Scoring Chance (Carolina Comets)

We’ve been in the store for forty minutes, and Scout has tried on no less than ten different dresses.

All of them are wrong.

“No. Next.”

“Excuse me?”

I barely glance up from my phone, but it’s long enough to see it’s still not the right dress. “That’s not the one. Next.”

She huffs, her hand going to her hip. “You didn’t even look.”

“I did, and it’s a no.”

“Miller…come on. I’ve tried on so many dresses already, and you’ve said no to every single one. My boobs are sweating, and I’m starving.”

“We’ll go to lunch after this, I promise. And besides, have there been any dresses that you love?”

She chews on her bottom lip, which tells me just what I suspected—no.

Don’t get me wrong, she’s looked incredible in just about every single dress minus the one that had feathers—because, well, it had feathers—but none of them are the one.

“How much longer is this going to take? It’s a charity fundraiser, not a red-carpet event.”

I sigh, then look over at the shopkeeper, who is watching all of this unfold. “Can you grab the forest green one?”

Her eyes light up, and she nods enthusiastically before turning away to grab it.

“What forest green one? And why are you saying things like forest green? You’re a guy.”

“First of all, that’s sexist. Men can know colors. Secondly, I like to, uh, color.”

She tilts her head. “You like to color?”

“Yeah.” My cheeks begin to warm because fuck, now that I’m saying it out loud, it sounds stupid, and for some reason, I really don’t want to look stupid in front of Scout.

“Like…in coloring books?”

“Adult coloring books, but yeah.” I shrug, shifting around in the chair I’ve been parked on since we arrived. “It’s relaxing. Sometimes it’s helpful after stressful stretches of games.”

Her lips pull into a smile. “That’s cute.”

I narrow my eyes. “I feel like you’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not!” she insists. “I honestly think it’s—”

“Cute?”

“Yeah. Cute.” Another grin. “It’s…you.”

I like the way she says that, like it’s something she means, like it’s a good thing.

“Here’s that dress,” the shopkeeper says, thrusting it into Scout’s arms.

She looks down at it, confused. “Where did this come from?”

I lift a shoulder. “It was on one of the racks you didn’t look at.”

“Yeah, because I don’t want anything strapless. I…don’t have the arms for strapless.”

I want to walk up to her, grab her by the shoulders, and shake her because she’s clearly out of it if she thinks there’s a single thing wrong with any part of her body.

“Try the dress on, Scout.”

She eyes the fabric draped over her arms, mulling it over.

I know she’s going to love the dress if she just gives it a try. I know she’s going to love it because I love it, and I want her to see herself from my point of view.

“Please,” I add, and she finally looks up at me.

“Fine,” she says with a soft sigh, shaking her head like she can’t believe she’s about to actually do it, then she slips behind the curtain.

The shopkeeper looks over at me, grinning like a fool because I bet she knows what I know—that Scout is about to walk out of that dressing room looking like a million bucks.

“I’m going to go check on the front, but I’ll be right back,” the woman says to me.

I nod my thanks, she disappears, and I wait.

Then wait some more.

And more.

After what feels like twenty minutes, I can’t take it any longer. I rise and make my way over to the dressing room.

“Scout?” I call out softly.

She lets out a loud yelp and flings the curtain open. “Jesus, Miller! You scared me!”

She’s glaring at me, I’m sure, but I can’t be bothered to care right now.

Because this dress? This dress is the one.

It’s hugging her everywhere it should be—her tits, her waist, and her ass. And the slit up the front? It’s so fucking hot. It’s just enough to tease but not enough to be inappropriate. I’m already sad I’m going to have to wait so long to see her in it again.

She looks… “Stunning.”

“Huh?”

Fuck. Did I say that out loud?

I clear my throat, then drag my eyes back up her body to her face. “You look stunning, Scout.”

Her cheeks turn redder than I’ve ever seen them get. “Stop it.”

The words are whispered.

“What?”

“Stop it,” she repeats, a little louder this time.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t mean it.”

“I don’t?”

She shakes her head. “No. You’re just saying that because I’m doing you a favor by being your date and you feel obligated. Or maybe you still feel bad about not recognizing me. Or—”

Her words are cut off when I begin stalking toward her.

She takes a step back. I take another forward.

Back. Forward.

Back. Forward.

Like I’m a fucking lion, and she’s my prey.

I have no clue what’s come over me. All I know is I can’t stand here and listen to her not believe me.

“Miller…” She says it quietly, and I’m not quite sure if she’s asking me to come closer or to step away.

“I want to set a few things straight, Scout.”

She swallows thickly.

