Page 19 of Worth the Shot

“Old-fashioned, please,” I tell Corey, ignoring the way Wes’s eyes immediately find her again.

“Already got the bourbon out, sweetheart.” He winks, and I almost cry.

Corey is one of the best men I know and I don’t say that lightly. He was close with my dad for as long as I can remember and whenever he’s around, I feel like a piece of my dad is too. They were all about fishing trips, backyard beers, and I can’t remember a time anything even remotely big happened in our lives that he wasn’t a part of. Ever since we lost my Dad, Corey has made it a point to look out for Emma and me in whatever way we need. Today, apparently, that’s bourbon. I take my first sip and it’s perfect, as usual. The warmth fills my chest instantly, and just as I feel my body relax, the door opens behind me. I don’t even have to look.

My body recognizes him first but I turn my head anyway. Brennan walks in, and something in my ribcage pulls. He’s in a brown, long sleeved shirt with jeans, hat backwards, and messy dark hair peeking through slightly.

And then, like I just won the world's most inconvenient lottery, he spots me immediately as if he came in looking for me and me only. I notice he tries not to smile, failing miserably, and I do the same, biting my bottom lip as I look away.

“Hey,” I say, when I realize he’s made his way next to me at the bar.

“Hey,” he says back, and I swear the room gets warmer. Feels safer. Feels…brighter. “I didn’t think you’d be here. Thought maybe you were working.”

“Nope. One more day of freedom before the American healthcare system breaks me again.” He laughs and, yup, I still want that sound on repeat.

“This is my friend, Jo,” I say, as she makes her way over to me faster than I’ve ever seen that girl’s legs move. Her hand is already in his before I say her name.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, refocusing on me the second the last word leaves his lips. I look away. I have to.

Jo gives me a look, the one that says I’m gonna leave you to it, and then she disappears like she’s trying to ruin my life. I look around, trying to find something to save me from whatever embarrassing thing is about to leave my mouth when he asks:

“So, how long have you lived in Hartwell?”

Thankfully that’s an easy one to answer. “All my life. I always thought I’d leave someday, but everywhere I go,” I gesture to the crooked bar stools and beer-soaked floor, “nothing ever feels like here.” The sarcasm lands and he huffs out a laugh. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. It’s been a long time since someone appreciated my sense of humor.

“I get that,” he says. “I think signing here was the right move for me. It reminds me of home but better. The coast…the people…the quiet.” He pauses. “It’s a good place to land.”

My chest tightens. I pretend it’s the bourbon.

Alcohol tends to dull my sharp corners, loosening the grip I usually keep on myself. For a few hours, I don’t have to be quite so guarded. “Well, the fans will love to hear that. And it looks like you survived Shayne, Wes and Miles’ hazing ritual, so congrats. Not many live to tell the tale.”

“Pretty sure your hazing ritual is far more intimidating.” He laughs again, genuinely amused, and I hate how much I’d like to hear that sound regularly. “Can I get you another drink?” he asks, nodding at my empty glass.

“Sure,” I say. “But if I want to wake up tomorrow in one piece, I should probably switch to beer.”

His smile curves, slow and knowing. “Alright,” he says, “beer it is, Laney.”

My chest reacts like it was waiting all night for that, which is humiliating. Friends. I lift the beer Corey hands me and take a sip like the carbonation might drown the sudden emotional wildfire.

“So,” I say, lighter than I feel, “if we’re friends now, I’m going to need to know how you take your coffee. This is vital friendship information.”

His lips curve like he knows exactly what I’m doing–keeping it safe. Platonic. He lets me.

“A little cream,” he says. “Two sugars. And only if it’s before practice or a game. Otherwise I’ll vibrate into another dimension.”

I snort. “Noted. I’ll keep you from ascending.”

He taps his bottle gently against mine. “Appreciated. And since we’re friends…” He pauses, no doubt giving me an out. I hate how kind that is.

He reaches slowly, like he’s moving underwater, and steals a napkin from the bar. He writes his number on it with the rhythm of someone who does this all the time, but something in me tells me he doesn’t.

No performance. No flirt. Just an offering as he slides the napkin toward me with one finger “Text me next time you want coffee,” he says. “Or if you need someone to listen to you complain about a night shift. Or if Luca needs a train conductor. I’m versatile.”

My smile happens before I can stop it. “Wow. A man of many talents.”

He bows his head, mock-serious. “I contain multitudes.”

I take it and fold it once, carefully, and pretend I’m not weirdly invested in a bar napkin all of a sudden. “Okay,” I say, meaning it. And then I grab a napkin and scribble mine down the same.