Scoring Chance (Carolina Comets)

I’ve somehow managed to piss off everyone in my life that I care about in the last week.

Macie? According to her, I ruined the magic of mac and cheese night.

Stevie? She’s giving me the silent treatment because she heard the entire thing.

Rosie? I snapped at her this morning and sent her home for the day, then closed the truck early.

And Miller? Well, that one is obvious.

He told me he loves me, and I stood there. I was frozen, completely taken aback.

Sure, he’s said it to me before, but that time he was in a post-sex sleep haze. It didn’t mean anything.

This time, he was wide awake and not freshly fucked.

And he meant every damn word.

I can’t believe he found my stupid book. I snort a laugh because it’s not even really a book; it’s a writing exercise I’ve been doing, a silly fluff piece that’s supposed to help get my brain moving. I’ve been doing an online course for creative writing, and one of the suggestions was to start a story that was pure fluff, something fun and off the cuff. I started writing about the virgin hockey player and the bookworm because it was a great trope and because it still blows my mind that he could possibly be interested in me.

But it’s completely fictional. Sure, the character looks like him and plays hockey and is a virgin and the heroine reads romance novels, but that’s it. Nothing else in the book is about him or us or anything we’ve done together. It’s completely made up and means nothing to me.

Miller didn’t let me explain that, though. He just got upset and dropped a massive three-word bomb on me then left.

Macie cried for half an hour because she thought it was the combination of hot dogs and baked beans that made him leave. When I told her it was my fault he left and not hers, she stopped speaking to me.

Her mother followed suit soon after, which is why Stevie is now angrily cleaning the kitchen as I mope on the couch, watching The Princess Diaries movies over and over again because they remind me of Miller.

She slams the cabinet closed for the third time, and it grates on my nerves just a little bit more. I turn up the volume on the TV.

She slams it even louder. Then, I swear to God, she gets a pot out and begins banging it with a wooden spoon.

I’ve officially had enough.

“Stop!”

She bangs on the pot harder. “No!”

“Knock it off, Stevie. You’re being childish!” I yell back.

“Me? I’m being childish?” I hear her stomp across the apartment. She doesn’t stop until she’s standing directly in front of the TV. She reaches behind the flat screen and yanks the cord out of the wall, her chest heaving with anger as she stands there with her hands on her hips. “You’re the one acting like a mopey teenager right now, which is absolutely hilarious when you think about it because you’re not the one with a broken heart.”

“Then why does it feel like I am?” I scream.

The words fly out of my mouth before I even realize what I’m saying.

“Why does it feel this way?” I whisper.

I was hurt when Aaron cheated on me. Hell, it fucking broke my heart, but it felt different than this. I felt betrayed and embarrassed.

With Miller…it’s anguish.

Stevie sighs heavily, then drops down onto the couch next to me. She pats my thigh. “Because you love him, you idiot.”

For the first time since Miller walked out of this apartment a week ago, I cry—full-on, body-shaking, snotty crying. It’s ugly and awful and makes me feel like garbage, but I deserve it because I made Miller feel the same way because I’m too freaking scared to admit I am hopelessly in love with him.

Stevie shoves tissues at me, then hands me a glass of water. She wraps a blanket around my shoulders as I gulp it down, then she takes the empty cup and sets it on the table. She sits back down next to me and pats her thighs.

I lay my head on her lap just like I used to when we were kids, and she runs her fingers through my hair in soothing strokes. I don’t know how long we sit like that in the silence, but it’s long enough for my shakes to subside.

“You know,” Stevie says after a while, “I guess I’m just surprised. You’ve had a crush on him for like two years or something. How is this not what you always wanted?”

“That’s just it, Stevie—it was a crush, a harmless, silly, schoolgirl crush. He’s the jock. I’m the bookworm. We make no sense together. My crush was safe because it was fantasy.”

“But now it’s not. It’s real.”

“Yes.” I groan, pushing off her lap and sitting up, tugging the blanket tighter around me. Maybe if I wrap myself up tightly enough, it’ll act as a shield and protect me from the absolute heartache I’m feeling right now. “It’s so fucking real, and I don’t know if I’m ready for it to be real.”

Stevie frowns, and I hate it because it’s full of pity.

“You want to know what I think?”

“No.”

“I think you’re being stupid.”

“I said I didn’t want to hear it.”

“Well, tough shit, because I’m going to say it. You’re being stupid, Scout. This man loves you. Like loves you.”

“Don’t forget that he didn’t even know who I was just earlier this summer.”

