The Viral Bet (The Spitfires Summer Mini-Series #3)

Chapter One

Marin

Crew Donnelly came home because his father was being honored by the town.

Crew Donnelly became my problem because Wilder Knox had internet access.

Is this why you’ve been weird all week?

The clip was thirteen seconds long.

Thirteen seconds.

That was all it took to ruin a perfectly good July.

On-screen, Wilder Knox stood in what appeared to be a gas station parking lot, wearing sunglasses indoors because apparently consequences were optional for men with cheekbones.

Behind him, two Spitfires argued over a cooler.

Someone off-camera yelled, “Where’s Crew?”

Wilder grinned directly into the camera and said, “Captain Serious? He’s going home to be a hometown hero and win back the girl.”

Then Frankie appeared beside him and screamed, “SECOND-CHANCE SUMMER!”

Then the video cut off.

That was it.

That was the whole crime.

No names.

No town.

No context.

Unfortunately, Honeybrook had the investigative instincts of a federal agency and the privacy boundaries of a raccoon in a pantry.

Within twenty minutes, the comments had identified Crew, me, my bakery, his father’s fundraiser, my eighth-grade braces, and the fact that Crew once gave me his hoodie at a bonfire in 2021.

Which was rude.

That hoodie had been emotionally significant.

And extremely soft.

I stood behind the counter of Webb & Whisk with flour on my forearm, rage in my bloodstream, and Crew Donnelly’s face on my phone.

Not his real face.

His Brookfield hockey headshot.

The one the local paper had already pulled into a graphic.

HOMETOWN HERO RETURNS FOR FOURTH FUNDRAISER — AND MAYBE FOR LOVE?

I stared at the headline.

Then at the patriotic cupcake display I had been frosting before my life became sponsored content.

My best friend Talia leaned over the counter, chewing the end of a straw.

“So,” she said carefully.

“No.”

“I didn’t ask anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was about to say this is bad.”

“It is.”

“But also…”

“No.”

“…ticket sales for the veterans fundraiser doubled overnight.”

I closed my eyes.

That was the problem.

Not Crew.

Crew was a problem, obviously.

But I had survived Crew Donnelly before.

Barely.

With emotional scar tissue, a permanent distrust of boys who said “I’ll call when I land,” and a highly specific weakness for navy hoodies I refused to examine in daylight.

The real problem was the fundraiser.

Sergeant Tom Donnelly’s final Fourth as parade grand marshal.

A week of events raising money for the Honeybrook Veterans Center roof repair.

A town that loved him.

A committee that needed every dollar.

And now, thanks to one Spitfires winger with the impulse control of a lit match, my private heartbreak had become the best marketing campaign Honeybrook had seen in years.

Talia slid my phone away from the mixing bowl. “Before you panic—”

“I am not panicking.”

“You’re frosting a cupcake with a knife.”

I looked down.

I was.

Badly.

The cupcake looked threatened.

I set the knife down.

The bell over the bakery door jingled.

Talia’s eyes went wide.

I did not turn around.

No.

Absolutely not.

The universe did not have that kind of timing.

A voice I had spent three years not hearing in person said, “Marin.”

My entire body betrayed me.

Just one stupid, tiny pause.

Then I turned.

Crew Donnelly stood inside my bakery with one suitcase, one hockey bag, and the nerve to look even better than his headshot.

Tall. Broad. Navy Brookfield hoodie. Serious eyes. Careful mouth. Calm posture.

The kind of calm that made a woman want to throw a muffin at him just to see if he could catch it.

He probably could.

Annoying.

Talia whispered, “Oh, he got worse.”

I did not look away from him. “You mean taller?”

“I mean legally troubling.”

Crew’s eyes flicked to her.

Then back to me.

“I came straight here from the airport.”

“Bold choice.”

“I needed to explain.”

“Did you also need to bring luggage into my bakery like a man seeking shelter from consequences?”

His mouth twitched.

The almost-smile.

I hated the almost-smile.

Full smiles were easier to fight. Almost-smiles had history.

He stepped closer.

I picked up the frosting knife again.

He stopped.

Smart man.

“Marin,” he said carefully, “I did not know Wilder was live.”

“That is not the apology you think it is.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Because from my side, your teammate just turned me into a romantic subplot without permission.”

His jaw tightened.

Good.

There he was.

Not Captain Calm.

Not Hometown Hero.

The real Crew, who hated when people made messes he could not cleanly fix.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

The sincerity landed too hard.

I hated that too.

Behind me, Talia whispered, “That was a good sorry.”

I pointed the frosting knife toward the office door. “Inventory.”

She lifted both hands. “Cowardly but correct.”

She disappeared through the swinging door.

Mostly.

I could still see one eye through the little round window.

Crew noticed too.

“She’s watching.”

“She has rights.”

“To spy?”

“To emotional support.”

His eyes dropped to the knife.

“Should I be worried?”

“Yes.”

“About stabbing?”

“About frosting.”

“That feels worse.”

“It can be.”

