Sure Thing

BRITTANY

Who the hell did that bitch think she was?

Telling me—*me*—to book a hotel room like I was some random hookup crashing a family barbecue.

I climbed the stairs to Chase’s room with the same deliberate calm I used before a big shoot. Heart hammering, sure, but face composed. He’d never been able to say no to me when I was already naked on his bed. Never.

I unzipped the sundress as I walked. Let it fall open to the waist. Hair loose over one shoulder. The whole production—calculated, practiced, guaranteed.

I lay back on his comforter, legs crossed at the ankle, waiting.

The door opened.

Chase froze in the doorway—still in those gray shorts, hair slightly disheveled from running his hands through it downstairs—and looked at me the way he used to look at a bad call from a ref. Like he’d seen it coming and was already tired of being right.

“Jesus, Brittany.”

“I know.”

“No. I mean—” He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. Didn’t come closer. Leaned against it instead. “This is embarrassing. For both of us.”

That landed harder than I expected.

I sat up slowly. Pulled the dress back up over my shoulders. Zipped it halfway.

“Embarrassing,” I repeated.

“You’re better than this.” He crossed his arms. “We’re better than this. You drove three hours to crawl into my bed because you broke up with Jack. That’s what this is.”

“That’s not—”

“Brittany.” His voice wasn’t cruel. That was the worst part. “I know you. Better than Jack did. Probably better than anyone. And I know this is what you do when you’re hurting. You go somewhere familiar.”

I hated that I couldn’t argue.

He walked over—not to the bed. To the desk chair. Sat. Looked at me across six feet of charged, stupid air.

“What happened with Jack?” he asked.

I pulled my knees up. Looked at my hands. “He said I was in love with you.”

Chase went very still.

“Was he wrong?” I asked, because I had to ask it.

He took a long breath. Let it out slow.

“I think,” he said carefully, “that you’re in love with the version of us that existed when we were eighteen and everything felt like it was just beginning. I get that. I was in love with that too.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m different.” He paused. “And I think you are too. And I don’t think what you’re looking for is actually me.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I think you came here because you’re scared. And scared-Brittany defaults to Chase because Chase has always been a guaranteed response.”

My throat tightened. “You make that sound clinical.”

“It’s not. I swear it’s not.” He met my eyes. “You were important to me. You still are. But not like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like a sure thing.” He shook his head. “You deserve someone who is a sure thing. Someone who surprises you. I'm not that.”

I looked at him for a long moment.

Then, quietly: “Do you want to fuck Sloane?”

“What!” He shot up from the chair. “HELL NO! HELL FUCKING NO! WHY WOULD YOU EVEN THINK THAT!”

“What else would I think when you’re rejecting me?” I exhaled—something between a laugh and a sigh. “Yes, we’re not eighteen anymore. We’re twenty. We sacrificed our relationship for our careers once. We can figure it out again.”

“Career comes first,” he said. Flat.

“But people still make long distance work. Or we could just… take a break. Wait until you’re settled in the NHL. I’d wait.”

“Chase, c’mon,” I said softly.

He looked at me—really looked.

Then: “I’m interested in someone else.”

The words hit like ice water.

“Your college coursemate?” I asked. “Or who exactly. Just tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

“I need you to leave my room.”

“Chase, distance would work this time. Or just a break—”

“Leave.” Cold. Final. “Don’t make me call my stepsister for you. You’ve seen how she is.”

“What the fuck!” I stood. Zipped the dress the rest of the way. Found my shoes. “You must be fucking kidding me.”

I left.

And this time… fuck.

I know I can never get over him.

But I have to try.

The hallway felt longer going out than coming in.

I didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

The door clicked shut behind me with the same quiet finality he’d used to say my name once like it meant something.

Now it just meant goodbye.

I walked downstairs.

Past the kitchen where the sushi boxes still sat half-open.

Past Victoria and Richard talking quietly about wedding flowers.

Past the living room where Sloane sat on the couch with her laptop, pretending to type.

She didn’t look up.

I didn’t say anything.

I just kept walking.

Out the front door.

Into the heat.

Into whatever came next.

Because whatever came next… it wasn’t going to be Chase Hartley.

Not anymore.