Page 25 of Worth the Shot

I clutch the phone to my chest and take a long breath in, then out, and I realize that’s exactly what reading that message felt like—breathing again.

I blast the music as I pull onto the road, singing at the top of my lungs for the first time in what seems like forever, and it feels like freedom mixed with contentment that I feel deep in my soul. Maybe even the beginning of what might just be my favorite friendship yet.

I text him back as soon as I walk in: Home safe. Then I plug my phone in and sleep like a baby.

The next morning, I’m back in my scrubs, hair shoved into a bun that’s hanging on for dear life and the trauma bay is already chaos. One of the residents looks like he’s seen a ghost (or more likely, a couple of dead bodies), and I’ve spilled coffee down my left sleeve before eight a.m. Classic start.

By noon, I’ve cleaned blood off my shoes twice and resuscitated my will to live at least three times. We’re short-staffed, running on caffeine fumes and adrenaline, and my stomach’s been growling since the end of my last shift. I’m about to sneak off for a five-minute break when I hear my name over the noise.

“Collins!”

I turn, and there he is. Brennan, holding two coffees and something in a bag, smiling like he has no idea the effect he’s having on an entire hospital wing. He looks unfairly good for someone who probably just left practice. He’s rocking a backwards hat, a hoodie, team joggers, and all the casual confidence in the world.

I look over at Megan, who’s pretending to be elbow-deep in surgical resident paperwork. She catches my eye, smirks, and waggles her brows at me. I ignore her and immediately return my attention back to Brennan.

“You didn’t have to⁠—”

“Yeah, I did,” he says, handing me one. “Triple shot, oat milk, two pumps of brown sugar cinnamon syrup, right? There’s a muffin in there too. Blueberry. Probably not as good as yours but hopefully it does the trick.”

I blink at him. “Are you stalking me or psychic?”

“Neither.” He grins. “Emma texted me your usual coffee order. Blueberry muffin was my idea,” he says, motioning at the bag.

“Of course she did.” I take a sip, and it’s perfect. “You realize you’ve just made yourself responsible for all my future caffeine needs, right?”

He shrugs. “I think I can live with that.” We stand there for a second, hospital chaos spinning around us like white noise.

“How’s your day?” he asks.

“Oh, you know. Just another normal shift of trying to keep people alive and ruining scrubs.”

He laughs, the sound soft but genuine. “You gonna stay up to watch our game tonight?”

“Depends,” I say. “You planning on scoring a goal in my honor?”

His grin tilts. “Guess you’ll have to tune in and find out.”

“Guess I will.”

He taps the lid of his coffee against mine before heading toward the exit. “Try not to scare too many doctors today, Collins.”

“No promises,” I call after him.

Later that night, I rush home and collapse onto the couch just as the Mountaineers hit the ice. Brennan’s on the first line with Miles, and I watch their chemistry the whole game. He’s quick and sharp, but I can tell when he’s holding back and playing cautious instead of confident. In the last three minutes, Miles flings a no-look pass to Brennan to score the game-winning goal, and even though no one’s around to see it, I habitually bite back a smile. That’s more like it. When the buzzer sounds, I grab my phone.

Me

Good game. Not great, though.

Brennan

Ouch. Brutal honesty, huh?

Me

Just keeping you humble, Hale.

Brennan