Page 4 of Worth the Shot

“Delaney?”

I blink and turn. Megan stands beside me in wrinkled hospital scrubs, a chart tucked against her chest and exhaustion written across her face. Surgical residency looks exactly as fun as advertised.

“Sorry,” she says. “Quick question before you escape. Mr. Calloway in seven is still guarding hard on the right side. CT was clean, but he looks worse. You think I’m overreacting?”

Work. One of the few places I still know exactly what to do.

“Nope,” I say, shifting fully toward her. “Trust your gut. Clean scans don’t mean much if the patient looks terrible. Reassess him, repeat vitals, and bug whoever needs bugging.”

She exhales. “That’s what I thought.”

“Also, if anyone says he’s fine because the imaging was fine, feel free to become annoying.”

Megan smiles. “I was born for that.” She follows my line of sight to the TV, then looks back at me. “You okay?”

I glance up just in time to see Matt smiling for a crowd that undeniably already loves him. Three months ago, he smiled at me the same way from across a coffee shop table before telling me he’d signed a contract in Los Angeles. Casually ruining my morning and my outlook on love.

For a while after that, I did what any emotionally evolved woman would do: went to work, angry baked, and cried selectively.

Trauma doesn’t care if your heart is broken. Patients still need meds, lines, reassurance, and someone calm when everything goes sideways. Conveniently, I’m excellent in a crisis unless the crisis is personal.

My job has always felt like the one safe thing. In the ER, there’s a next step. A protocol. Something concrete to do with your hands.

Hearts are less organized.

“Delaney?” Megan asks again, softer now.

I realize I’ve been gripping my bag strap like a lifeline. “Fine,” I say, easing my grip and readjusting. “Just love seeing my ex thriving on hospital television after an exhausting twelve hour shift.”

She grimaces. “Brutal.”

“Mm.” I jab the elevator button hard enough to risk tendinitis. “Anyway. Good for him.”

Twelve hours of saving lives, and the only one I can’t seem to resuscitate is mine.

Chapter Two

Delaney

The elevator doors open into the parking garage, and relief washes over me as I practically sprint to my car. Four days off. Despite my lack of sleep the last few days, I feel like I have to be glowing. I check my phone and pull up my calendar I share with Emma. We synced them so she knows my schedule, but it inevitably turned into me checking Shayne’s practice schedule whenever I’m off a twelve-hour shift in the morning. If he has an early skate it means one thing: she’s up, and breakfast is made. Perks of having an NHL player for a brother-in-law when you’re a trauma nurse begging for food not served in a plastic container. I send a text asking what’s for breakfast and head their way.

Inside their kitchen is the best sight I’ve seen in seventy-two hours: my eight-month-old nephew Luca, in his high chair, fist-deep in a mess of breakfast. He spots me and squeals, shoving a handful of eggs into his mouth. When he gets it on the first try he claps and then bangs his tray in triumph. My heart melts and it’s no secret the little dude can instantly change my mood. I blow him a thousand kisses, then bolt upstairs to shower and change.

Through the vent, I can hear Emma giggling at something Shayne says, and for a second, my heart aches. I’ve done everything I can to avoid feelings like this the past few months, but seeing the relationship they have makes me almost want it.

When they were in high school, Shayne was two grades ahead. Emma was the kind of girl everyone knew, though, and they ended up at so many different parties and school events together, it was inevitable that one day they would notice each other. They were friends before they were anything else, and I’ve always admired that.

By the time I head back downstairs, Emma’s cleaning up Luca while Shayne sits at the table in front of what looks like a feast fit for a king. It amazes me how much food he and his teammates can inhale and still look like they’re carved out of marble.

“Delaney, you coming to the first home game next week?” Shayne asks, halfway through a mountain of breakfast.

“Yup. Just trying to figure out whose jersey I wanna wear.”

He immediately drops his fork and rolls his eyes. “Not funny.” He points at me with that mock-serious face no one ever takes seriously.

Last season, Miles, one of Shayne’s best friends and the team captain, gave me one of his jerseys just to mess with Shayne—a gift that’s now one of my favorite forms of entertainment.

“Hey, isn’t the team bonfire this weekend? Are you doing it here this year?” I ask.