Page 18 of Worth the Shot

“I don’t even know,” I admit. “He just kind of…feels like sunshine in human form, which is disgusting for me to say out loud. But he sneaks up on you. Next thing you know he’s everywhere, and things feel warmer than they did five minutes ago.” I glance away. “It’s annoying, honestly.”

Jo goes still. “Damn,” she says softly. “Okay. That’s real. When did you become a poet, anyway?” Silence settles in for a minute, but then she nudges me with her shoulder. “So naturally, you’re going to run.”

I groan. “Obviously.”

“Cool,” she says. “Just making sure we’re on schedule.”

I laugh, and it feels like something unclenches in my chest. Or maybe I finally caught my breath.

She continues, “You don’t have to fall in love. Just don’t run before you know what you’re running from.”

I look at her and nod. “How about I vow to stop running, right now? Never again.”

Johanna snorts. “You’re impossible. We’re almost done, you’ll live.”

I hesitate, then say, “He called me Laney.”

She gasps, loudly, like I just told her I ran someone over with my car. “And what did you say?” she demands, eyes wide.

“I didn’t say anything. I just…let him.” That gets her and the shock wipes her expression blank.

“I am not even allowed to call you that,” she says, pointing at her own chest.

“I know. I just didn’t feel like unpacking the whole ‘dead dad’ story over pancakes.”

“Suuuuure,” she says, dragging it out in the most dramatic, Johanna way possible. “Maybe you can watch trash TV with him this week instead.”

I open my mouth to object. “But Trash TV Night is for us. We’ve been doing it for years. Plus he doesn’t strike me for the type that would be into that anyway.”

“Well, if it means quality time with your fine ass, I’m sure he won’t protest. Plus, if you insist you’re just friends, he deserves an inside look at that version of you. God help him.” She mutters the last part before continuing. She stands and offers me her hand. I take it. “Let’s finish this out, girly pop.”

Somehow I survive the last stretch of our run, and before she can bring up my nonexistent endurance again on the drive home, I change the subject to brunch. Because bottomless mimosas are Johanna’s religion, and she’s physically incapable of turning them down. I stop for gas, even though it’s against my will, and then we go back to my house to shower and change.

After brunch, and a few mimosas, of course, I check my phone.

Shayne

Drinks at O’Malley’s. 4 o’clock. Be there.

Ah yes, Happy Hour at O’Malley’s. The town’s sacred, collective delusion that everything is fine and none of us are emotionally unhinged. Or moderately famous hockey players who really just want to drink cheap beer in peace.

We head back to my place to get ready, because according to Johanna, her brunch outfit no longer matches the vibe of O’Malley’s. Wearing the same size clothes as your best friend will always be one of life’s most underrated blessings. All she does is swap outfits, but somehow she looks even hotter than she did before. Like she got a fresh blowout, new mascara, and emotional clarity from brunch. I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s always been that way.

Meanwhile, I run a brush through my hair and use a touch of makeup to try to conceal the fact that I haven’t slept since 2007. When I finish, I throw on a Navy sweater with jeans and light brown boots, and for once I actually look and feel good. Those two things never seem to align much anymore and I remember who I am for a second.

“WHOA,” Jo says.

“Don’t start,” I warn.

“Miss America, please move over, the crown goes to Delaney Collins!” she exclaims, doing some kind of celebratory dance as she places an imaginary tiara on my head. I roll my eyes and point to the door, reminding her it’s time to go.

We arrive at O’Malley’s and I’m immediately hit with the smell of stale beer and sweat. Charming, really. The bar’s moderately busy for Thursday happy hour, which means $3 beers from four to six, and apparently that’s enough to make half this town lose their minds.

The best part about this place? Shayne and the guys can simply just exist here. No swarming fans or autograph ambushes. No one doing the whole “OH MY GOD AREN’T YOU—” bit, and if it ever does happen to get a little out of hand—Corey knows exactly what to do. The regulars have seen them through wins, losses, off-seasons, break-ups, and stitches. They know the deal: Let the boys breathe. Every now and then someone tosses out a “Hell of a block last game, Benny,” or “Nice goal, Smiles,” but that’s it. Just real people talking to real people.

Miles spots us the second we walk in, and Jo’s eyes linger on him just barely too long, the same way they always do. I regret to inform, that’s as far as it ever goes. He crosses the room and pulls us both into a hug and it’s one of those full-body, can’t-breathe-but-don’t-move ones.

“Hey Jo,” he says, smiling that soft smile that lives somewhere between gentle and heart-wrecking. Johanna bites her lip and smiles, doing the whole “devastatingly gorgeous but so innocent” act she’s so good at. I peel off toward the bar, nodding at Wes, but he doesn’t notice. Why? Probably because he’s looking at Jo like she’s his next meal. Not on my watch. I nudge him in the arm and he flinches, snapping out of his trance as I shake my head. A devilish grin pants his face as he presses a freshly filled pint glass to his lips.