Page 79 of Worth the Shot

Coach wraps up, and we’re all quiet. Even the rookies have gone still. We know what’s coming. We’ve felt it brewing.

“I’m sure some of you picked up on a little commotion earlier,” Coach starts. His voice is steady. Too steady. “As you know, Kerrigan’s been nursing an injury he suffered in training camp. Unfortunately, it looks like he won’t be able to perform in the playoffs, and we had to place him on Injured Reserve.” My mouth goes dry, my pulse stops. I stare straight ahead and don’t breathe, because this is the moment. The hinge. The breath before the verdict.

“So with that being said,” Coach continues, “after trading a second-round pick and one of our better prospects, it looks like we will be welcoming back a familiar face in net. This was kind of the plan all along, we knew we’d want him back in this locker room if we could make it happen. Hated to let him go in the first place, but happy with what it ended up landing us.”

Coach points to me, even though I don’t feel like I deserve an ounce of the praise he’s feeding me right now. The room fucking explodes around me, everyone is cheering, clapping and banging sticks against their stalls like someone just announced we won the Cup.

Coach looks pleased or almost proud, the guys look thrilled to welcome him back. But me? My breath leaves my body like I’ve been punched square in the chest. Hard. Because I know before the name is even spoken who they traded for. I know which goalie they’d consider “a familiar face.” I know whose return would justify that kind of price. We all do.

Matt.

Matthew fucking Morris.

Everything goes blurry and their cheers fade. My body goes numb and all I see is one thing. One person—one fear so sharp it cuts through bone:

Delaney.

My Delaney, and the ex, that I truly believe never deserved her, coming back into her orbit. Into my locker room. Into our world. The one we’ve so carefully been building little by little these past six months. Six months that suddenly feel a hell of a lot smaller next to everything they had. My stomach drops so violently I think I might throw up right there in my gear. That’s when the brutal reality hits.

Love isn’t the only thing I can lose now.

It’s everything.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Delaney

The buzzer blows to signal the end of the game. The announcer calls out the three stars, one of them being Brennan for his goal, and as soon as I see him flip the puck into the crowd and skate off the ice, I’m already half-running down the arena stairs toward the family room.

I drove here with Emma, like always, knowing he’d wait for me after, the same way he always does. I just want to see him, kiss him and let him take me back to his apartment to celebrate his goal. The win. All of it.

Preferably without any clothes on.

I grab my bag, say hi to a few of the guys’ wives and girlfriends, make small talk I absolutely do not care about, and try not to check my phone every thirty seconds waiting for Brennan to answer me. Because the second the buzzer went, I sent him a text that reads:

Any chance #22 is single?

I think I wanna go home with him tonight.

And now I’m fidgeting with the zipper on my purse like a lunatic because suddenly I’m overthinking.

Is Brennan single? Are we something? Do I want a label?

…Yes. Yes, apparently I fucking do. I want it all with Brennan Hale. I want everything, all at once, and I want it now.

Little by little, the family room empties. Couples leave hand in hand, players scoop up their kids, trainers walk through with equipment bags and eventually, it’s just me. Panic creeps in because I know something is off. I pull out my phone to see a text from Brennan and my heart does this stupid, little flutter. Relief crashes over me, but only briefly. No acknowledgement whatsoever on my previous text. My stomach drops when all it reads is “Meet me at my truck.”

I rush out the doors, and the rain hits me full in the face, so suddenly I didn’t even realize it had started. The lot is nearly empty, but I spot his truck immediately. It’s running, headlights cutting through the downpour, but he’s not inside. He’s standing beside it, unmoving, rain soaking through him like he doesn’t even feel it. Panic tightens my chest.

“Brennan?” I yell over the noise of rain pounding on pavement and metal.

He immediately opens his truck door, helping me in the passenger seat. He shuts the door behind me and the silence it leaves behind feels deafening. When he finally makes his way to the driver side and into the truck, he looks like he just got caught up in tidal wave.

“Brennan, what’s going on? You’re soaked!” I demand, but all he does is push a wet hand through his already drenched hair and sigh.

“Talk to me, Bren,” I plead, this time softer, as I wipe away the wetness on his face from the rain. He catches my hand in his, cradling into it for a moment as he lets out a breath that sounds way overdo. Then, finally, he speaks.

He stares straight ahead, all emotion absent from his voice, and says, “The front office made a deadline deal today. We needed to make a change before the playoffs start.”