Page 115 of Worth the Shot

Silence follows for half a second and then he looks at me.

He’s smiling.

I grin, lifting my stick like I had anything to do with that. “You’re welcome. Pretty sure that was the assist of the century.”

He lets out a short laugh, skating back toward me, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah,” I say, breathless. “I know.”

He stops in front of me, close enough now that I can feel the heat coming off him, his chest still rising and falling a little heavier from the shift.

“You did that on purpose,” he says.

“Did what?”

“Got me out of my head.”

I shrug, like it wasn’t the entire point. “I told you. I’m a great distraction.”

His eyes soften, just slightly. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You are.”

Then he reaches out, adjusting my grip on the stick, his hands lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Again,” he says.

But this time? He’s already back.

Chapter Forty-Six

Brennan

I can’t believe I still have to wear this thing. I feel like an animal in a zoo enclosure, or a rabid raccoon they dragged out of someone’s attic and slapped a cage on. I look like a fucking idiot, and tracking the puck feels impossible. Not to mention the sound of stick-on-puck is sending my brain on a trauma bender. Physically, I feel great. Mentally? Someone should evaluate me and prescribe the kind of drugs that let you float through life like a helium balloon someone forgot to tie down.

Thanks to Delaney, my game isn’t weighing on me the way it was. She has this way of cutting through the noise in my head, grounding me without even trying, and I’ve never experienced anything like it before. She sees exactly where I get stuck and meets me there. I’ve never had anything like that before. And I know I’m the luckiest guy in the world that she chose me.

Now, the only problem is I just don’t know how to pretend I’m not terrified another puck will rearrange my face. I scan the ice for salvation. It’s early but half the guys are still chirping each other, buzzing around like it’s a backyard rink. Shayne makes his way to the bench, sits, and starts taping his stick. I skate over, pretending to be casual, stopping short and spraying him with ice.

“I need a favor,” I say, watching him tape.

“Whatcha need, Halesy?” He doesn’t even look up.

“Shoot the puck at my face.”

That gets his attention and his head snaps up. “What…?” He snorts. “I’m—absolutely not.”

“You have to. Right now. Otherwise I’m gonna think about it the entire damn game. You’re my friend. I trust you. So shoot a puck at my face.” No smile. No blinking. No joking. Dead serious.

He squints at me. “Has anyone ever told you you’re outta your fucking mind? Maybe that concussion did some permanent damage.”

“Listen, I’m not asking for a sixty mile an hour slapshot. Just…chuck it at my face. I’ve got the cage on. I’ll be fine.” Truth? I’m not fine. Not even close. I can’t get low in shooting lanes, can’t get near the net-front battles, can’t fucking trust this cage until I feel it stop something. I need to know I won’t fall apart.

Shayne drags a puck toward him with the toe of his stick, still looking at me like I’ve sprouted hooves. “You know the chances of another puck hitting you in the face are⁠—”

“Don’t say it.” Superstitions are real. He knows it. I know it.

Our trainer skates over, hearing just enough to look horrified. “If you two are doing this, do it smart,” he warns. “Keep it low. Soft shots. I’m watching. Don’t be idiots.” He skates off, muttering prayers for his own sanity.

“Shoot the puck,” I say.

“You’re not supposed to see it coming, dumbass.” Shayne flicks his stick like a fake-out.