Page 111 of Worth the Shot

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “But…maybe we can snuggle?” A slow smile spreads across her face, reaching her sleepy green eyes, and just like that, whatever was left of the tension in my chest starts to loosen.

“Yeah,” I say, softer now. “C’mere.”

I pull on a T-shirt and climb into bed beside her, and the second I do, she’s curling into me. Her arms wrap around me, her head settling against my chest, and I swear my body relaxes in a way it hasn’t all day. “My favorite pillow,” she murmurs. I let out a quiet breath, my arms tightening around her a little more than they probably need to, holding her like there’s even the smallest chance she could slip away.

We lie there like that for a while, just the steady rhythm of our breathing and the soft hum of the wind outside. Rain begins to tap gently against the window and for the first time all day, everything feels…quiet.

She finally speaks, voice quiet, “How was practice?”

My hand absently traces shapes on her lower back. “Not great.”

“We kind of knew that was going to happen though, right?” She says it like she’s sure, and I wish I had the same mindset as her.

“I guess. I didn’t think I’d feel that…off,” I admit, even though it feels vulnerable in ways I’m still trying to figure out.

“You’re supposed to. What happened wasn’t just brutal and terrifying, Bren, it was debilitating. Mentally and physically. You took a major hit and that’s going to take time to heal.” Her words slip straight into the cracks I pretend I don’t have. And I needed them—God, I needed them—from her. She sits up, facing me fully now, and there’s no pity in her eyes, just belief. She touches the side of my face, thumb brushing over the scar with a tenderness that makes my entire spine light up. Then she presses her forehead to mine, breathing in. She stays there for a moment until she pulls away, just enough to look at me.

“You’ll get there, Brennan. Give yourself time. No one expects you at a hundred percent right now. Just…give yourself grace. And know I’m here if you ever need to talk about it.”

I try to believe her. I really do. I want to so badly it almost hurts, but there’s still something in me that won’t fully let go. I nod anyway, choosing to trust her, choosing to trust what Katie said, because they’re both right. Delaney’s been here through all of it. She stayed. She chose me. Why would she leave now? But there’s a part of me that still hesitates, because she hasn’t seen how bad it can get. How far into my own head I can go, how easily I can take something simple and turn it into something complicated, something heavier than it ever needed to be. I’ve been here before, but this time, it’s different. I have her, which means I have a hell of a lot more to lose. I just hope that this time, I know how to keep it.

Chapter Forty-Five

Delaney

It’s been a week since Brennan’s been back on the ice, and I can tell he’s absolutely losing his mind about it. Every single day it’s the same routine: practice, home, straight to bed for a nap like his life depends on it, then up to eat, then off to the gym. Some days? Back to the rink again, because apparently one round of self-inflicted torture isn’t enough.

I can tell it’s eating at him. Not playing up to his full potential, not being exactly where he thinks he should be—it’s all he can focus on. I have no clue what coming back from an injury like that is supposed to look or feel like, but I do know he struggled with a bad game long before any of this happened. It breaks my heart to watch him get stuck in his own head like this, but I keep gently reminding him that no one is expecting more out of him right now. Every single time, he just looks at me and says, “But I do.” Which, cool. Love that for him. Really, I get it, I do, but I wish I could somehow get it through that stubborn, thick, hockey-helmet-protected skull of his that I would love him no matter what he played like. I mean, I’d still love him if he decided to quit hockey altogether and bag groceries at Hannaford. Plus, I doubt there’s much risk for a grapefruit flying eighty miles an hour at his face. Honestly, I think he’d look very good in an apron. Probably still intimidating. Definitely overqualified. Still mine.

I shake my head at myself as I pull into the hospital parking lot, cutting the engine and taking a second before I move, because as much as I’d love to sit here and spiral about my emotionally constipated boyfriend, people inside are having much worse days than I am.

And unlike Brennan, they don’t get to skate it out.

I grab my bag, hop out of the car, and head inside, already bracing myself for whatever kind of shift I’m about to walk into, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that no shift is ever just a normal shift.

And today? It is definitely not a normal shift.

“What is all of…that?” I ask, pointing to what I’ve now counted as six fully grown men standing outside a trauma room, all of them dressed in what I can only assume is very cheap scuba gear.

“That,” Megan says, not even looking up from her chart, “is a group of grown men who decided to do a cold plunge in the ocean and failed. Miserably. Or, at least one of them did.”

“Wow,” I mutter, and she huffs out a laugh.

“Nothing surprises me anymore,” she adds, finally glancing up at me. “Anyway, he’s all yours. Possible broken ribs, shoulder dislocation, and a head injury we need to monitor. He got knocked over by a wave, slammed into rocks, and dragged.”

I blink at her. “Fun.”

“Mm,” she hums, already halfway gone. “Have a great shift.”

I look back at the line of men, all of them uncomfortably damp and way too large to be blocking a hallway, and sigh. “Alright, gentlemen,” I say, clapping my hands once. “Field trip’s over. Let’s clear the doorway.”

A few of them shuffle, one of them offering me a sheepish smile like that’s supposed to make this better. It doesn’t. I push past the wall of neoprene and poor decision-making and step into the room, already bracing myself for whatever version of chaos is waiting on the other side. They cut off his gear already, no doubt at the scene, making my job easier. I glance down at the chart, reading off his name as I step up to the bed.

“Leonard—”

“Lenny,” he cuts in.

“Lenny,” I repeat, not missing a beat. “Got it. How are we doing?”