Chapter Seventeen Ship Happens
Chapter Seventeen
Ship Happens
Chase
Scarlett’s still red in the face as we step off stage, her jaw tight, arms crossed like she’s physically holding herself together.
I’ve seen people rattled before—hell, I’ve been rattled plenty of times—but this? This is a woman trying really hard to pretend she’s fine when she’s absolutely not.
It does something inside me. Some weird nagging feeling that I can’t place, but don’t like.
She doesn’t say anything, just beelines toward the backstage hallway like she’s trying to outrun her own embarrassment.
I follow her. Not because I’m an idiot, though the jury’s still out. But because I don’t like the way her shoulders are pulled tight, like she’s bracing for another punch. She’s been dodging me all night—hell, all summer. But tonight? She let a crack show.
And maybe I’m not supposed to care. But I do.
When I catch up to her by the green room door, she stops but doesn’t turn around. “Don’t say it.”
“Say what?” I ask, holding back a smile.
“I don’t want to talk about the hot take from hell. I just want to forget this entire night.”
“That’s fair,” I say gently. “But can we talk about tacos?”
That gets her. She glances over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes. “Tacos?”
I shrug. “I know a spot. It’s divey. Greasy. Has margaritas the size of your head. It’s impossible to feel bad about yourself when you’re elbows-deep in barbacoa and tequila.”
She blinks at me, like she can’t quite compute this version of me. The one offering comfort instead of banter.
“You’re inviting me to eat tacos?”
“I’m inviting you to not go home and replay tonight in your head until you hate yourself.”
She hesitates. “Do they have chips?”
“Endless,” I say solemnly.
A beat of silence.
“Fine. But only because I’m starving.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re tucked into a booth at my favorite taqueria just outside downtown. The kind of place where the furniture doesn’t match, the salsa is molten lava, and the margaritas taste like they’ve been spiked with pure happiness.
In a word, it’s heaven.
Scarlett’s curled into the booth across from me, hair falling over her shoulder, salt glistening on the rim of her glass as she takes a sip and lets out a soft, “Oh, damn. That’s good.”
I grin. “Told you. Tacos fix everything.”
“I didn’t say they fixed everything,” she says, eyeing me over the glass. “I said the margarita was good.”
She’s relaxing. Not by a lot. But her shoulders are a little looser. Her voice isn’t quite so sharp. She hasn’t once looked at her phone.
I reach for a chip. “You know, I expected you to bail after tonight.”
She snorts. “I almost did. But then you had to go and be all… gracious. And charming. And—ugh.”
“Terrible, isn’t it?”
“The worst.”
I laugh. “You handled it, though.”
“Oh, yeah. Nothing screams ‘handling it’ like insulting half the audience before the event even starts.”
“They loved it.”
“They did not.”
“That one lady basically gave you a standing ovation.”
“She publicly endorsed farting husbands.”
I wave her off. “She just said she loved her husband.”
Scarlett doesn’t say anything for a second, then downs half her drink like it personally offended her.
I need to change the subject.
“So how’s Rip?” she asks, flicking a chip at me. “I assume he’s getting the royal treatment now that you’re back in town.”
“He misses the beach.”
“Don’t we all.”
“He’s also mad I took away his freedom to wander into other people’s yards.”
She gives me a slow, unimpressed blink. “He only liked me for my peanut butter.”
“Same.”
Her mouth drops open, and I grin.
The navy dress she’s wearing hugs her waist and shows just enough leg to make my brain short-circuit. She’s a walking contradiction—gorgeous, infuriating, and totally off-limits—and I’m screwed six ways from Sunday because she doesn’t even know what she does to me.
“See?” I say, nudging her knee with mine under the table. “You’re laughing. Told you this place is magical.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. It’s the kind of smile she doesn’t realize she’s giving me. The kind I want to earn again and again.
She taps her straw against the glass. “So. Hockey.”
I lift a brow. “You want to talk about hockey?”
“Not particularly. But I know it’s your thing.”
I shrug. “It’s been good. Season kicks off soon. Training starts next week.”
“You ready for it?”
“Yeah,” I say. Then add, “Sort of.”
She catches the hesitation, sharp as ever. “Sort of?”
I shrug again, more careful this time. “There’s just… pressure this year. With the captaincy on the table. Contract negotiations. All that.”
“You’ll get it,” she says like it’s a fact. “You’re good at what you do.”
I stare at her for a second too long, thrown off by the simple certainty in her voice.
“Thanks,” I say, quieter than I meant to.
She nods, eyes flicking away like she’s realizing she said too much.
I don’t bring up her book. I don’t mention the critic or the pressure she’s under. She already looked like the world was sitting on her chest tonight, and I’m not going to add to it.
So instead, I tip my glass toward hers and say, “To tacos and tequila.”
She lifts hers, smirking. “And farting husbands.”
“May we never become them.”
We clink glasses, and just like that, the tension starts to bleed away.
And even though this wasn’t part of the plan—and she’ll probably go back to pretending to hate me tomorrow—tonight? It feels like a win.
