Page 81 of Pucks and Coffee

Dr. Kalahandi grins widely at me. “A nurse will be out to get you soon. They’re getting him settled, but I know you’ve been anxious, so I wanted to come reassure you.”

I squeeze his hand. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Absolutely,” he says with a wink. “See you soon.”

As he walks away, Elliot leans in and whispers, “Do you think he has time to examine between my legs?”

I look at my sister and then Clara. What in the hell am I going to do with these two? I shake my head as the tears stream down my face in rivers. Waves of relief hit me like five-hundred-pound bricks, and I finally feel like I can breathe again. And what do I do with that first real breath? I laugh. Hysterically and I probably sound like I belong in a loony bin, but everything is going to be just fine.

Because Coleson has me, and I have him.

I won’t accept anything else.

CHAPTER 43

Coleson

My head is pounding as I slowly blink open my eyes. I hear beeping and know instantly I’m in a hospital. Great, so it did happen. Why can’t I breathe? I look down and find why.

My wife is lying across my chest.

Her eyes are closed, her lashes kissing her cheeks. Her mouth is open, and drool leaks onto my chest. She has her hands tucked up under her chin, and I watch as her eyeballs move back and forth beneath her lids. When she twitches, her whole body making the motion, I can’t help but smile. This woman is the worst person to sleep with, but fuck if I don’t want to sleep with anyone but her. I’m not sure how she’s positioned herself up on the bed the way she has, but I don’t care.

She’s here. Just like I knew she would be.

I assess my surroundings, and while I knew I would be in a hospital, I was kind of hoping it was all a dream. I look down at my leg that is suspended in a sling thing over my bed. I have bandages everywhere and blood spots where rods are jutting from my skin. It’s the size of two legs, and my foot looks like a Hobbit foot. Man, my leg is super fucked, but thankfully, I don’t feel any pain from my leg, only my head. I check myself over for any other injuries, but I’m good.

I glance back down at where my wife is quietly sleeping, and love courses through my body. It’s odd that I just knew when I woke she’d be here—or at least, I feel it should be odd. How did I become so dependent on this beautiful woman who wiggled her way into my soul? I didn’t even want a wife when this began, but now, the thought of her not showing up for me, not holding me, not kissing her, and not laughing with her seems unfathomable.

But…

Should I let her go? I don’t know my diagnosis yet and I’m a bit out of it, but by the looks of my leg, I don’t think I’ll be hitting the ice for the next game. I shouldn’t ask a beautiful, incredible woman like my wife to be with a broken bastard. I still have the coffeehouse and I would be able to provide for her, but I can’t ask her to take on my bullshit. She’s already done it once, and it doesn’t look like I’ll be worth a damn for a bit. I know she’d help me and she’d be there for me, but how could I ask that of her? I haven’t told her I love her or even confessed I truly want to keep her. I could let her go.

I should let her go.

I move my fingers along her cheek, unable to keep from touching her. This might be the last time I run my fingers along her cheek and over her thick ponytail. She still wears my jersey, and I love how my number looks on her, even if it does remind me that I may never wear that number again. I memorize the jersey on her body, the way her hair feels in my fingers, before I move my hand up to her jaw, cupping her sweet, warm flesh in my palm. I trail my thumb along her bottom lip and revel in the juicy flesh. How I wish I could kiss her, but I don’t know if I can without throwing all caution to the wind and loving this woman for the rest of my existence.

A now-broken reformed manwhore.

Emotion clogs my throat when I consider how she’d get on to me for thinking that. She’d tell me there is nothing wrong with me and that we’ll get through this. That she’ll never leave my side.

My sunshiny wife.

I stroke my thumb along her lip, and she flinches a bit. I know I should stop, but before I can commit to the command my brain wants me to follow, her eyes flutter open. Those hazel depths widen, and then the biggest, most devastating grin comes over her face. She doesn’t move, nor do I—mostly because I can’t—and she knocks every bit of air out of me. My lips curve up as her hand comes to rest along mine. I know I should say something productive, but all I can think to say is, “Hey there, gorgeous wife.”

Her eyes are so bright, so full of love. “Hey there, handsome husband.”

My stomach clenches as my chest warms. She sits up and then leans toward me as her hands come to rest against my chest. “How are you feeling?”

I’m lost in her eyes. “My head hurts, and I feel a little weird.”

She smiles, that small one that does a number on my heart. “You’ve woken up a few times but haven’t made much sense, so it’s good to hear you speaking full sentences and actually looking at me.”

I cup her neck, rubbing my thumb along the pulsating vein. “How long have I been out?”

“With the surgery, over twenty-four hours.”

I grimace. “And you stayed the whole time?”

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