Page 30 of Worth the Shot

“He’s not thinking about me.” I glare at her, and she laughs.

“Pretty sure if you’re bringing a woman coffee complicated enough to need instructions, she’s definitely on your mind.”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

She snort-laughs and crosses her arms, leaning against the desk. “Can’t think of anywhere better than right here, watching you spiral over a man who’s obviously got it bad for you.” Then she uncrosses her arms and plants both hands on the counter in front of me. “Because no matter how hard you’re trying to hide it, I know you feel the same.”

“Stop.” I glare harder. “Go. Now. Before this gets ugly.”

“Ugly as in you admitting you liiiike him?” she sings as she backs away. “The longer you lie to yourself, the worse it gets, Collins.”

She snatches a chart from a patient’s door and disappears into the room.

I stare after her, annoyed by how loudly she says things I’m trying very hard not to think. Liking Brennan feels like standing too close to a line I swore I’d never cross again.

With Matt, everything always felt like fitting myself around his life. Making sense of scraps of time. Accepting what was available and pretending it was enough.

With Brennan, it’s different in all the ways that matter most. He checks in. He notices things. He remembers them. He makes me laugh without trying, and he’s kind in those quiet, dangerous ways that make a person start to soften before they realize it’s happening.

That should be comforting. Instead, it terrifies me.

I glance at the clock: fifty-seven minutes until freedom. Thank God. Seven full days off, courtesy of seniority. Christmas is a few days away, and this year I somehow pulled the holy trinity: Christmas Day and the two after it, all lined up with my regular days off.

I keep myself busy by adding every last detail to my charts, restocking supplies, and doing a quick walk-through to make sure all my patients are still breathing. Because on the trauma floor, that’s pretty much the baseline for success.

By some miracle, we were overstaffed this shift and I clock out early. Two o’clock instead of seven. Once again, let’s hear it for seniority. It only took five and a half years of loyalty, blood (not mine), sweat, and tears (sometimes mine).

I head home with one mission: the kind of nap that resets your entire personality. The kind where you wake up panicked because you think you missed the bus, except you’re twenty-eight and the only bus you’re on is the struggle one.

Tonight is girls’ night, consisting of Emma, Mom, Jo, and me. A lineup strong enough to fix most problems, or at minimum create new ones. Naturally, we’re going to the hockey game, where I fully intend to pay fifteen dollars for a beer and scream at the refs like they’ve personally wronged me.

Jo won’t be here for another few hours, so I crash the second I hit the couch. It takes me negative seconds to fall asleep.

Two hours later, I wake to the sound of my apartment door slamming.

Johanna Morgan has arrived and the woman never enters quietly.

She’s wearing a jersey three sizes too big, styled like a dress, bedazzled within an inch of its life with Bennett glittering across the back. Her silver knee-high boots sparkle under the hallway light, and I’m pretty sure there are nude stockings under there somewhere. Looks like we’re officially the Shayne Bennett Fan Club tonight.

“You’re gonna freeze,” I mumble, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

“And you’re going to be mistaken for a corpse,” she fires back. “Jesus, Delaney, get your ass in the shower. We have to leave soon!”

She’s right. When Johanna speaks, you listen. I shower fast and blow out my hair for the first time in what feels like forever. I even take my time with makeup, and when I finally look in the mirror, I almost don’t recognize myself.

Jo leans in the doorway, arms crossed, studying me through the reflection.

“Delaney Collins, you are a knockout,” she says in her most sultry, seductive voice.

I laugh, swat her arm, and make a beeline for my closet. I grab my favorite home Bennett jersey—the forest-green one with white and navy stripes along the arms and leather brown trim. Chef’s kiss. I throw it on over a long-sleeved navy shirt in case I get cold, tucking one side into my dark-wash jeans to fully honor my millennial roots. Then I give my blowout curls one last flip, and do a once-over in the mirror before heading out.

By the time we get outside Emma’s waiting curbside, Mom riding shotgun. “You girls look HOT!” she yells out the window, grinning like the queen she is.

“Says the Goddess herself. Look at you, Annie!” Jo squeals.

Mom beams, cheeks flushed in the cold, her own Bennett jersey on full display. Her long hair is half-pulled up, perfect waves framing her face. She claps her hands together, glowing, and I can’t help but smile. Seeing my mom happy, living her life…is everything.

We pull into the arena just in time for warm ups. The parking lot’s already buzzing with families in Mountaineers jerseys, kids running around with plastic hockey sticks and foam pucks, couples holding hands under parking lot lights. It smells like cold air and fresh pine from the trees. I could live off this atmosphere.