Page 114 of Worth the Shot

Another pause. But then, a slow smile starts to pull at the corner of his mouth and something in my chest loosens when I see it. He exhales, shaking his head like he’s trying to make sense of me. “You’re insane.”

“I’ve been told,” I say, adjusting my grip on the stick like I have any idea what I’m doing. He pushes off slowly, circling me once, eyes scanning everything—my stance, my balance, the way I’m holding the stick like it might betray me at any second.

“Okay,” he says finally. “We’re not doing drills.”

I frown. “Excuse me?”

“We’re starting with you not falling.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate,” he counters, already reaching for a puck and sliding it toward me. “Bend your knees.”

“I am bending my knees.”

“You’re not.”

I sigh, exaggerating it just to annoy him, but I shift anyway.

“Better,” he says, and there’s something softer in his tone now. Lighter. “Alright, just…tap the puck. Nice and easy.”

I look down at it like it personally offended me, and then I tap it. It goes maybe three inches. I look back up at him. “…Nailed it.”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, and for the first time since I walked in, it actually sounds like him. Not tight or frustrated, just him.

“Again,” he says.

I do it again. Slightly less terrible this time.

“Look at that,” he murmurs. “We’re making progress.” He smirks, pushing another puck toward me. “Alright, now I’m going to move a little. You just follow me and keep the puck with you.”

“Brennan,” I deadpan, “I can barely keep myself with me.”

“Trust me,” he says, skating backward now. “I’ve got you.”

Something about the way he says it makes me believe him, so I push off. It’s not even the slightest bit graceful, but I move, focusing on the puck, on him, on not completely wiping out.

“Eyes up,” he calls.

I lift my head and he’s right there, watching me, but not in that hyper-critical way I’ve seen all week. Not overthinking or stuck, just present.

“Good,” he says. “Keep going.”

We move like that for a minute. Me trying not to die, him guiding me, correcting me, keeping it simple. And then something shifts. It’s subtle, but I see it. The way his movements get sharper. The way he moves more automatic and smooth, not overthinking or overanalyzing.

“Pass it,” he says suddenly.

“What?”

“Pass it, Laney.”

I panic slightly and shove the puck in his general direction. It’s terrible, but he still gets it. Of course he does. And then he’s moving, fast, not holding back, not hesitating, just skating. Cutting across the ice, stick handling clean, controlled, effortless in a way that makes my chest tighten for an entirely different reason.

There he is.

I just stand there, watching him, a little out of breath, a lot out of my depth.

He takes a quick shot and the puck snaps into the net with a clean, satisfying sound.