Page 3 of Worth the Shot

“Oh my god. You’re joking. Delaney, please tell me you’re joking. He left you at the coffee shop? What a fucking douche.”

I nod, wrapping both hands around the latte. It’s already gone lukewarm, but I keep holding it anyway, like the heat might come back if I wait long enough. Like a lot of things, apparently.

“Yep. Classic Matt. Efficient. No wasted time. No messy emotions. Just a thoughtful little breakup and an Irish exit.” I try to smile, but it gives up halfway there. “Honestly, I’m impressed. If there were Olympic medals for breaking hearts in under ten minutes, he’d be on a podium right now.”

Jo’s expression softens, her usual fire dimming just enough. “Delaney...”

“I mean, I should’ve seen it coming, right?” I shrug, staring at the thin layer of foam. “I knew what I signed up for. When you date someone whose career comes first, you learn to bend around it. Not expect too much. Be flexible. Be...easy.”

The word lands between us like something breakable.

“I kept telling myself it was fine,” I say, taking a dramatic sip of my latte. “The late nights. The canceled plans. The last-minute changes. That feeling second sometimes was just part of loving someone like him.” I let out a small laugh. “Glad I felt optional to him. Great for my ego.”

Jo brings the screen closer to her face, expression sincere. “I’ve spent the last two years watching you rearrange your life around his schedule, Delaney. Don’t sit there and tell me you were the problem.”

I want to tell her she’s wrong. That this is just par for the course when you date a professional athlete. That trades and contracts and opportunities don’t wait for anyone. But no matter how many excuses I make, he still left me sitting alone in a coffee shop. I swallow hard.

“I just wish he’d talked to me about it so I didn’t feel so blindsided. Instead, he left me sitting here with a fresh, wasted blowout and a heart that apparently didn’t get the memo.”

Jo huffs softly, trying to lighten the air without forcing it. “For the record, your hair still looks great. Very emotionally devastated but still put together. It’s a vibe.”

I laugh, a shaky sound that surprises both of us. “Perfect. I’ll add that to my résumé. Professional heartbreak survivor. Great hair under pressure.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“All I know is this is the last time I get involved with a hockey player. The whole can-disappear-on-a-Tuesday-without-warning thing isn’t for me.” I shrug, aiming for casual even though my chest still feels tight. “Come to think of it, maybe I’ll just lean into being the fun single aunt. Show up with loud toys, too much sugar, and zero emotional risk. Love feels wildly overrated.”

“Hm. Not gonna work. That’s my job. And you don’t actually believe that.” Jo gives me a look. “Just say the word and I’ll cut out of work early. I can be there in thirty minutes.”

I know she means it. She always has. Twenty years ago, a loud, outspoken girl moved in next door, and the rest is history. Johanna Morgan—my ride-or-die, always ready to bury the body or finish a bottle of tequila. Every memory I have of being violently hungover or in an arguably sketchy situation, Jo has been involved. I love that she keeps me fun and carefree while I keep her, well, alive.

“It’s okay, Jo. Really. I’ll survive. Men are optional and disappointment is free, anyway. Right?”

She smiles but it looks more sad than anything. She always knows I’m lying before I do. “Sure, Delaney. Whatever you say.”

Chapter One

Delaney

3 MONTHS LATER

The trauma bay looks like the inside of a blender. Gauze wrappers, empty IV bags, a rogue glove clinging to the wall like it’s auditioning for a horror movie. I’m sticky, starving, and about three ounces of caffeine away from astral projecting out of my body. I fidget with a patient’s IV line until I see a steady drip. My eyes linger on her longer than I mean to. She can’t be more than eighteen. Whole life ahead of her, and now she’s lying in my trauma bay, half-dead, the other half fighting to hang on. The guy who ran the red light and hit her? He’s fine. Unscathed. Life’s unfair like that sometimes.

“Collins, you good?” one of the residents asks, which is adorable. Nobody in scrubs after midnight is good. I nod anyway.

“Never better. Just adding human mop to my résumé.” They laugh, half-delirious. The joke lands because it has to—if it doesn’t, we all start thinking about the alternative. When the adrenaline finally drops, I peel off my gloves and wash up. The sink water runs pink, then clear, and that’s my cue the night’s almost officially over.

I wrap up my rounds, finish the last of my patient checks, and update my charts because, apparently, documentation is the hill healthcare will die on. Before I can escape I peek into room 703, at the ninety-year-old who tumbled down a flight of stairs and somehow lived to complain about it. We honestly weren’t sure he’d make it, but the stubborn old man is still alive and cooking. His vitals are improving and I’m sure he’ll be out of trauma by sunrise, probably charming some poor med-surg nurse into sneaking him extra pudding cups.

I hover in the doorway long enough for it to feel unnatural. No one came for him. He’s been here almost ten hours, and not a single relative has bothered to show up or call. He just lies there, looking lonely and sad and it makes me wonder if maybe dying wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen to him. Funny how easy it can be for people to seem happy, until you catch them in a moment they think no one is watching. This job is weird sometimes; you either feel way too much or absolutely nothing, and there’s never any warning which version of you is going to show up.

I head to the locker room, change out of my scrubs and throw cold water on my face for good measure. Then I grab my bag and check my phone. A cafeteria notification pops up about “Taco Tuesday,” which is a little late considering it’s Thursday. The halls are an eerie kind of quiet, the type that’s unsettling, like impending doom. I turn the corner, and the waiting room TV is blaring NHL highlights loud enough to wake the dead. I’m halfway to the elevator when I hear the commentator say his name.

Matthew Morris.

My body reacts before my brain can stop it, eyes snapping to the screen against my better judgment. As soon as I see him, I’m right back in that coffee shop three months ago. My pulse kicks, then stalls. That slow grin. The ridiculous post-game hair. The camera zooms in on him accepting the star-of-the-game puck, the crowd chanting like he’s the answer to all of their problems.

Adorable.