Page 78 of Worth the Shot

“Starting at Forward, NUMBER 22, BRENNNNNNNAN HALE!”

The roar swallows everything and my heart kicks into my throat. I skate one last warm up lap before landing at the blue line, taking it all in. I spot Delaney almost instantly, her hands clasped under her chin, eyes shining, smiling so bright it cuts through every fear living deep inside of me.

That moment is mine.

Ours.

Burned into my brain.

The adrenaline mixed with fear is firing so strong my hands still shake inside my gloves. And then, the puck drops and the game begins.

My first shift is short, on purpose. It’s controlled and physical without being reckless, but it’s everything I need to calm my nerves. I win a puck battle in the corner, send a pass up to Wes and get the hell off the ice before Coach screams at me. Each shift gets easier, smoother. Everything starts to feel good again.

Except…midway through the second period, Miles skates over during a stoppage, tapping my shin pads. “You see management up in the press box?” he asks.

“Not unusual,” I say.

“Yeah, but tonight they’re not sitting together. That’s…new.”

My stomach goes cold.

On the bench, Coach keeps glancing toward the box like he’s waiting for something. Something that has nothing to do with tonight’s game. And then I see him. A man I don’t recognize, wearing a fancy suit, talking, gesturing and holding a clipboard with documents.

And then it hits me all at once like a fucking train-wreck. A trade is happening tonight. My grip tightens around my stick like if I loosen it I might fall off a cliff.

Please don’t let it be me.

And then my gaze drifts instinctively toward section 107, where Delaney sits. She’s smiling, cheering, trusting that when this game ends I’ll skate off the ice and straight back to her. The sight alone makes me feel sick because for the first time since I’ve known her, I’m terrified I won’t. And not because I don’t want to.

God, I want nothing fucking more than to keep falling in love with this woman and call it forever. Stay right here with her, or wherever she wants to be. Build something real, something rooted and solid and ours. But the problem is that I don’t control that future. Not in this league, not with this timing and definitely not tonight.

So I force myself to finish the game and be Brennan Hale, the hockey player, not the man whose entire world is currently sitting in the stands wearing a perfect smile and my number on her back, even though I never thought I’d see the day.

I play.

I push.

I grind.

And then somehow I score late in the second, even though I have no clue how I pulled it off in the midst of all…this.

The puck hits the back of the net, and the arena explodes around me. The guys slam into me, shouting, rattling my helmet and the crowd is losing their minds. But me? I can barely look up. I can feel her somewhere in the noise but I can’t look. Because if I do, the truth I feel deep in my bones just might take over. If it’s my name floating around online right now…If I’m on the block…If the trade call is being prepped…I can’t face that. Not yet. Not before I know.

So I do what Delaney would tell me to do: Focus on what’s in front of me. Right now, that’s Minnesota and being 2–2 heading into the third. That’s surviving a shift at a time without completely unraveling. I keep my eyes off the press box. Off any face in the crowd that might remind me of the life I’m trying to build that could be ripped away at any second.

I skate.

I breathe.

I pretend I’m not vibrating with dread.

Miles and Wes connect for the game-winner midway through the third, and the crowd absolutely erupts. It should thrill me. Should feel like triumph. But instead I silently fall apart, the anxiety ripping through me like fast, sharp and unrelenting claws.

We get off the ice, the arena still roaring behind us, and the locker room is electric. High-fives, shouts, post-game interviews echoing off the walls. It’s all so normal it almost feels cruel. Like the universe is dangling stability in front of my face before yanking it away.

Coach gives his post-win speech and it's all classic hype and pride, but my mind is nowhere near it. I keep thinking about Delaney and how badly I need to feel something real right now. Because if I’m not celebrating my wins with her, then what the hell do they mean anymore?

I swallow hard, hoping to push down the lump in my throat I can't seem to get rid of. I feel like I’m watching my own life through glass, and even though it’s close enough to touch, it’ll never fully be mine to hold.