Page 32 of Worth the Shot

The ref’s whistle cuts through the noise as his arm shoots up. Power play, two minutes, with three left in the game. The tension is electric and I’m on the edge of my seat when the puck drops.

Miles wins the faceoff clean and Brennan grabs it, firing a shot on goal, but it’s blocked. The goalie freezes the puck, and the whistle blows again. And then, because hockey players can’t just not be dramatic, one of their guys lays a late hit on Brennan.

Before I can even process it, Wes comes flying in, shoving the guy hard, and gloves hit the ice.

The place explodes.

Mom, Jo, and I are on our feet, screaming like absolute lunatics and banging the glass. Wes throws the first few punches, the other guy’s helmet goes flying, and the refs rush in before it gets uglier. They drag both of them to the box, fans booing and cheering all at once. Wes backs toward the box, both arms driving upward again and again, pulling a louder roar from the arena as blood shines across his knuckles.

Three-on-four hockey now.

Less than a minute later, Miles buries one top-shelf and the entire arena erupts. He pumps his fist, grins through his mouthguard, and skates straight to Brennan and Shayne for a post-celly hug that has half the crowd losing its mind. Wes flies out of the box, jumping into them, and the crowd cheers even louder.

The buzzer blares, and the game ends with a Mountaineers win. Legends Are Made by Sam Tinnesz blasts through the speakers as the crowd chants, “MAINE! MAINE! MAINE!” The adrenaline in the arena is tangible and it’s pure joy and pride rippling through every person like we’re all part of one big, happy family.

The crowd filters out, chants still echoing down the halls as we take our time heading toward the family lot where our car, along with the players’, are parked.

I’m still clutching the puck Brennan tossed over the glass, rolling it between my fingers when Shayne bursts through the doors. Emma runs to him, and he catches her mid–jump hug as they kiss like teenagers under Friday night lights. Wes and Miles come out next, Miles wrapping me in a bear hug and Wes fist bumps me and then flicks the side of my head. We’ve never really been the kind of friends that hug.

They move on to my mom, both hugging her, and I’m half-listening to them talk, half-lost in the moment, when the door opens again, and there he is.

His hair is wet from his postgame shower, tousled in a way that shouldn’t be legal. A dark winter coat hangs open over a hoodie, jeans perfectly fitted, hands tucked in his pockets. He’s smiling, right at me, and it’s suddenly very hard to breathe normally. Or at all.

“Oh my God, I was so hoping to catch you!” I tease, clutching the puck to my chest. “Will you please, please sign my puck?”

He laughs, low and warm, but takes me seriously. Then, he pulls a Sharpie from his coat pocket, almost as if he was waiting for this exact moment.

“Came prepared, huh?” I say, trying to sound casual. He grins and scrawls his name across the puck, finishing it with a looping 22. Then he hands it back and winks. And God, that wink. It gets me every damn time.

My body immediately betrays me. Heat rushes through me so fast it feels personal, starting low and climbing everywhere at once. Within seconds, I’m one bad decision away from spontaneous combustion.

Naturally, I pretend I’m completely fine. Like my pulse isn’t out here making reckless choices because Brennan Hale winked at me.

“Good game,” I say softly. His eyes lock on mine, holding me there. It’s only a few seconds, but it feels like he’s seeing everything.

My chest tightens and suddenly breathing feels like work. Something flutters low in my stomach that feels light and dizzying. Butterflies. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, Jo barrels into us, a little tipsy, nearly knocking me off balance.

My mom and Miles trail behind her, laughing. I notice Wes, watching her, as if he needs to be ready to catch her in case she falls. Make sure she’s safe. He won’t ever let her see it, but I do.

“Hey, Jo,” Brennan says, giving her a one-armed hug. His arm slides around her shoulders and my stomach flips in the most inconvenient way.

That’s when it hits me: I’ve never been on the receiving end of one of those hugs. And now, for reasons I’d rather not examine, the idea of those big, warm arms around me feels less like a thought and more like a need.

What the fuck is happening to me.

When I glance over, my mom is standing there quietly, watching, clearly trying to gauge the moment. She waits for me to introduce them, polite as ever. Never taking more than anyone gives her.

“Mom, this is Brennan,” I say, giving her the go-ahead. She steps forward, rising onto her toes to wrap him in a hug.

Add her to the list of people who’ve already gotten that privilege.

They talk for a minute, though I barely catch any of it because my pulse is too loud in my ears. I tune back in just in time to hear my mom say:

“Well, you shouldn’t have to sit home on Christmas. Please join us! The more, the merrier.”

Brennan glances at me first, then at Shayne and Emma. Shayne claps him on the shoulder and says, “Already told you to come, man. Miles joins us every year.”

Brennan nods, that soft smile still tugging at his mouth. “Looks like I’ll be there, then.” He looks back at me again like he’s waiting for me to say something.