Scoring Chance (Carolina Comets)

Some things in life genuinely suck.

Having a piece of food stuck in your teeth and nobody telling you. A bird crapping on your car as soon as you wash it for the first time in months. Not being recognized by your crush.

That last one?

It happened to me. Just two weeks ago, actually.

Now that same guy is walking toward my food truck, and what the hell am I doing?

Hiding.

As in I am physically ducked down and hiding because he caught me staring at him not once but twice today. Now he’s coming up here presumably to talk, something I want no part of.

“What the hell are you doing?” Stevie asks. She’s my older sister, and today she’s also my savior for bailing me out and helping in the truck this morning when my other baker flaked on me for the second time this month. I’m really starting to think I need different help.

Stevie stares down at me with her brows pulled tight together, her hazel eyes narrowed in confusion as she waits for me to answer.

What am I supposed to tell her? That I’m hiding from the ridiculously hot hockey player who’s walking this way? Not going to happen. I’ll sound insane for so many reasons.

“I’m… Inventory,” I tell her.

“You’re inventory?”

“Yes. Well, I’m doing inventory. We need more nutmeg.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, a smirk forming on her lips, clearly amused by me making a complete and utter fool of myself. “Nutmeg?”

“The nuttiest of meg,” I answer.

She laughs. “Get up, you weirdo. A customer is coming. Are you… Oh!” Realization dawns on Stevie’s face, and she drops down next to me. “Are you hiding from him?”

“Yes!” I whisper, though it comes out as more of a hiss.

“Why?” Stevie questions. “Wait—is that the guy?”

I nod reluctantly.

Stevie knows all about The Guy.

The Guy who, when I first saw him, I swore was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

The Guy who, when I first talked to him, made me more tongue-tied than I’ve ever been before, and I’ve met three of the Backstreet Boys and Keanu Reeves, thank you very much.

The Guy who makes my heart flutter.

And The Guy who, despite coming to my donut truck almost weekly for the last year, doesn’t seem to have a single damn clue who I am.

“Is it safe to assume your crush on him is still going strong if you’re hiding?”

“No. I’m hiding because he’s a jerk,” I counter. “And I do not have a crush on him.”

It’s a lie, and we both know it.

Can I be blamed, though? He’s Grady Miller, star right winger for the Carolina Comets. Not only is he incredible and charismatic on the ice, he’s also the same way off it. I can’t count the number of times he’s been bombarded by rabid fans here at my truck, and he just smiles, signs all the things, and takes countless photos with them. I’ve also seen him order a box of donuts and share it with Eddie, the man who sits on the corner just up the street, never once slinging an ounce of judgment his way.

And just because that couldn’t possibly be enough, he has to go and be the hottest man I’ve ever seen. If he weren’t a hockey player, I have no doubt he could be a model with his midnight black hair that’s always messy like he just rolled out of bed and a jawline so damn sharp the TSA should consider it a weapon. And his eyes… It’s as if someone poured a tumbler of top-shelf whiskey right into them.

I shouldn’t be crushing on him. He’s so far out of my league that we’re not even playing the same sport.

He’s an NHL player. I’m a donut maker. There’s no way we would ever make any sense together.

My little crush on him? It’s a fantasy, just like what I read about in novels. I never had any intention of doing anything about it, and now I’m confident I never will after the incident two weeks ago where he introduced himself to me like he doesn’t stop by my donut truck regularly.

“I still can’t believe he didn’t recognize you,” Stevie says.

I can. I can believe it because it’s what has happened to me all my life.

I’m invisible. People don’t see me. They never really have.

I’m the girl in the background of every movie who is just out of the camera’s focus, watching while the popular girl gets the popular guy. I’m not saying that to hate on myself, and I’m not saying it because I don’t think I’m attractive enough or worth getting—because I am on both counts. I’m saying it because it’s true. I play it safe and don’t step out of my comfort zone. I’m good with being safe and remaining the background or secondary character. I’m content with my life.

But sometimes…just sometimes…I wish I weren’t.

I wish I were more outgoing. Wish I weren’t so damn awkward. Wish I had the guts to do something brave, like writing the romance novel like I promised I would and finally publishing it.

But I’m none of those things, because the idea of becoming or doing them makes me want to vomit.

I’m just Scout: donut maker, nerd, and wannabe writer.

And I’m okay with that.

