Page 7 of Worth the Shot

I let the tiny human choose his fate, just this once, and hand him over. I take a slow breath and turn around, closing my eyes for a second while I take a deep breath and regather my thoughts. When I open them again, Luca’s head is nestled against Brennan’s broad shoulder, his little arm wrapped tight around his bicep, one tiny hand splayed over his chest. Brennan’s lightly bouncing, smiling down at him like he just won a prize. My prize. And it’s in that moment I realize…

I’m doomed.

I pull myself together immediately. Absolutely not. Hockey players are off-limits. They’re charming, emotionally unavailable, make leaving look effortless, and are statistically terrible for my blood sugar. My KitchenAid and I barely survived the last one.

Luca eventually drifts off, drooling on Brennan’s shirt like it’s his job. “Well, it seems he’s in good hands so I guess I’ll...leave you to it.” I keep my voice low so I don’t disturb him.

Brennan just keeps rocking side to side, murmuring something too soft for me to hear and it does something to me. Something I don’t have the energy or emotional capacity to unpack right now, so while he’s distracted, I grab my wine instead and escape to somewhere safer.

The fire crackles outside, laughter spilling in through the screen door in bursts. The sound feels unguarded and genuine and I realize it’s been a while since things felt this natural. I don’t feel like an outsider looking in tonight, or like I’m hovering at the edge of something I was never meant to belong to.

Matthew Morris was never meant to be my identity, but somewhere along the way, I think I let him become it anyway.

Shayne steps away from the grill, the smell of smoke clinging to his jacket, and clanks his beer against my glass hard enough to slosh it over the rim.

“Glad you came, Laners,” he says, already throwing an arm around me like a brother would. It’s rough, unapologetic and familiar. I pinch him hard in the side. “Jesus, okay!” he yelps, swatting at me and retaliating by messing my hair before turning back to the grill as if nothing happened.

I smile to myself and take a breath, letting the warmth of the fire seep into me as I make my way around the yard, mingling like I’m supposed to. I make small talk with some of the new guys, prospects, a few familiar faces and their wives and girlfriends. Compliments, polite laughter, easy questions. It feels...fine. Normal. Maybe even good.

Still, my eyes keep drifting, scanning the yard as I look for the one person I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the last ten minutes: the dark-haired ray of sunshine inside who somehow cracked something open in me I was sure had been sealed shut for good.

I come up empty and my stomach dips, just slightly. Please don’t be single. I can’t handle that. I immediately roll my eyes at myself for caring at all, yet still, my gaze drifts, scanning faces again. This time looking for a woman.

I imagine her without meaning to—beautiful without trying, kind eyes, sweet in a way that makes sense for him. The kind of woman you think you might resent, but probably wouldn’t because she’d be hard not to like.

The air is colder than I anticipated tonight, so I make my way back inside for my jacket, stopping by the door for one last, quick, casual scan.

And then, since the universe has a flair for dramatics, the screen door swings open behind me and he steps out onto the deck like he’s been summoned. Almost as if Jesus himself placed him directly in my line of sight.

I blink.

Once. Twice.

Is he even real?

Probably not. Probably some elaborate hallucination brought on by low blood sugar and poor judgment. Or worse, he is real and actually decent, which feels significantly less believable. There’s no way someone gets to look like that and still have a personality worth knowing, right?

Right?

Crap.

He spots me immediately, lips twitching like he’s been caught, slipping a flannel jacket on casually as he closes the door behind him. I remind myself he’s just a man. Carbon-based life form. Taxpayer, probably. Nothing special. No reason for my body to start acting like we’re under attack.

But apparently my nervous system didn’t get the memo.

Which is irritating, because I do not get nervous around men. I get skeptical. I get sarcastic. I get suddenly fascinated by literally anything else in the room. Nervous is for women with softer edges and optimism. Nervous is not for Delaney Collins.

“You following me?” I ask, tilting my head, playing it cool even though my pulse is doing something reckless.

He pauses, brows furrowing just slightly, a smile tugging at his mouth like he’s trying—and failing—to hide it.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “You into the stalker type?” He lifts a brow.

I lift my glass, take a slow sip, and raise both of mine at him. “Hmm. Depends on the context. I might be.”

He laughs and rubs his hands together like he’s just noticed the temperature. “That’s fair,” he says. His gaze flicks over me and suddenly he looks concerned. “You have to be freezing.”

“I’m okay, I⁠—”