Page 5 of Worth the Shot

Every preseason, Shayne and Emma host a barbecue to get the team and their families together. The only year they skipped was the last when Emma was pregnant with Luca and couldn’t stand the smell of anything, let alone campfire and barbecue, without her head ending up in the toilet—her words, not mine. It’s one of my favorite things they do to kick off the season. The weather, the food, the relaxed atmosphere where everyone can get together and just be humans and not hockey players.

“Duh,” Shayne says, deadpan, glancing at Emma. “You already know I wasn’t giving that up a second time.”

She throws her hands up. “You try growing a human!”

“I’m happy to make them anytime, but the growing part’s all you, baby.” He leans down to kiss her forehead and she wraps her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his chest. His arms fall around her naturally; one over her shoulders, the other tracing lazy lines down her back, like they’ve always belonged there.

I sigh loudly. They don’t even notice. That’s the thing about love like theirs, though. It’s not loud. It’s not grand gestures or constant validation. It’s quiet. Steady. It’s the kind of love that folds laundry together at midnight or knows how the other takes their coffee without asking.

I used to think I wanted the movie version. The fireworks, the intensity, the promises that sounded like forever. Turns out, forever can pack a bag and leave town on a Tuesday morning without looking back.

The smell of maple syrup and fresh espresso hits me, and for a second, I close my eyes. I picture the life I thought I’d have by now: weekends that didn’t just revolve around trauma shifts, mornings that didn’t end in silence and instead were filled with playful banter and something to come home to later on. But instead, it’s me, my scrubs, and an empty apartment that still smells faintly like hospital-grade sanitizer. Emma laughs again, that light, effortless sound that fills the whole kitchen.

And for a moment, I wonder if I’ll ever find that feeling again.

Chapter Three

Delaney

The last four days off have rejuvenated my soul, just in time for all my peace to be ripped away again. It’s a vicious cycle, really. Sometimes the three-day-on, four-day-off schedule is a gift from God, and other times, it’s just another reminder that nothing spectacular lasts forever.

I audibly sigh, even though no one can hear it because I’m alone. In my apartment. The same way I’ve been waking up every day in this new form of normal that’s been so graciously gifted to me. I’m not bitter, really. Really.

Tonight’s the team bonfire, and since this week I’m on day shifts, I’ve decided I’m going to stop by. Why? Definitely not because I’m holding onto the past. Nope. It’s because it’s been two days since I’ve seen Luca and I miss him. Plus, I’m sure Emma and Shayne would love someone to take him off their hands while they host. My pumpkin likes to be held and snuggled and loved, and I will happily provide all three.

I make a mental note to thank my sister for having a baby for me and rummage through my closet for something to wear.

I haven’t seen a lot of the guys since the trade happened, and I just want to make sure I look fantastic. Not bitter. Not still a little sad. And definitely not hoping Wes Thompson, right winger and right-hand man to Matty, goes back and says, Damn, dude, you’re crazy for leaving that behind so easily.

I decide to put a pin in the outfit decision because that’s a problem for future Delaney. Right now, I need to get ready to meet Mom for lunch, and I can promise you she won’t care what I have on. Blood-stained scrubs, last night’s clothes, whatever—she’s seen it all. So I throw on my workout leggings and a half-zip and head out the door.

As soon as I park and start walking toward the café, I spot my mom. She’s sitting at our favorite table by the window and she’s smiling wide, waving one hand high in the air just to make sure I see her.

She’s a beautiful woman, always has been. Small frame, green eyes, beautifully tanned skin, long golden-brown hair with that effortless wave. The woman hasn’t aged since forty, and at the ripe age of twenty-eight I pray to the genetic lords that they grant me the same grace. I definitely favor her, but I have Dad’s chestnut curls and stand about two inches taller. I take her in as I walk toward her, which is something I do often since we lost him. I want to remember every little thing, just in case life decides to rip it away again.

She stands and wraps me in a warm hug. The embrace is everything, because if there’s one thing about a hug from your mom it’s that you never realize how much you needed it.

“Sit, sit, honey. I’m so happy to see you!”

“I’m happy to see you too, Mom,” I say, grabbing a sip of the lemon water she’s already ordered for us.

“How’s work? How are you, honey?”

I know that look. The one everyone gives me when they ask that question. It’s been three months, and it still feels like I’m walking around with a sign that says Handle With Care.

“Never better. How’s your yoga class?” Ah, yes, the art of changing the subject with a follow-up question.

She launches into stories about her students, how she swears Luca said “Grammy” the other day, and about her new neighbor, Rick. Sometimes I wonder if she’ll ever find love again, or at least a companion. I can’t stand the thought of her being alone forever, with no one to share the quiet parts of life when Emma and I aren’t around. It’s been twelve years since Dad passed away, and she still insists she’s content. I don’t buy it.

We finish lunch and decide to walk down Main Street. It’s the perfect fall day, which, historically, tends to improve my attitude by at least thirty percent.

I breathe in the crisp Maine air that smells like apples and campfire smoke. Leaves fall around me, painting the sidewalks in shades of red, gold, and orange. The overcast sky casts everything in gray while the red maples finally live up to their name.

Funny how leaves tend to look prettiest when they’re dead. My heart, unfortunately, missed that memo.

A few months ago, those same trees were still green, untouched by the change in season. I was too. Maybe now it’s my turn to grow into something new. To embrace the change instead of letting it consume me.

And then I stop comparing myself to the damn trees and spend the rest of the afternoon smiling.