“You can’t hide from him forever, you know,” Stevie tells me.

“Yes, I can.”

She chuckles lightly, brushing brown hair that almost exactly matches mine behind her ear. “You made my nine-year-old daughter work the register for thirty minutes when he was here the other day. I’m pretty sure there are child labor laws against that or something.”

“It’s not my fault he wouldn’t go away.”

“Scout…”

“Steve,” I say, knowing she hates it when I call her that, but I hate that she’s calling me out on my childish behavior. I guess stooping to juvenile insults isn’t helping my case, but still.

“You have to talk to him sometime.”

She really has no clue how humiliating it was, though. I’d never felt like such an outsider before. It took everything I had not to drop off the donuts and leave because it was so damn clear to me that even though I considered some of those people my friends, I didn’t belong there.

I’m not their friend. I’m their donut maker, and they are customers. That’s it.

“You need to talk to him, and I’m not bailing you out this time.” She pushes up to her feet, then begins untying the apron that’s slung around her waist.

“What?! Where are you going?”

“I told you…” she says, sliding the apron onto the hook near the exit. “Macie has a dentist appointment.”

“No! Cancel it! Reschedule! I don’t care—just don’t leave me.”

She pulls her crossbody purse over her head, then looks at me like she can’t believe I just said that. Hell, I can’t believe I just said it. It’s stupid. I’m being stupid.

“Just talk to him,” she says again, then she steps out of the back of the truck like the traitor she is.

Here I was thinking she was here to do good, but this? It’s evil. She’s evil.

“Stevie!” I whisper-shout at her back despite knowing damn well she’s not going to turn around and help me. Stevie loves tough love. I’m surprised she’s let me get away with this little game of mine as long as she has.

I watch her walk away from my crouched position and don’t miss her sending a wave to someone standing at the front of the truck.

Does that mean…

“Are you hiding from me?”

Oh crap.

“Because you know…” he continues, tapping the countertop a few times, “I’m tall. I can see over this thing, and I can definitely see you.”

Dammit.

“You can’t avoid me forever.”

Can too.

“Even Stevie said you can’t.”

With a heavy sigh, I rise, and yep, he’s there all right, in all his perfect hockey-player hotness. He’s grinning at me, and it’s annoying because somehow even his teeth are perfect.

“Ah, there she is,” he says.

His voice is laced with sugary sweetness, but I’m not buying it. I’ve been fooled by men with pretty faces before.

“What do you want.” It doesn’t come out as a question because all the niceties I had are gone when it comes to Miller.

He grimaces, his bravado slipping away before my eyes. He rocks back on his heels as one hand goes to his pocket and the other comes up to his neck. He cups it, squeezing like he’s trying to relieve tension. It almost makes me feel bad.

Almost.

“I, uh…” He clears his throat. “Well, I’d like to apologize.”

I lift a brow. “For?”

“Smith’s party.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “What about Smith’s party?”

He swallows thickly. “Fornotrecognizingyou.”

It comes out rushed as one word, like he’s embarrassed. Which I’m glad for because, given the number of times he has been to my truck, he should be embarrassed.

He blows out a breath like he’s relieved to get the words off his chest. I’m glad one of us is relieved by this, but it’s not me. I’m still humiliated by what happened.

“It was very dickish of me.”

“Dickish is a good way to put it. Personally, I would have said you were being an asshole, but dickish is fine too.”

A smirk plays at the corner of his lips, and I’m annoyed by how cute I think it is, especially when I’m supposed to be mad at him. “I’ve never seen you outside of here,” he says by way of explanation. “It was… Well, you didn’t look like you.”

“I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be offended by that.”

“Not!” he practically yells. “Not. I mean it in a good way.”

My brows pull together because… “Are you saying I look bad when I’m here?”

“Yes.” He nods, but somewhere along the way, his movements switch from up and down to left and right as his eyes widen to about twice their average size. “No, no, no! That’s not what I’m saying. You look great, now and then—just different.”

“Different?” My lips twitch, perhaps because I’m enjoying watching him trip over himself just a little too much right now.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before looking up at me with tired eyes. “Look, I’m an idiot sometimes, okay? I do and say stupid things. That’s the only excuse I really have as to why I didn’t recognize you. That and I’m pretty sure my grandmother had glaucoma, and that shit is hereditary. I think…I don’t know. I saw a meme one time that said that, so maybe my eyes are going bad. I swear I’ll make an appointment with the team doctor ASAP, just to be sure. I…” He takes another heavy breath. “I’m just sorry, all right? I’m so, so sorry.”