“No.” She points at me. “Don’t do that. If you told him you forgive him, you actually need to forgive him. You’re not allowed to keep bringing it back up. Besides, if you think he doesn’t regret not paying attention to you for the last several years, you’re sorely mistaken. The way you look at one another…” She shakes her head with a small laugh. “It reminds me of Dad and Pops.”

I know she doesn’t say that lightly. Our dads had a love story for the ages, meeting young and losing touch, then reconnecting years later. Their story was always one of my favorites to hear, and I’d beg Pops to tell it to me.

If Stevie is right and Miller loves me even a fraction of how much Dad and Pops loved each other, it’s a hell of a lot.

“Do you love him, Scout?”

I swallow back the lump in my throat and nod. “So much. I think I fell for him the minute he walked onto the lot.”

“Then tell him. However you need to do it, tell him. Don’t let it pass you by. You deserve the kind of happily ever after you’re always reading about, the kind you’ve always wanted to write.”

Her words strike something inside of me, and I rise from the couch, dropping my blanket shield.

“Where are you going?” Stevie asks as I march to my bedroom.

“To write.”

She lets out a loud “Woohoo!” as I sit down at my desk and take a deep breath.

Then, I open my laptop…and I write.

“Hey, Scout, I’m taking my first ten!” Rosie calls from inside the truck.

Keeping one hand on the keyboard, I lift the other and wave so she knows I heard her.

I’m surprised I mustered even that.

For the last few days, my laptop has been attached to me, practically becoming another limb. I’ve barely made time to eat and sleep. It’s safe to say I trust Rosie with the truck because even when I am here, I’m not truly present.

My whole life has revolved around this book. I’m addicted to the characters, to the way they make me feel. I channel it all into the story, all my heartbreaks and my pain, every single up and down I’ve felt over the years.

And, more than anything, I pour love into it. My love for baking, for writing.

For Miller.

Even though I’ve been immersed in a fictional world and have fallen in love with fictional characters, my love for him hasn’t waned. If anything, it’s grown stronger. I miss him so badly. Every day he doesn’t show up at the truck is another day my heart aches, but I know I need this time. I need it not just to finish my book but to find the woman I lost over the last three years. It sucks to be away from Miller, but it’s necessary too. I don’t love who I am right now, so how can I be expected to love him the way he deserves?

“What are you writing there?”

I jump at the sudden intrusion then spin around to find my dad standing a few feet away.

“Dad!” I rise from the bench and throw my arms around his neck.

He’s startled by my reaction, and I am too. It’s not that I don’t always love seeing my father—I do, but I don’t usually react so strongly like this.

I think deep down, I’ve been needing him. He was understanding during the dinner Miller missed when I told him he couldn’t make it because of hockey. I hated lying to him, but I didn’t want to get into the real reason he wasn’t joining us. I think Stevie told him anyway, but true to my father’s nature, he stayed out of it until I was ready.

He must have known today was that day.

My dad squeezes me back, hugging me so tight I struggle to catch my breath. When he finally releases me, I don’t even realize I’m crying until he reaches out and wipes a stray tear from my cheek.

“How’s my girl doing?”

“Not good, Dad,” I say on a sniffle. “I feel…rotten.”

“Rotten?”

I nod. “Like from the inside out. Just…I feel all wrong. The only thing keeping me going is finishing this book.”

His eyes light up at my words. “As sorry as I am that you’re hurting, I’m glad you have something to help you keep pushing through.”

“Me too.” I sniffle again, annoyed by the way my eyes start to sting. I’ve cried over Miller a lot in the last few weeks, and it’s no one’s fault but my own.

“You, uh, want to talk about it?” Dad asks, shoving his hands into his pockets, tipping his head to the side.

“I think I’d like that.” The words surprise even me. “I’ll grab us some coffees.”

I head for the truck, and my first stop is to grab a napkin and clean up my face from crying. I pour us two iced coffees and grab some donuts then set the Be Right Back sign out so Rosie can keep enjoying her break.

When I get back, Dad is not-so-subtly reading what’s on my screen.

I’m not even mad, mostly because I’m proud as hell of what I’m writing. For the first time in a really long time, it feels right.

I set our drinks and snacks on the table, sliding in across from him. When he finally peels his eyes from the screen and looks up at me, there are tears brimming them.

“This…” He clears his throat. “This is amazing, Scout.”

“You think so?”

He nods, taking a sip of his coffee. “Yes. The best you’ve written to date, if I do say so.”