For both of us.
I’m standing in my kitchen, holding a cup of coffee I haven’t actually managed to drink, scrolling through my phone while Rip chews a slipper in the corner like it personally offended him.
The internet has… opinions.
Big ones.
I swipe through post after post, each more unhinged than the last.
@StampedeFan1: The tension between Chase and Scottie? I want to bottle it. Inject it. Use it as perfume.
@RomanceLuver34: Enemies to lovers, but make it sports edition. I need this to be real.
@HockeyRomanceQueen: Not Scarlett Calloway going feral over romance novels while sitting next to a literal romance novel cover model in a suit.
@HockeyGossipHQ: He looked at her like she was the final goal in a Game 7 overtime. I can’t breathe.
I rub a hand over my face.
There’s a side-by-side screenshot of me smirking and her glaring—captioned “He’s thinking about kissing her. She’s thinking about committing a crime.”
Rip snorts like he agrees.
I chuckle and blow on my coffee.
I scroll some more, and yeah—it’s everywhere. #ChaseAndScottie is trending, and some genius already made a meme comparing us to Pride and Prejudice. (I’m Darcy, apparently. I think that’s good?)
There’s a short video clip from the Q&A where her mic caught her monologue about husbands and how romance novels have never improved anyone’s life… followed immediately by a zoomed-in shot of my face trying not to laugh.
I watch it twice.
Okay, three times.
She was mortified last night, and I probably didn’t help by taking her out for margaritas and looking at her like she personally ended my dry spell with one snarky comment.
But damn, she was good up there. Even when she was unraveling. Even when she was defensive and awkward and very clearly hating every second of being vulnerable in public.
She held her own.
And the fans loved it. Loved her.
Whether she wants to admit it or not, she just helped take this book club to the next level.
I toss my phone on the counter and finally take a sip of my now lukewarm coffee.
One thing’s clear—Scottie Calloway might not believe in love stories, but the rest of the world?
They’re already shipping ours.
I set the phone down and make myself focus on breakfast. A spinach omelet for me and a bowl of fresh dog food for Rip.
My phone buzzes across the counter, dancing slightly from the force of the call. I glance at the screen and groan.
Tyler.
I swipe to answer. “Morning, sunshine.”
“You alive?” he asks by way of greeting. “Wasn’t sure after that PR circus last night.”
I laugh, heading for the fridge to put away Rip’s food. “Barely. The internet thinks I proposed to her mid-Q&A.”
“You kinda looked like you wanted to.”
“She looked like she wanted to throat punch me,” I counter.
“Same thing.”
I snort. “What’s up?”
“You wanna lift? I’m hitting that gym over on Main in twenty. Get your ass out of retirement.”
I look down at Rip, who’s still gnawing on the slipper like it’s his full-time job. “Yeah, alright. Let me drop the kid off at doggy daycare. I’ll meet you there.”
Forty-five minutes later, we’re spotting each other under fluorescent lights in a place that smells aggressively like sweat and testosterone. Tyler, our second-line forward and chaos gremlin of the team, is grinning like he’s been waiting to bring this up.
“So… Scottie Calloway, huh?”
I sigh and rack the barbell. “Not happening.”
“Shame. You two had more chemistry than that time you tried to make pasta and lit your stove on fire.”
“That was one time.”
“She looked good last night.”
This comment strangely makes me want to hit him.
“She always looks good.” It slips out without thinking.
Tyler raises a brow. “Damn. That was fast.”
“Shut up.”
He tosses me a water bottle, smug. “You gonna ask her out?”
“No.” I wipe my face with a towel. “She’s the exact opposite of my type.”
“Which means you like her.”
I hate how perceptive this damn dude is.
“She writes books about how men are a scam, Tyler.”
“Yeah, but you’re a hot scam.”
Again, he’s not wrong.
I flip him off.
He grins wider. “Tell you what. I bet you can’t get her to agree to go on one real date with you before the book club ends.”
I stare at him. “What are we, twelve?”
My brain flashes to the tacos and margs we shared last night… But it wasn’t a date, and I know Scarlett would set me straight if anyone suspected it was. It was a friendly post-work happy hour. We were maybe slipping into friend territory, but I date territory was a long ways off.
“C’mon. It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do. You’re not serious about her. She hates your guts. You love a challenge.” He smirks. “You get her to say yes—without begging or bribing—and I’ll pick up your bar tab for the rest of the season.”
I pause.
Think of the online chaos. Her glare. The way she practically spit fire into the microphone last night. The way she looked in that dress, legs crossed under the table, lips pouting with that deep red lipstick. Her laughing over tacos. The tiniest crack in her armor.
“I’m not gonna trick her into anything,” I say slowly.
Tyler holds up both hands. “She’s gotta say yes of her own free will. You gotta actually convince her you’re worth it.”
I think about it for another second.
Then I nod. “You’re on.”
Because the truth is—I’m not sure I can.
But do I want to try.