Page 1 of Worth the Shot

Prologue

Delaney

Unbelievable.

There he is, being unfairly attractive in public again. My heart skips a beat the moment I spot him, and yes, I’m aware of how dramatic that sounds for a man I saw less than twenty-four hours ago.

He’s leaning against one of those vine-covered storefronts, red hair a little messy, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, wearing the kind of grin that could make a grown woman lose every shred of common sense.

I’m the grown woman.

If there are two things I’ve come to love most, it’s Matthew Morris and Maine in June. One is seventy and sunny with a cool breeze rolling in from the coast. The other is six-foot-four, broad-shouldered, and fully aware of what his smile does to me.

Main Street’s narrow sidewalks are lined with little shops and red maples that still wear their deep-green canopies. The lamp posts are strung with fat, glowing bulbs that light up at night, turning the street into something out of a fairytale and vines spill over the brick storefronts. I can’t help smiling, soaking in the street that’s been my constant for twenty-eight years. So much has changed, but this place—this street—never does.

I pick up my pace, flipping my long hair over my shoulder, a smile spreading across my face as I head straight for Matty. Internally, I’m squealing by the time I reach him because apparently I’m twelve again, mentally doodling his name across my notebooks with stick figures and tiny hearts.

“Someone’s excited for a fancy, overpriced latte,” he says, chuckling.

He’s a black-coffee-from-the-pot kind of guy, and no matter how hard I’ve tried, he’ll never understand the power of a latte order consisting of ten words. He’d also never be caught dead ordering it for me. The funny thing is, I’m low maintenance in every other area of life, truly. Like a snake plant, shove me in a dark corner, water me once a year, and I’ll somehow keep going. But when it comes to my coffee order? That’s where I unapologetically choose to be difficult.

He links his arm through mine as we walk inside. I swat at him, then rise onto my toes to kiss him anyway. Matty doesn’t tease me often, though part of me wishes he would. The thought lingers for a second longer than I’d like to admit before I push it away. I knew who he was when I met him: the serious, brooding goalie. The first-round draft pick ten years ago for the Maine Mountaineers. Goalies rarely get drafted in the first round, and trust me when I say he will never let you forget it. But that’s Matt. He’s always been super proud of his career and who can blame him? He worked hard to get where he is and I love watching his dreams come true.

The coffee shop is buzzing, as usual. We find a table almost immediately and sit before ordering, which feels odd, but I don’t question it. Goalies are their own species. He asked me to meet him here as soon as I could, noting that there was something important he had to talk to me about.

We’ve been together for almost two years now and had talked about eventually moving in together when the time was right. Our careers stretch us pretty thin, but sharing a space we both come home to every night seems like the answer to everything I’ve been dreaming of. Butterflies flood my stomach when I allow myself to think about it: his side of the bed becoming our bed, me stealing his pillow when he’s on a road trip because it still smells like him, like that alone could trick my brain into thinking he never left. Maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t have to miss him so much if everything around me already felt like him.

The faux fireplace crackles beside us, and the rich smell of espresso warms the already cozy space. It’s the kind of aggressively inviting setup that looks ripped straight from a Pinterest board.

Heaven, truly, until I look over at Matt and immediately snap out of my daydream.

Unfortunately, his face reads absolutely none of the above as his knuckle drums against the table nervously and he bites his bottom lip.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

Matt has always been hard to read. He doesn’t like to talk about things, which would be more of an issue if I weren’t exactly the same. Usually, we’ve made that dysfunction work for us. Or at least we used to. But something tells me whatever’s on his mind right now is heavier than our standard emotional avoidance package.

“Well, yes and no. I, uh, have some news,” he says, a strained smile pulling at his mouth.

“Okay,” I nod slowly. “Let’s hear it.”

“I signed a year contract with Los Angeles,” he admits all at once, not a single falter or stutter in his voice, as if he’s telling me the weather.

My hands shake as I pick at the napkin on the table. The room starts to spin and breathing feels like a voluntary action I'm working extra hard to continue doing.

He didn’t say I got an offer.

He didn’t say Let’s talk about this.

He signed the contract.

Ink dry. Done deal.

I give myself a second to gather the pieces of my composure, because what the fuck just even happened, then force myself to look at him.

“How long have you known this was on the table?”

“The technicalities? A few weeks. I didn’t think I'd take it, though. I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure how you’d handle it. I wanted to wait until it was final.”