Page 24 of Worth the Shot

Delaney

My eyes are heavy, and I’m so comfortable that the thought of moving feels criminal. The blanket smells like him, cedar mixed with pine, and it’s giving me an embarrassing high no drug could ever touch.

I burrow deeper into the couch, fully aware I’ve crossed into self-torture territory—letting myself get comfortable enough to want things I’ve already vowed not to touch—which is, arguably, my favorite place to be lately.

I glance over and my eyes linger a second too long. His gaze meets mine, lazy and soft, and his sleepy eyes are so dreamy I might actually die right here on this couch. I snap myself out of it and yawn dramatically, stretching my arms like a middle-aged man waking up from his recliner nap. Full-on dinosaur noises and all.

“Well,” I say, “now that I’ve got you hooked, I guess we’ll have to do this again.”

“Oh yeah,” he says, smiling. “You better not watch without me now. We’re in this together.”

“Deal.”

For a second, I don’t want to move. I want to live inside this moment, even if it’s borrowed. I remember all the times I’d beg Matty to do exactly this with me, but instead I would inevitably settle for game footage and falling asleep to the sound of his highlights. I’d wake up the next morning, or sometimes in the middle of the night, in that same spot. It always felt so lonely, even when I wasn’t alone. I hate that it still stings to think about. Funny how you convince yourself something’s fine when you’re right in the middle of losing it.

“You okay?” Brennan’s voice cuts through the memory. It’s soft and quiet, almost a whisper, and it feels like he actually cares about the answer. Something I’m not used to, and am realizing I like far more than I should.

“Yeah, just tired,” I say. Not a total lie.

He nods, like he gets it, but something tells me he doesn’t want this moment to end either. “Tell me something,” I manage through a half-yawn. His gaze feels heavy on me, and I try not to read into it. He opens his mouth to say something, then stops, like he isn’t sure.

“What do you want to know?” he asks softly.

“Something that might keep me from saying the mean, sarcastic thing currently fighting for its life to come out,” I say.

He looks at me for a minute, then drags a hand through his hair like sharing whatever is about to come out of his mouth feels hard but he’ll do it anyway. Which is deeply inconvenient, because now I feel a little guilty.

“I was always afraid I’d never be good enough,” he starts, and my mouth goes dry. “I always knew I wanted to play professional hockey. But there were always kids who were better, faster. I was tiny back then. I had to fight for it, and it showed.”

He laughs, but it isn’t easy or unbothered like it usually is. I just watch him, waiting for more.

“I remember telling my dad I wanted to quit. I was eleven, and the world felt so big. I didn’t want to embarrass myself, or worse, him.”

He swallows hard and I move an inch closer, just so he knows I’m here. So he knows I’m listening.

“But he just laughed at me and told me we’d go sharpen my skates and I’d be fine. And I was. He’s always right.” He laughs again, and this time it feels more real. More him.

“Dads have a way of always knowing, don’t they?” I smile, trying to give him the safe space he needs. I wasn’t expecting this, but I’m glad he felt safe enough to give it to me. Feelings are so much easier when you’re on the receiving end of them.

“Your turn,” he says, but it doesn’t feel like he’s pushing. More like he’s hoping.

Guilt twists in my stomach.

I should tell him something. Anything. Especially after he handed me a piece of himself without hesitation. Instead, my heart is screaming Go. Another second here feels dangerous in ways I can’t even begin to fathom.

“As much as I’d love to answer that, I should probably drag my ass home before I turn this couch into my bed for the night.”

He smiles even though it’s forced, like maybe he wouldn’t mind if I stayed. I fold up the blanket I suddenly want to steal, the one that smells like him. He walks me to the door, and we both pause before I reach for the handle. The air between us feels thick, and my mouth goes dry. Suddenly I forget words, so instead I stick out my hand for a fist bump.

Yes. I, Delaney Collins, am fist-bumping Brennan Hale, in real time. She’s got moves, ladies and gentlemen.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head like he’s trying not to smile. His hand lingers for half a second longer than necessary before he pulls it back. “Drive safe, Delaney.”

The cold air hits me the second I step outside. It’s sharp and biting in a way that late November in Maine always is. I start my car and pull out my phone to check my messages, two from Emma and one from Brennan sent two minutes ago. Obviously, I skip straight to his.

Brennan

Text me so I know you’re home safe.