He stares up at me with those whiskey-colored eyes that are silently begging me to believe him.

The sad part is that it’s working. I can see this is eating him up.

He has tried to talk to me several times. Maybe he means it, and maybe he meant nothing by it. In all fairness, I did look really different that night.

Perhaps I’m stupid or weak, or maybe that silly crush of mine might not totally be gone, but…

“Okay,” I say, letting him off the hook. “I forgive you.”

He exhales sharply, pressing his hand against his chest. “Oh, thank fuck. Because I really want you to forgive me. I love coming here, and I’m pretty sure I can’t live without your donuts.”

“That so, huh?”

“Hell yes. I’m addicted to the—”

“Chocolate Nutty Butter. I know.”

He looks surprised. “You do?”

“Yes, because unlike you, I remember people.”

His jaw drops for a moment, shock rippling through him. Then he chuckles, but I can hear the hurt in it. I feel just a tiny bit bad, but dammit, he hurt my feelings too.

“I deserved that.”

“You really did,” I agree.

“Truce? No more hiding from me?”

“I wasn’t hiding,” I insist. “I was doing inventory.”

“Right.” He smirks. “Inventory.”

“We need nutmeg,” I say defiantly, but it’s a lie. We have plenty of nutmeg.

Luckily, he doesn’t call me out on it.

“I’m glad you finally talked to me. I’m glad we can be friends.”

I snort out a laugh. “I never said anything about being friends.”

His eyes widen again, and he takes an actual step back like I’ve just knocked all the wind out of his sails. “Are you saying you don’t want to be my friend?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for starters, you forgot who I am…”

He groans. “I told you, I’m—”

“An idiot. Yeah, I picked up on that. But secondly, you don’t really want to be friends with me.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you really don’t. We have no business being friends.”

“Why not? You’re friends with Lowell, aren’t you? Smith too, so why not me?”

Do I know Lowell better than the other guys? Yes, but only because we went to high school together, and Smith is only friendly toward me because my niece has some sort of weird attachment to him. She’s obsessed with hockey and idolizes the guy ever since he sponsored her soccer team.

“Because we’re two totally different people, Miller.”

“Grady,” he says. “That’s what my friends call me.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said at Smith’s party.” He looks sheepish again, a tinge of red popping back up on his cheeks. “But we’re not friends, so you’re just Miller the hockey player to me.”

A dark look crosses his features, and it’s almost as if I’ve hurt his feelings.

Then, almost as quickly as it came, it’s gone, and he’s grinning again. “You’re going to be my friend, Scout.”

“I’m really not.”

“You will.” His smile widens, and it even reaches his eyes this time. “I’m going to come here every day until you agree to be friends with me,” he promises.

The thought of having to see Miller every day has my stomach in knots because I’m not sure if my lady bits can stand it. Hell, they’re barely able to stand it right now with the way he’s grinning up at me. How is it possible he’s this attractive?

I scramble for a reason to get him to stay away.

“I don’t think your coaches would like you eating donuts every day,” I rush out.

“Probably not.” He pats his flat stomach. “But I think I can work it off.”

I’m sure he’s not lying either. I’ve gone ice-skating a few times, and every single lap ended with me being winded. I can’t imagine the skill it takes to handle a stick, chase a puck, and get hit by other large dudes, all while trying not to die from exhaustion.

“What if I kick you out?”

“Then I’ll sit across the street.”

Dammit. Why does he always have to have an answer for everything?

“What if I never become your friend?”

“That’s not really something we’ll have to worry about.”

Another grin—another zing right between my thighs.

My face starts to heat up, and I swear it just got ten degrees hotter outside.

Goodness gracious. Get it together, Scout.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re cocky, Miller?”

“Confident, not cocky.” He taps the counter a few times. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Scout.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He shoots me one last grin before turning on his heel and trudging to the parking lot toward the shiny, fancy sports car he’s always driving way too fast.

I watch him the entire time. Every stride he takes, every rock he kicks…I see it.

Which is why I don’t miss him turning back my way once he reaches his car and shooting me a wave.

And I don’t miss the way my heart flutters at the little movement either.

I pray he doesn’t come back…because I’m not sure how long I’ll last.