A Shot Worth Waiting For (Hockey House Misfits #2)

1. Timothy

Chapter one

Timothy

The first time I realized Bethany Bennett might be a problem, she was barefoot on my kitchen counter.

Years before she had a key to Lestor Lodge. Years before avoiding her became an actual strategy.

She has one hand buried in the highest cabinet and the other stretched toward the ceiling for balance.

My sister is supposed to be helping her bake something.

Jenna, naturally, is nowhere in sight.

“Don’t ask,” Bethany says.

She twists to look at me, and the mixing bowl beside her starts sliding toward the edge.

I lunge forward and catch it.

Flour dusts up over one side, coating my shirt, part of my face, and some of the kitchen floor.

Bethany stares down at me with both hands pressed over her mouth.

For one hopeful second, I think she might be concerned.

But then she begins laughing. I set the bowl back on the counter with a huff.

She's still laughing.

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

Then her foot slips. The laughter disappears.

So does my ability to think.

I catch her around the waist before she hits the floor.

Her momentum knocks me back a step, but I manage to stay upright.

Now Bethany is pressed against my chest with both of my arms wrapped around her middle.

Her hands land on my shoulders.

Her face is inches from mine.

Brown eyes wide. Cheeks pink from laughing.

For one second, neither of us moves.

“Thanks,” she whispers.

“Yeah.”

Brilliant, Brenton.

I set her down, although that is a generous description.

Mostly, I try not to drop her while my brain forgets how arms work.

The second her feet touch the floor, I let go.

Bethany reaches up and brushes flour from my cheek.

“You’ve got a little something.” Her fingers graze my skin.

My entire brain goes quiet.

That is when I knew Bethany Bennett would be a problem.

***

Years later, apparently I still haven’t solved the problem.

I hunch low as I dig into the corner after the puck.

The defenseman slams into my shoulder like a wrecking ball.

My ribs vibrate. My head snaps back.

I’m moving again before he finishes his follow-through, digging my stick beneath his and knocking the puck free.

If that’s not a small victory, I don’t know what is.

By the time I glide back to the bench, I’m noticing the dull ache in my back teeth. It could be from the check or from clenching, I’m not sure.

I grab the water bottle, squeeze too enthusiastically, and the stream catches my chin instead of my mouth.

Perfect.

Coach Nolan is off to the side, shaking with laughter at something Reeves just said. The cameras along the glass drift in their direction like they’ve been magnetized.

I don’t blame them.

Reeves scores. Reeves talks. Reeves makes people look.

I dig pucks out of corners, absorb hits, and slide the puck to players like Reeves so they can give the crowd something worth cheering about.

I try to make myself useful enough that Coach remembers to put me back on the ice.

Just another day at the office for a hockey player.

He barks my name over the cheers and clatter of sticks. "Brenton." I’m already pushing off the boards, offering an I-hear-you nod before he’s even finished speaking.

“Keep it simple,” he says. “Stay responsible out there. You want more minutes, Brenton, you earn them by being a guy I can trust.”

His gaze has already shifted toward the ice before I answer.

“Sure, Coach,” I say.

Responsible.

Right.

Trustworthy. Dependable. Safe.

All excellent qualities in a family sedan.

I am responsible, though. Responsible enough to keep my head down, follow the play, and not make problems for anyone.

Responsible is basically my middle name.

Which is why I have spent years being extremely responsible about Bethany Bennett.

No flirting.

No testing boundaries.

She is my sister’s best friend. That label should make her untouchable.

I scramble for the puck along the boards, muscle it away from my opponent, and send it cleanly to a teammate moving up the center.

He takes the shot.

The bench acknowledges my part with two quick taps against the boards.

That is hockey’s version of a polite head nod.

Yep, that’s me: the polite head nod guy.

Useful. Forgettable.

Coaches like that until someone faster, louder, or shinier comes along.

Practice ends on Coach’s whistle, thirty guys heaving a collective sigh of relief. The tension finally slips, and we swarm toward the locker room.

Inside, laughter bounces off the walls. Reeves is doing an impression of some celebrity I don’t recognize, and it must be spot-on because half the team is losing it.

I grin when everyone else does.

It’s a fraction too late, but no one notices.

No one usually does.

My mind is already somewhere else.

At Lestor Lodge.

More specifically, my mind is on Bethany Bennett and the way she smiled at me three weeks ago in front of the lodge fireplace.

I have survived Bethany smiling at me for years.

I survived birthdays, family dinners, Jenna dragging her into our house at all hours, and enough accidental brushes of hands to prove I am capable of basic self-control.

But three weeks ago, she smiled at me across that fireplace like she saw me differently.

Not as Jenna’s brother.

Not as the reliable guy who happened to be standing nearby.

