Scoring Chance (Carolina Comets)

I lied to Miller.

I’m never going to finish this book.

I’ll never finish it because I’ve been sitting at this damn desk for an hour and have exactly seven words typed up.

Title Here: A Novel by Scout Thomas

I don’t even have a damn title!

I have ideas. Oh, man, do I have ideas. I have a literal notebook that just says Ideas, for crying out loud. I’ve sifted through it no less than ten times, but none of them feel right.

This whole process is stressing me out so much I’d rather be at my donut truck stressing about how I’m going to find another baker.

I’ve had a few interviews over the last week since my shopping trip with Miller, but just like all the ideas in that notebook, none feel right. I have one more set up for tomorrow before the fundraiser, and if it doesn’t work out, I’ve decided I’m just going to run the truck by myself for the foreseeable future because I am not cut out for the hiring part of this job. Nobody ever said running your own business would be this exhausting, but dang am I tired.

Which is probably why my brain isn’t currently functioning. It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that I’m going on a date with a pro hockey player tomorrow, and I’m certainly not so nervous I wasn’t even able to finish my glass of wine last night.

He’s been stopping by the truck almost every day. He’s only missed coming by once due to a press thing, and I’ll admit it felt weird not to have him there. I have no idea how I’m going to cope with him actually being gone for the season. Guess I’ll find out on Monday when they leave for their first preseason trip.

It’s a little ridiculous how used to him I’ve become. He was always a frequent flyer at the truck before, but now it’s more than that. Sometimes I have to actually kick him out and make him go away because he’s being obnoxious, which seems to be par for the course with him.

I won’t lie…it’s been nice having him around, especially since I’m solo-ing it at the moment. It makes time go by faster and keeps me distracted in a good way.

Plus, he’s not bad to look at.

Yeah, it’s safe to say my little crush on him is still intact. Hell, it may even be worse after the incident in the dressing room.

I have no idea what came over him, no idea why he cornered me, why he touched me and made me feel like we were the only two people on the planet.

But he did all of those things and then some.

I was so uncertain about how I looked in the dress, afraid it was showing off too many of my stomach rolls, clinging a little too tightly to the dimples on my ass, showing entirely too much boob. But when Miller called me stunning and made me really look at myself, I didn’t see any of those things anymore.

All I saw was the way he was looking at me.

And I liked it.

Maybe I could conjure that feeling again—as if I haven’t several times this week—and channel it into my writing.

I position my fingers at the keyboard and begin to type.

“Knock, knock!” Stevie calls out, tapping her knuckles against my door, interrupting me. She pushes it open, popping her head around the corner. “Dinner’s ready.”

“Macaroni and cheese?”

“Of course—it’s Thursday.”

Every Thursday for the last year, Macie makes mac and cheese. I swear it’s how I’m able to tell what day it is half the time.

Sometimes she’ll add something to it like ground beef or tuna. Sometimes it’s hot dogs, and once she did jalapeños, but it’s always mac and cheese of some sort. I love that she has the cooking bug, but sometimes I wish she’d branch out a little more. There’s only so much cheese and noodles a person can eat.

Stevie’s eyes bounce to my open laptop. They widen when she reads the screen.

I slam the computer shut and rise from the world’s most uncomfortable chair, which I deeply regret purchasing. Maybe that’s my issue, why I’m unable to write.

I laugh to myself because I know it’s not.

“Whatcha working on these days?” Stevie asks not so casually.

“Nothing.” Technically it’s not a lie because that’s what I typed—nothing.

But we both know me just sitting at the computer staring at a blank document was something. It’s been over a year since I’ve done even that.

I want to write. I truly do, but my fingers don’t seem to work every time I sit down. Stevie’s convinced it’s because I don’t have a life outside the donut truck, and she may be right. I think writing was a massive part of my connection with my father, and my grief blocks me.

Honestly, I’m sure it’s a perfect storm of both.

“Whatever you say,” she says as I practically shove her out of the door.

We reach the small dining room table just as Macie sets the last bowl down. Before sitting, I grab a bottle of root beer from the fridge, a Diet Coke for Stevie, and a juice box for my niece.

“I added bacon tonight, Aunt Scout!” Macie says from my right as she grabs forks from the drawer.