I lean closer, trying not to get drunk on the sweet scent of baked goods that seems to cling to her skin. “I’m not saying anything because I’m obligated to. I’m saying it because I mean it. Also, I will never lie to you, ever. If I say you’re stunning, it’s because I believe you are. And you are, Scout. You’re stunning.”

Her breath hitches, and her pupils dilate at my words. She’s peering up at me with those damn hazel eyes she won’t stop rolling, and we’re trapped together inside the small changing room. I have a feeling I could do anything I wanted to her right now, and she’d let me.

Like kiss her. And at this moment, I really want to kiss her.

I don’t know where the thought comes from. I also have no fucking clue how I’m supposed to feel about it, especially since we’re just supposed to be friends.

I do know I hate the way she’s talking about herself, hate that she can’t see how gorgeous she looks right now.

“You’re stunning, and I wish you could see it.”

I spin her around until she’s facing the mirror.

I grab her waist to help keep her steady—or at least that’s what I tell myself. Really, it’s just an excuse to touch her because I really want to fucking touch her.

“See this dress?” I say, dropping my lips to her ear, loving the way she shivers at our proximity. “See the way it hugs every inch of your body?”

She nods.

“See how gorgeous you look? It’s like this dress was made for you, Scout. Like they saw your body, and they knew they had the perfect garment for it.”

Unable to stop myself, I drag my fingertips along her arm. I trace a path from her wrist all the way up to her collarbone, then back down again. With every stroke, her breaths grow quicker.

I should stop touching her. I know that. But I can’t, and I don’t want to.

I don’t think she wants me to either.

I need to, though. Every second I spend close to her…every time I feel her skin under my fingertips…my cock grows harder.

“Do you believe me now?”

She nods slowly.

“Say it.”

“I believe you.”

The words are shaky and unconvincing.

“Again.”

She rolls her tongue along her bottom lip, letting her eyes wander over her reflection in the mirror. She takes in the way the deep green dress wraps around her body. The way it pushes her tits up high—so high, in fact, they’re almost to the point of spilling out. The way it wraps around her waist, creating a soft bunch of material that leads to a slit that comes dangerously close to showing everyone just what she’s wearing underneath. The way it truly does feel like this dress was made for her.

She tips her chin up higher and straightens her back a little more.

Then, she says, “I believe you.”

And this time, I believe her.

“Since you picked our shopping destination, does that mean I get to pick lunch?” I ask, looking over at Scout in the passenger seat.

The dress is tucked safely in the back seat, along with a pair of gold heels she wouldn’t stop eying.

“I suppose. But no sushi.” She shudders. “I can’t stomach it.”

“That’s a travesty.” I swap lanes seamlessly, but I don’t miss how she clutches the handle as if I’m out here driving like a madman. “Pizza? I know a really good place. Best pizza in town.”

“I won’t lie, I’m a hard sell on pizza because there’s a place where I grew up that has the best pizza ever, but I’ll give it a go.”

“Best pizza ever, huh?”

“Yep.” She says it so confidently. “Have you ever had macaroni pizza?”

“Isn’t that just cheese pizza?”

“That’s incredibly offensive. It’s pizza with macaroni on it.”

“That sounds…”

“Like heaven?” She sighs. “I know. There’s also a chicken tender pizza, which is so good. And there’s a stuffed-crust one with bacon and jalapeños. Don’t even get me started on their dessert pizzas.”

She moans. Like full-on moans.

I’m not ashamed to admit I find it hot. Hell, I’ve been sporting a half-chub since we walked out of that dressing room. It’s been distracting, to say the least.

I pull the car into the pizzeria and reverse into a spot, shifting the car into park.

She snorts out a laugh. “Of course you’re one of those guys.”

I don’t even get to ask her what she means before she’s out of the car. I have a feeling she’s not a big fan of my driving.

When we make it into the restaurant, which is a “seat yourself” type thing, I steer Scout toward a table in the back. I know if I happen to get recognized, I’m less likely to be bothered back here.

We grab the menus from the table and begin perusing them. It’s nice sitting here with her, not having the need to fill the silence that’s stretching between us. It feels comfortable.

“Mr. Miller!”

I pop my head up at the name being called loudly from across the room. The owner of the pizzeria has his arms outstretched and a giant smile across his face as he makes his way toward our table.

“John!” I call back to him, just as excited to see him as he is to see me. I stand and fold my arms around him in a hug. He’s a small guy, and I always laugh when I think of how ridiculous we must look hugging.

“It’s good to see you, kid,” he says, patting my back a few times before letting me go. “You’ve spent too much time away. We need to fix that.” He points at me, narrowing his eyes.

“The season is starting soon, so I’ll be back in regularly. I promise.”