“I think so too, but you’re not just saying that because you’re my dad, are you?”

“Nah. If it were trash, I’d give it to you straight. We both know that.”

I chuckle, because he really would.

We eat our donuts in silence for a few minutes before Dad finally asks the question I’ve been dreading.

“What happened with Miller?”

I set my donut down with a sigh then laugh because, without even realizing it, I picked up Miller’s favorite.

“I messed up.”

“You messed up?” Dad asks, one bushy brow raised.

“I…I closed myself off from him just when things started getting real. I told him we didn’t have a future together, said it meant more to him than it did me…and when he looked me in the eyes and told me he loved me, I didn’t say a word.”

Dad winces. “Ouch.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “Ouch indeed.” I groan, scrubbing my hand over my face. “Am I broken?”

“If you’re broken, I’m broken too.”

“What do you mean?”

Dad sighs and rests his arms on the table, leaning forward. “I mean, we’re a lot more alike than you may believe. I know you and Pops always had this incredible bond, and I loved that for both of you because you and I had our things too, but what I mean this time is this”—he waves his hand between us—“right now, this…we push people away. People we care about, people we love. And we do it because we’re scared of getting hurt. Hell, I did it years ago with Pops when we lost touch for all those years, and I’m doing it now because he was unfairly taken away too early, so I’m pissed about it and sulking.”

“We have reasons to be cautious, though.”

He nods. “You’re right. We do, but at what point is that impeding on who we are as people? At what point does that become who we are? How does that shape our lives? We can’t hide forever. You can’t hide forever, Scout.”

I gulp because he’s right. I can’t keep hiding. Especially not when I know now what it feels like to truly live.

And that’s all because of Miller.

“How do we get better?” I ask him.

“Time. Practice. Finding the right people who will help us.” He blows out a heavy breath. “That’s kind of why I came here today, actually.”

“Okay…” I draw the word out, not quite sure what he’s getting at.

He lifts his hand and strokes his beard a few times, then says, “I met someone.”

His words send so many emotions through me: shock, anger, and happiness just to name a few. I wasn’t expecting him to say that, mostly because I didn’t realize he was even looking for someone.

“I didn’t know you were dating,” I say carefully.

“I’m not. Not yet, anyway. But, uh, he asked, and…”

“You said yes.”

“I said yes.” He takes another drink of his coffee, and I don’t miss the way his hand shakes.

He’s nervous to tell me this. Why?

“I know you loved Pops, and you know I loved Pops too, so damn much that even three years later, it still hurts like we lost him just yesterday. But…I’ve been hiding, holed up in that house that reminds me of him, doing all the things we used to do together, which also just reminds me of him. I need something different if I’m ever going to move on. And I do need to move on.” He reaches across the table, gripping my hand tightly. “It’s time, Scout. For both of us.”

There’s a ridiculous, childish part of me that hates the idea of him moving on, that feels like he’s betraying Pops by doing so. It’s wrong, and I know that.

He loves Pops. He’ll always love him. But he can’t be alone forever, and Pops wouldn’t want that either.

“I’m happy for you, Dad,” I tell him, meaning every word. His face lights up at my statement, and I think he needed to hear it more than he realizes. “I think this will be really good for you.”

“It can be good for you too, you know. I know losing Pops was hard, and then that little dickhead Aaron broke your heart, but we can’t keep letting that hold us back. We have lives to live, adventures to have. We have people who want to be loved by us. We need to go experience all of that.”

The more he talks, the more I know what he’s saying is exactly what I need.

“You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m your dad.”

He winks, and I laugh. It’s a good laugh, one I really needed.

“For what it’s worth, I’m happy for you too. I think this”—he dips his head toward my laptop—“will be really good for you. And so will Miller, whenever you’re ready.”

I blow out a steadying breath. “I think you may be right about that too.”

“I am,” he says confidently. He grabs his coffee and sucks down the rest of it then pushes to his feet. “I’m going to get out of here and let you get back to writing.”

“You don’t have to go.”

What I don’t say is that I am itching to get back to writing. I didn’t write for three years, and now I have a book pouring out of me so fast I’m getting whiplash from it.

“I do. I have a date to prepare for, and you have work to do.” He lifts his brows pointedly, and I have a feeling the work he’s talking about isn’t just my writing.

“Okay.”

I stand and meet him at the end of the table, and he wraps me in one of his hugs again. This time, I don’t cry.

This time, I feel refreshed.

I feel ready.