Okay, fine, the bacon does make me a little more excited for dinner.

“I bet it’s going to be amazing,” I tell her.

“I’ve almost perfected the recipe too.” She passes the silverware to her mother and me.

“You’ve been working on this for a year. Isn’t the recipe perfect?”

“Not yet,” she insists, sitting down in her chair, tugging it closer to the table with a loud scrape. “But close.”

We dive into the food, and it’s just as good as all her other concoctions.

“So,” Stevie starts, “are you nervous about tomorrow?”

“What’s tomorrow?” Macie asks.

“I’m going to a fundraiser the Comets are hosting.”

Her eyes widen at this information, and she sits up higher in her chair. “You’ll be there with the whole team?”

I nod. “Yep.”

“And she’s going as Grady Miller’s date.”

“A date?!” Macie squeaks out, clapping her hands together.

“As friends,” I clarify, sending a pointed glare Stevie’s way. She doesn’t break under the weight of it. “It’s just as friends.”

“You’re friends with him?” Macie asks.

“Umm…yes. I guess I am.” At this point, I think I might be telling the truth. Sure, I’ve told Miller we’re friends, but not until after our shopping trip and lunch date, when I spilled all of my secrets to him, did I really feel like that might be true.

“Like boyfriend-and-girlfriend kind of friends?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Just friends friends.”

She twists her lips, her face scrunching up like she just ate something sour and doesn’t like it. “Hmm. Okay.”

Stevie points her fork toward her daughter. “For the record, I’m with her.”

“I’m shocked,” I deadpan.

I love my sister, but she’s driving me nuts about this whole fundraiser thing. She’s been dropping hints all week about how she thinks Miller and I would make a cute couple. I keep telling her it’s never going to happen, but she doesn’t believe me.

“Liar.” Stevie sticks her tongue out when Macie isn’t looking.

“Can you get me an autographed puck tomorrow?”

“I’m sure I can swing it,” I say to my niece, unsurprised by her request. She asked for one when I went to Smith’s party too. Luckily, Wright was kind enough to send one home with me for her. “Do you want Miller’s signature?”

She scrunches her nose. “No. And not one from the jackass from the truck either.”

“Macie!” her mother cries out in protest.

“You said she could say jackass,” I point out.

Stevie hangs her head, her shoulders shaking with laughter. “I did say she could say jackass.”

“All right, so no autograph from Greer either. Maybe Smith?”

Macie guffaws. “That old man? Nope. I want Beast’s. He’s dreamy.” She bounces her brows up and down. I have no clue if she even knows what dreamy means or if she just heard her mother lusting after Chris Hemsworth again.

“All right. Beast’s it is.”

“And maybe Coach Heller too?” She folds her hands together, sticking her bottom lip out in a plea. “You’d be my favorite aunt.”

“I’m your only aunt.”

“Please?”

I sigh, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Yes!” She fist-pumps the air. “Also, it’s your turn to do dishes tonight.”

“I’m going to get all these autographs for you, and you’re still making me do dishes? I thought I was your favorite aunt.”

“You are, but I also hate doing dishes, so…” She shovels the last of her mac and cheese in her mouth, swallows, then hops off her chair. She presses a kiss to my cheek before yelling “Bye!” and running off.

I look at Stevie, who is just shaking her head at her daughter’s antics.

“That’s your kid,” I say.

“I know. Don’t you love her?”

“So much.” I really truly do. “I hope the guys are cool about the autographed pucks.”

“I’m sure they will be. They all always seem nice when they stop by the truck.” She takes a bite of her dinner. “Speaking of…now that the little ears are gone, how are you really feeling about tomorrow?”

“Like I’m going to vomit.”

“Because you’re still crushing on Miller, and you’re worried seeing him all dressed up in his tux is going to send your lady bits into overdrive, and you’ll have to ravage him in the coat closet?”

A laugh bubbles out of me. “I thought I was the storyteller here.”

She lifts a shoulder. “What? I have an overactive imagination sometimes, especially when I haven’t been laid in ages.” She mutters the last part.