Hockey players are known to be quite superstitious, and most of them have their own rituals before games, like taping their sticks a certain way or listening to certain playlists. Hell, even Wayne Gretzky himself had his famous Diet Coke ritual.

Mine includes pizza.

I know, I know. It sounds insane, but it works for me. I carbo-load on pizza, nap, then play.

So, before every home game, I come here to Johnny Boy’s Pizza & Pasta.

“Good.” He pats my shoulder, then his eyes drift toward Scout, who is still seated, staring up at us with a smile. “Ah! I see you brought a friend today.”

I wave toward Scout. “John, meet Scout. She’s the genius behind Scout’s Sweets over on Eighth.”

John’s eyes light up. “Those donuts are amazing.”

“Thank you.” Her cheeks redden. “It’s great to meet you, John. I’m excited to try your pizza. Miller won’t stop gushing about it.”

“This kid, huh? He’s great for business.” John elbows me. “What’re you having to drink? I’ll grab ’em for ya.”

“I’ll take a root beer,” Scout says.

“You already know what I want.”

He waves a hand my way. “Yeah, yeah. You want the cherry shit. I got ya.”

I settle back at the table as he walks away. Scout’s grinning at me over the menu.

“What?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “Nothing. You’re just…a little different than I expected, is all.”

“Good different?”

She nods. “Yes.”

We leave it at that, mostly because I have no clue how to decipher the look in her eye as she says this. It’s somewhere between curiosity, disbelief, and happiness. I’m not sure what any of it means.

John drops our drinks off at the table, and we place an order for a large cheeseburger pizza—sans onions, per Scout’s request. Blasphemous if you ask me, but whatever.

“So, Scout…is that a nickname?” I ask, ripping the paper off my straw and dunking it into my “cherry shit” or just Cheerwine as I like to call it.

“Nope. It’s just Scout. A lot of people think it’s a nickname, though. Or at least they want it to be because they don’t like it.” She shrugs. “But Pops was a big literature fan, and I guess it’s some character or something.”

“You never read the book you were named after?”

“Nah. Not really my thing.”

“What is your thing?” I ask. “I mean, you are a reader, right? I assume that’s why you always have the little library out in front of the truck, yeah?”

“I’m definitely a reader. I, uh, prefer romance novels.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then rubs her lobe between two fingers. She’s fidgeting. “I write them too.”

I’m intrigued. “Why do you sound so nervous telling me that?”

“Most people don’t take too well to that admission. They either judge and turn their noses up, or they think I’m some sex-crazed maniac.”

“And are you? Some sex-crazed maniac?”

She laughs loudly. “Ha! As someone who hasn’t had sex in…” She trails off, biting her bottom lip and then shaking her head. “No.”

Wait a minute. Is Scout…

“I mean, I’m not a virgin or anything,” she says. Oh. Well, never mind. “That would be a good storyline, though, wouldn’t it? A virgin romance novelist. I’m sure it’s already been done. But, yeah, no. Not sex-crazed, not a virgin. Just an author—or wannabe author.”

“You haven’t published any books?”

Her shoulders deflate. “I haven’t even finished a book.”

“Why not?”

“Well…” She sighs. “I have the truck. It eats up a lot of my time—which is great. I’m super thankful for that, but…I also want to write.”

“Then write.”

She twists her lips. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“Why?”

“I… I’m blocked.”

“Then get unblocked.”

“If only it were that easy,” she mumbles. “I haven’t touched my book in three years.”

“I’m no expert, but I feel like three years is a long time not to write for someone who wants to be a writer.”

She nods. “It is. But the last time I wrote anything…” She lets out a long breath and sinks lower into the booth. “It was before my dad passed.”

My heart sinks, not because I know what it’s like to lose a parent, but because of the way her face darkens, the way everything about her just seems to deflate as she says the words. It’s clear it was hard on her.

It also makes me feel like an ass because when she said she made a donut for her dads, I just assumed they were both still alive.

“Shit, Scout. That sucks.”

“It’s okay. I mean, I have another one, but—”

I cough out a surprised laugh, nearly choking on my Cheerwine. “Holy fuck.”

“Sorry.” She winces. “Dead gay dad joke…too much?”

“No.” I shake my head, trying to get my breath back under control. “Just was not expecting that.”

“Sometimes I default to dark humor when I get uncomfortable about it.” She fidgets with her straw. “I get uncomfortable about it a lot, probably because I don’t talk about it often. Or at least that’s what my therapist Stevie says.”

“Your therapist’s name is Stevie?”

“My therapist is Stevie.”

“I didn’t know she was a therapist.”

Scout laughs. “She’s not. She’s just an older sister, and they love to pretend they’re therapists like they have everything in life figured out or something, never mind they’re just trying to navigate their own issues. I’m sure you understand, though.”

