Page 54 of Worth the Shot

“Boxes,” Emma decides, already getting up.

Miles doesn’t argue, just starts cutting slices and handing them over like he knew this was coming. Within minutes, everything’s packed up into to-go containers, dessert saved for later when we’re capable of making better decisions.

Everyone says their goodbyes slowly, like dragging it out might buy us a few extra minutes. Nights like this are hard to walk away from—the kind that are just us and easy. It’s not lost on me how rare this is.

Not just friends, but the kind who show up without question. The kind who stay through all of the laughter and tears. The kind who become part of your life so quietly you don’t even notice it happening until one day, they’re woven into everything.

We may not be perfect, and we’re definitely not all put together. But at the end of the day, when life gets hard or when there’s something worth celebrating, this is where we all end up.

Together.

Every single time.

Chapter Twenty

Brennan

Can your heart go through withdrawal? Because that’s exactly what I’m suffering from right now. Not alcohol or drugs, just the emotional kind. I want more. Hell, I need more, but I’ll wait. I’ll take it at whatever pace she needs, even if all I get is a long, meaningful hug or some shoulder to shoulder contact every once in a while.

But damn if I haven’t replayed it in my head a hundred times these last four days—the way my body moved before my brain could weigh in, my lips finding her forehead like they already knew where they belonged. No hesitation or second-guessing, just instinct. And now I can’t stop thinking about the feel of that single second. The softness of her skin. The way her hair brushed my face, smelling like vanilla and mint. I swear to God, I need that scent everywhere. On my sheets. In my truck. Burned into every shirt I own.

Clearly I need a distraction, which is exactly why I agreed to get beers with Miles and Wes after today’s game. Miles drives, since he doesn’t drink, and we end up at our usual spot. O’Malley’s is unreasonably dead for seven o’clock on a Saturday, but none of us are complaining. Corey already knows our orders, so he lines up a Labatt for me, a whiskey for Wes, and whatever NA beer he’s got for Miles. We clink glasses and Cheers to our win earlier and to having tomorrow off.

A few minutes later, the door swings open and a trio of girls walks in. They’re all Hollywood blonde, over-the-top and not remotely my type. They spot us instantly and make a beeline across the bar. Wes is ready, charm dialed all the way up, before they even reach us. He pulls out a stool beside him and the tallest one sits, like she’s done this a million times.

The other two hover behind Miles and me, hair flipping, asses practically pointed at the ceiling. I’d love to tell them not to waste their time, that it won’t work on me. I’m sure they’re nice girls, really. I’m just not interested in anyone who isn’t a five-foot-seven sarcastic nurse with green eyes, long brown hair, and probably covered in someone else’s blood by now. Yeah. That’s my type.

Miles is polite, as usual, all gentle smiles and “How are you ladies doing?” like he means it, even though we all know this ends with a polite “It was nice meeting you” and nothing more.

He’s not built for anything casual. No one-night stands, no half-in, half-out situations. Miles is an all-in kind of guy and there are no exceptions.

Meanwhile, I give a half smile and keep sipping my beer. We order another round, and Wes asks them what they’re drinking. Par for the course. They order something frilly involving peach schnapps and cranberry juice and it sounds like a guaranteed hangover.

The one I’m pretty sure is named Chelsea drags her finger down the back of my arm and instantly I understand the “ick” women talk about.

“Hey,” she purrs, voice sultry in a way that feels like the start of a sub-par porno. She flips her platinum-blonde hair over her shoulder with a giggle, tits practically spilling out of her top as she leans in. I try not to notice, but it’s impossible when she’s basically presenting them like a pair of trophies.

I’m a man, of course I like boobs, but damn, part of me wants to tell her to cover up and save the effort for someone who’s actually interested. But hey, her body, her rules.

“How’s it going?” I answer casually, giving her absolutely nothing to work with but a polite smile.

She leans closer and I lean back. Subtle, but not subtle enough. She notices and her smile twitches, like she’s not used to this reaction. I don’t blame her, she’s pretty. Just not for me. Not when all I keep seeing behind my eyelids is Delaney, sweatpants and a T-shirt, hair spilling over her shoulders, laughing like she doesn’t realize she’s the only thing in the room breathing life into me.

But Chelsea keeps talking, and I keep nodding like a hostage. I glance over at Wes just in time to see him palm the bombshell’s ass like she’s the Stanley Cup. I don’t know how he does it—different women every night, hotel rooms so they never know where he lives, the whole swaggering routine. I almost feel bad for them, but they have to know what they’re signing up for.

Miles, meanwhile, is being exactly who he always is as he shows the girl beside him pictures of his dog like it’s the goddamn Sistine Chapel. Probably telling her its entire life story while she pretends to listen and tries to figure out if he has money or a big…personality. I know how this goes. It’s all just background noise. I know how empty it leaves everyone, eventually. So I make small talk with Chelsea, and when she finally makes her move, you know, the one that usually ends up with her showing me she’s not wearing any underwear, I shut it down kindly.

“I’m flattered,” I say, turning it into a joke so she doesn’t feel rejected. “But I’m not looking for anything tonight.”

Her face freezes. Then she laughs, brittle. “You were, like, the one I was least interested in anyway.” Oof. Direct hit. Respect. Miles snorts into his drink. Wes chokes on air. I chug the rest of my beer like it’s water and I’m dehydrated.

I pull out my phone, hoping maybe Delaney texted, but there’s nothing. A tiny drop of disappointment hits harder than Chelsea’s fake insult.

I tell myself she’s just busy, back to work on long shifts and trauma floor madness. But damn, I miss her.

We’ve been on a road game stretch the last five nights and I’m dying to see her again. It’s been a week since the dinner at Miles' place, and even though it was just a forehead kiss and my hand on her back, it’s a step in the right direction.

I slip my phone back into my pocket and try to focus on whatever story Wes is loudly embellishing about a fight he clearly didn’t win as easily as he’s pretending. But the bar noise fades in and out, like someone’s messing with the volume knob in my head.