She doesn’t have to tell me twice. What I didn’t finish telling Miller the other day is that I’m not a virgin, but I may as well be. I haven’t had sex in three years. Haven’t dated in that long either. It feels like a lifetime ago in so many ways.

“I am nervous,” I tell her honestly.

She perks up at this. “You are?”

I nod. “Yeah. I… Well, I haven’t been out with anyone since Aaron.” I wince when I say my ex’s name. “While this isn’t a date”—I give her a pointed look—“in some ways, it feels like it is. Probably just because the event is fancy, I’m sure.”

“Right. Nothing to do with the fact that you’re still crushing on Miller.”

“Shut up,” I tell her. “But yes. He’s so…”

“Miller?”

I nod. “Is it weird to describe him that way? By his name?”

“No, not with a guy like him. He’s his own brand of…well, him. It’s kind of hard not to find him attractive and obnoxious all in one breath. I think you two are going to have a great time tomorrow.”

“I hope so.” I groan, running my hand through my messy hair. “I can’t believe I’m going to be in a room full of hockey players tomorrow. I hope I don’t do or say something embarrassing.”

“Trust me, I think Miller will embarrass himself enough for the both of you.”

I laugh. “True.”

“Besides, the wives will be there, right? You can always mingle with them, make some new friends. Live a little, have fun—you deserve it.”

For the first time in a long time, I think Stevie’s right.

I do deserve it.

This is a lot more than I was expecting it to be.

A camera flashes in my face, which already hurts from smiling so much, and I grip Miller’s arm tighter because I’m now too blind to see much of anything.

“Are you okay?” he asks out of the side of his mouth, somehow still smiling at the camera.

I simply squeeze his arm in response because I’m honestly not sure if I am okay. I feel like a fraud and like I look like a million bucks all at once. It’s hard to recognize who I am under all this makeup and glam, but it also feels good to try something different.

There’s at least another minute of posing and smiling—which doesn’t really sound like a long time, but when you have several cameras in your face, it feels like an eternity—before we’re finally free and walking through the doors of the event.

“That was intense,” I say to Miller once we’re inside the massive entrance to the expansive venue.

“I thought the same when I first started playing hockey, but now I’m just kind of used to being bombarded by cameras and microphones. I’m sorry—I should have warned you better. If you had at least allowed me to pick you up, maybe I could have.” He lifts his brows disapprovingly.

Miller insisted several times that he wanted to pick me up for the event, but I just couldn’t do it. I’ve already been a nervous wreck all week, and there was no way I’d be able to sit through an entire car ride next to him and not throw up all over the gorgeous gold heels he spent entirely too much money on.

Instead, he sent a limo to my apartment. I felt like such a fool walking from the tiny two-bedroom box to the fancy car.

I shrug. “It was out of the way.”

It’s a damn lie, and we both know it.

“Are you nervous?” he asks.

This time, I don’t lie to him. “I am.”

“Don’t be. Once we get into the main room, it’ll be just like normal.”

“Easy for you to say—you’re not one who isn’t used to dressing up and pretending to be someone you’re not. It’s a little hard to relax when I look like this.” I swoop my hand over my dress, trying to keep up with his long strides.

Without warning, Miller tugs me out of the main entryway and into a smaller hall. There’s nobody else over here but us, and I’m keenly aware of that when he crowds me against a wall.

“Miller, what are—”

“Have I told you yet how stunning you look in that dress?”

Heat fills my cheeks, and I have to bite down on my lower lip to control the smile that’s dying to break free. “Not today.”

“Well, that’s on me, huh?” He steps closer, and I’m instantly wrapped in the warmth that’s radiating off his big body. “You’re stunning, Scout.”

I meet his whiskey-colored eyes, my breath getting harder and harder to catch the more I peer into them.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“You’re welcome.” He gives me his trademark smile. “Now, let’s get you a glass of champagne, huh? Calm those nerves.”

I’m almost certain drinking around Miller would be a bad idea. I think I’d say things I shouldn’t, do things I normally wouldn’t.

But tonight…tonight I don’t want to be just Scout.

I want to have fun. I want to let loose. I want to feel good.

So, I do the exact opposite of what I should.

I say, “Okay.”

And when he holds his hand out, I thread my fingers through his and let him pull me into the night.