“While I do have an older sister, she wasn’t around too much when I was younger. There’s a nine-year age difference and she split the second she turned eighteen, so I felt like an only child for a long time.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“How was that?” I grimace, and she doesn’t miss it. “Uh-oh. That bad?”

“It was…” I lift a shoulder. “Something. On the one hand, I had all of my parents’ attention. On the other…well, I had all of my parents’ attention. Which, if you’re Grady Miller, a kid who seems to be bound for many years of great hockey, can be very exhausting.”

The corners of her mouth tug down in a frown. “I’m sorry, Miller. That sounds hard.”

It fucking sucked, but I don’t tell her that. It doesn’t seem right when she’s telling me about her dead father.

“Do you and your sister at least get along?”

“We do now. After she moved out, it was like she became a completely different person. She lives out in Seattle with my nephew. I don’t get to see them as often as I’d like, but with the new team out there, it’s at least a couple of times a year. What about your dad? How was he?”

“He was amazing.” A wistful smile plays on her lips. “We had a lot in common. He was a huge book nerd, and because of that, I became one too. We could talk about books for hours and never get tired of it, no matter how much it drove Stevie and Dad nuts. He’s the reason I want to be a writer.”

It’s clear by the way she talks about him that he meant a great deal to her, and not just because he was her dad. It sounds like he was her best friend too. I can’t imagine losing both in one swoop like that.

“And the reason you can’t write?”

She nods. “Afraid so. I promised him I’d finish my book, but…”

“But?”

“It’s not pleasant,” she warns.

I gesture for her to go on, far too curious about what she’s going to say.

She sighs, sitting forward, resting her chin on her hand. “I had a very serious boyfriend when Pops died. We were together for a few years, had an apartment, and I thought he was going to be the one. I loved him, you know?”

“Why do I get the feeling he’s about to do some really douchey shit?”

“Oh, because he is.” She lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “I guess dating someone who just lost their parent was too hard for him. So, he broke up with me in the worst way: he banged someone else…at my father’s funeral.”

I swear I see red.

I’ve never understood that statement before right this moment, but I get it now. It’s like a blinding rage. The urge to pummel someone, the absolute carnal need for violence…

I feel that.

Who does that shit? Who treats someone like that, let alone someone who just lost their parent? What kind of person stoops that low?

“What’s his name?”

Her brows lift. “Excuse me?”

“His name.”

“Miller…”

“What.” It’s not a question, mostly because I can’t fathom why she’d expect anything else right now.

She slides her hand across the table, covering mine with it. The storm brewing inside of me starts to simmer at her touch, and it’s only then that I realize my hands are balled into fists.

“Hey,” she says softly, drawing my attention away from where she’s touching me. “While I appreciate your anger, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

“It’s not okay, Scout.”

She gives me a half-smile. “You’re right. It’s not. But it was a long time ago, and I’m working to move past it. Stevie says I’m kind of stuck in the past sometimes, and I think she may be right. It’s time for me to move on, you know?”

I’m not sure if she’s saying this to me or to herself, but I nod anyway.

“Okay. But…please tell me you at least decked the guy when you found out.”

She grins. “Oh yeah—broke his nose. I kind of understand why you guys like fighting in hockey. It’s exhilarating.”

“Hot pizza!” John says, appearing at the end of the table.

We break apart, and I instantly miss her hand on mine, but I don’t say that.

Instead, I grin at the owner and thank him for the meal.

“Anytime. Enjoy.”

Scout slides a piece onto her plate, then hands me the spatula so I can dig in.

“Ready to have your mind blown?” I ask.

She looks at the pie skeptically. “We’ll see.”

She lifts the slice, gives it a sniff. Takes a small, tentative bite. Chews, swallows, then takes another.

It’s the second bite that gets her to crack, and she lets out a soft moan.

“Okay, fine. This is really good. It’s not Slice good, but it’ll do as a runner-up.”

“Told ya.” I dig into my food, and we eat in silence for several minutes.

Just as she finishes her first slice, she says, “Hey, Miller?”

I peek up from my food to find her staring at me with serious eyes. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“What for?”

“For wanting to stand up for me. It…it means a lot.”

“Of course,” I say, swallowing down the emotion building in my throat. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

Her lips twitch. “Right.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you should finish your book.”

“You haven’t even read it—you don’t know if it’s good or not.”

“Nah, doesn’t matter. I believe in you all the same.”

Her mouth opens like she’s surprised to hear the words, but like she needed to hear them too. Finally, after several seconds of silence, she says, “Okay. I’ll finish it.”

My chest swells with excitement, and we don’t talk for the rest of the meal.