a few minutes later. He gives me space at first, like he’s not sure how fragile I am. For fuck’s sake. I skate over to grab a stick and he stops short, spraying ice all over my legs.

“Shit. Did that count as contact?”

Here we go.

I tap him with my stick. “Wow. Hilarious.”

“Good to have you back,” he says, tapping twice against my shin pad.

“Feels good to be back. Been too long. I was losing my damn mind.”

He gives my face a once-over. “Healed up well. Looks like Delaney took good care of you.”

“She’s terrifying when you don’t listen.”

“Don’t I know it.” He laughs.

The guys trickle in one by one. Stick taps, nods, the usual chirps. Matt even gives me half a smile and says, “Good to have you back, man.” But the whole time, that tight little knot in my gut doesn’t ease. Because what if I don’t feel like myself on the ice today? What if I’m slower? What if I’m not enough?

I try to hear Delaney’s voice: It’ll come back. Don’t push too hard. Trust your body. But fearing I’m not the same? That’s a beast of its own. The last time I wasn’t playing at the level everyone expected it cost me. Two years of my life down the drain. Two years chained to a woman who loved the spotlight more than she ever loved me. Who loved the brand of being with “Brennan Hale, top-ten forward” more than the man underneath it. And maybe that’s why this thing with Delaney terrifies me as much as it steadies me. Because it feels completely different. Real. Solid in a way nothing has been in years. I just wish my heart trusted that right now.

Coach blows the whistle and practice officially starts. The guys do their thing while I take a few easy passes from them before going to work one on one with the trainer. I take my first real rush and, yeah. There it is. The off-ness. Like my body is half a second behind my brain. I go to handle a simple pass from Wes and the puck hops over my blade like it’s allergic to me. The chirps start immediately.