The corner of his mouth moved again.

I set the knife down because I did not trust myself.

Or him.

Or the dangerous amount of familiar standing three feet away from me in a bakery that smelled like sugar, butter, and emotional regression.

Crew looked around.

At the display case. The chalkboard menu. The row of red, white, and blue cupcakes I had stayed up too late designing. The donation jar beside the register that read HELP FIX THE VETERANS CENTER ROOF.

His gaze softened.

Too much.

Too fast.

“How’s business?” he asked.

“No.”

His eyes came back to mine. “No?”

“You do not get to walk in here with luggage and a viral incident and ask normal questions.”

“I was trying to be polite.”

“Try being less viral.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“It involved your face, your team, your hometown, your ex-girlfriend, and the phrase ‘win back the girl.’”

His mouth pressed flat. “I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Because I opened my bakery at six this morning and by six-thirty Mrs. Paxton had called to ask if we wanted the gazebo decorated for our ‘reunion moment.’”

Crew’s face changed.

Horror.

Excellent.

“Gazebo?”

“Yes.”

“There is no reunion moment.”

“I know that.”

“I mean—there is no official reunion moment.”

“Worse sentence.”

He dragged one hand over his jaw.

Bad.

Very bad.

Because his jaw had also gotten worse.

Talia’s eye disappeared from the office window, then reappeared with more interest.

I ignored her.

Mostly.

Crew took one more careful step forward. “I’ll fix it.”

The words hit old scar tissue.

Fast.

Sharp.

I laughed once.

No humor.

All memory.

“Oh, Crew,” I said. “That is exactly what you said before you left.”

He went still.

The bakery did too.

The mixer hummed somewhere in the back. The display cooler clicked. Outside, a truck rolled past the front window with a giant American flag rattling from the bed.

Crew’s expression tightened, not defensive.

Worse.

Hurt.

I did not want him hurt.

That irritated me most.

“You’re right,” he said quietly.

I blinked.

No.

Absolutely not.

He did not get to agree with me.

That was not the pattern.

The pattern was he tried to explain. I sliced him into manageable pieces. He retreated into noble silence. I pretended victory did not feel empty.

He was already ruining the choreography.

“I am?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“You admit that?”

“Yes.”

“Freely?”

His mouth almost moved. “Is there a form?”

“Do not be charming.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“That makes it worse.”

This time, the almost-smile escaped.

Just barely.

I wanted to hate it.

I did hate it.

I also wanted to put it in a box and shove it under a bed with all the other things I had not thrown away properly.

His phone buzzed.

Then mine.

Then his again.

We both looked.

I reached for my phone first.

Honeybrook Fourth Committee group text.

MRS. PAXTON:

Wonderful news! Because of the online excitement, we’re adjusting tomorrow’s veterans center promo. Crew and Marin, can you both be at the gazebo at 10?

I stared.

Another message appeared.

MRS. PAXTON:

Nothing fancy. Just a few photos. Everyone is so excited about your story!

Then:

MRS. PAXTON:

Also, please wear red, white, or blue.

Crew looked at me.

I looked at Crew.

“No,” I said.

His phone buzzed again.

He checked it.

His face changed.

“What?” I snapped.

He turned the screen toward me.

Spitfires group chat.

Of course.

At the top, the chat had been renamed:

CREW DONNELLY HOMETOWN EMOTIONAL SURVEILLANCE UNIT

I stared at it.

“No.”

“I didn’t name it.”

“You are associated with it.”

“That feels legally vague.”

“Emotionally precise.”

The latest messages were already stacked.

WILDER:

In my defense, I said “the girl,” not Marin specifically.

SUTTON:

That is not a defense.

FRANKIE:

I have already made a graphic.

COOPER:

Delete it.

HAYES:

Send it first.

BECK:

why are we like this.

JUNIE:

Because nobody on this team respects supervision unless it comes with snacks.

I looked up. “Junie is in this chat now?”

Crew sighed. “Long story.”

“Did she make it worse?”

“Probably better.”

“Your standards are alarming.”

Another message popped up.

WILDER:

Also technically Crew did go home.

SUTTON:

Wilder Knox, stop typing.

WILDER:

I am being silenced by love.

SUTTON:

You are being silenced by consequences.

Crew locked the phone.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Stop apologizing.”

“I thought you wanted an apology.”

“I wanted not to trend.”

“That’s fair.”

“Do not be reasonable.”

His eyes softened. “I’m trying to do this right.”

The words slipped under my ribs.

Uninvited.

Old Crew used to say things like that.

Not often.

Not loudly.

But when it mattered.

I used to believe him.

Then he left Honeybrook with a scholarship, a hockey bag, and a goodbye that sounded temporary right before it became three years of careful distance.

The bell over the bakery door jingled again.

We both turned.

Mrs. Paxton burst inside wearing an American flag visor, white capris, and the kind of smile that had destroyed stronger women than me.

She carried a stack of glossy flyers against her chest.

“Oh good!” she said. “You’re both here!”

“No,” I said.