Me.

Just for a second.

And something I had spent years keeping neatly contained came rushing back to the surface.

Which is inconvenient, because Jenna would be thrilled if she knew how often her best friend has been wandering through my head lately.

Thrilled.

Smug.

Unbearable.

Honestly, jail might be easier.

I peel the tape off my stick in one long, satisfying strip, then roll it into a tight little ball. I toss it toward the bin.

And….miss by a mile.

“Brenton,” calls Shane from across the room, eyes glued to his phone, “I’m leaving in ten.”

From somewhere behind a mountain of hockey pads, a teammate calls, “Loser Lodge shuttle, boys!”

A few guys chuckle.

Shane raises one finger without looking up from his phone, acknowledging the insult like he has heard it a hundred times.

I offer the expected half-smile.

That’s what you do when the joke is partly about your life.

Ten minutes later, I’m in the passenger seat of Shane’s truck, my gear bag thrown in the back.

I stare out the passenger window, letting the neon glow of streetlights blur past me.

Don’t think about Bethany.

That rule has worked reasonably well for years.

But like a lot of rules, it's easier said than done.

We pull up to Lestor Lodge, its porch lights glowing against the dark trees.

Home sweet home for anyone not quite big-time enough to afford privacy.

Or anyone whose presence in the league still feels temporary enough that buying furniture would be overly optimistic.

My shoulder twinges the second I hoist my bag out of the truck bed. The bruise from earlier is making a low, stubborn protest, but I ignore it.

Duffels sprawl across the floor of the boot room. Skates dangle from racks, laces untied, battered from a life spent chasing the puck.

My stuff joins the chaos as I drop my bag and set my gear in its usual spot.

Somewhere upstairs there’s a jolt of music, the lodge floors creaking beneath footsteps, and Wesley’s muffled voice calls out something I can’t quite make out.

I wander into the main room, where Jonah has already claimed the couch. He’s sprawled out with his phone balanced on his chest, eyes half-lidded. He's probably halfway to comatose.

He must register when I come in, because he says, “Bethany’s stopping by tonight."

My stomach tightens, but I keep my expression neutral.

“Okay,” I manage.

Jonah cracks one eye open, glances at me, then shuts it again.

I run the mental checklist:

Bethany has a key to the lodge because she helps with caretaker stuff.

Bethany swings by to handle broken appliances, supply lists, cleaning schedules, and whatever disaster five hockey players have created since her last visit.

Bethany is also Jenna’s best friend.

Which means realizing I liked her years ago was inconvenient.

Realizing I never entirely stopped is worse.

Bethany is off-limits.

The end.

Totally standard.

Definitely not a big deal.

But I’m already calculating how long it usually takes her to drive here from town.

Then I start listening for wheels on gravel.

Does that make me pathetic?

Probably.

At least I’m self-aware.

I stomp into the kitchen. The place is half-clean, or half-destroyed, depending on how you look at it.

So basically an improvement from last week.

I straighten a chair, realize how ridiculous that is, and then let it be.

The broken hand mixer is still in the corner, so I nudge it further away.

I fill a glass of water at the sink, stare out the window above it, and force myself to focus on the dark silhouettes of birch trees instead of the driveway.

“She’s just coming to do her job,” I say.

From the couch, Jonah’s voice floats over. “Nobody asked, Brenton.”

I tip the glass back, finish what’s left, rinse it and place it in the drying rack.

There’s something about Bethany and the entire situation that ties my stomach in knots.

It’s not just that she’s pretty. That would be manageable.

Plenty of people are pretty.

It’s that she’s Bethany.

The girl who spent half her teenage years at our kitchen table, laughing with my sister.

Now she's building her own business, building her own life, while I’m still trying to prove I deserve to stay.

Headlights flash across the porch, strobe against the sink, and vanish.

She’s here.

My heart does one stupid, hopeful kick against my ribs.

I should stand here, be normal, pretend I’m unbothered.

But my feet apparently didn’t get that memo.

I’m halfway into the hall before I’ve even processed what I’m doing. One foot in the kitchen, the other out, like I’m literally caught between being cool and being clueless.

So, yeah.

Basically right where I live these days.

She knocks twice before opening the door, even though she has the key.

Bethany Bennett steps inside with a toolbox in one hand, a messy ponytail over one shoulder, and a smile that should come with a penalty.

The cold follows her through the doorway, carrying the faint scent of snow and the citrus cleaner she uses.

Her gaze finds mine almost immediately.

“Hey, Timothy.”

Like she expected me to be here.

Like she’s glad I am.

I take professional-grade body checks five nights a week.

I know how to brace for impact.

I have had years to learn how to brace for Bethany Bennett. But one look at my sister’s best friend still throws me off balance.