Page 26 of Worth the Shot

I’ll try harder next time. You’ll have to watch again to confirm.

Me

We’ll see. Depends if there’s trash TV on.

Brennan

You’re dangerous.

I grin at the screen, curling under a blanket that I desperately wish smelled like him. Yeah. Maybe I am.

Chapter Eleven

Delaney

Thanksgiving weekend was one for the books. Shayne had two days off this year, and being able to indulge and actually enjoy it felt like a small miracle.

Brennan went back to Toronto for a couple of days, and I haven’t heard from him much, which is understandable. Family time matters, and honestly, it’s not like we need to talk every day.

I do my best to ignore the part of me that misses him anyway.

Mom, Emma, and I are on our annual post-Thanksgiving shopping trip. We call it Christmas shopping, but half the time we come home with bags for ourselves. Self-care, really. This year, though, I’m feeling extra thankful for my family, my people—and I’m really looking forward to spoiling them.

We’re passing an L.L. Bean outlet when I stop short. There, in the front display, is a mannequin wearing a hunter-green plaid flannel threaded with gold and red tones. I don’t know why, but I can’t stop picturing it on Brennan.

“I’ll be right back!” I grab Emma’s arm for balance as I dart into the store.

I spot the shirt on a rack and pull one off the hanger. He’s definitely a medium. Or maybe a large? I go with the large, because, hockey body. Better safe than snug. Although now I’m imagining snug and…never mind. I shake off the PG-13 thoughts and take the flannel to the checkout counter.

I walk out, triumphant, bag swinging, until Emma’s hand shoots out stopping me dead in my tracks.

“What is this?” she says, snatching the bag from me.

“Nothing,” I say, yanking it back.

“Is that for Shayne?” Mom asks, out of pure curiosity.

“No, Mom, it’s not for Shayne.” Emma smirks. “It’s for Brennan.”

“Who’s Brennan?” Mom asks again, as innocent as the day is cold.

I groan. “Okay, enough. No, it’s not for Shayne. Yes, it’s for Brennan. He’s my friend and I think he’d look nice in this shirt.”

“Yeah, nice,” Emma repeats, smug.

“Stop.” I glare at her in warning.

“Make me.”

I slap her arm, because it’s the closest available target, and Mom lets out an exasperated, “Okay, girls, enough! You’re like children.”

“She started it,” Emma mutters, arms crossed like the toddler she’s raising.

“Brennan’s Shayne’s teammate,” I explain, trying to sound unbothered. “We’ve been hanging out a little, but just in a friendly way. Nothing more.”

Emma rolls her eyes but stays quiet. Mom just smiles that knowing mom-smile. “Well, that sounds lovely. I can’t wait to meet him.” And I know it’s coming from a genuine place. Just as I finally steer the conversation elsewhere, my phone buzzes.

Brennan