Page 24 of Shoot Your Shot

Naked.

I start the dishwasher and give the counter one last wipe. After breakfast, Kolt kept trying to help clean the damn kitchen even though I told him absolutely not. He’s supposed to be recovering, not being Suzy freaking Homemaker.

He keeps saying he’s fine and that he feels good. But I know he’s exhausted and not feeling like himself because I know him. I know him better than he knows himself and his boundaries.

Everything in this house is how I left it. Nothing has changed or been moved. I don’t know what I was expecting when I came here, but it wasn’t that. I’d really thought he’d make it more his style and his home. Instead, he’s kept it the same.

Walking toward the living room, I find him in his recliner, watchingSportsCenter. His eyes are narrowed, and he’s clearly pissed.

“The future of the Bay Sharks this season is really going to depend on defenseman Kolt Kolburne’s recovery,” the reporter says to his colleague, and both nod slowly. “Kolburne is a huge asset to the team. The man won the Hobey Baker Award his rookie season, and he’s a very well-rounded player. You can’t help but think that Coach Jacobs must be concerned about how everything is going to play out at this point.”

“Oh, for sure, Ryan,” the other announcer agrees. “There’s been talk that he could be out for the entire—”

Before the dumbass can finish his sentence, I snatch the remote from the arm of the recliner and hit the power button. Kolt doesn’t look surprised by my action, but more frustrated.

“Don’t listen to them. It’s their job to spin an interesting story. You know this,” I assure him, standing in front of him. “That’s what they get paid for.”

Here I am, trying to make him feel better, when, deep down, I’m terrified of him going back at all this season. He almost died. What if he takes another hit to his chest?

I feel nauseous, just thinking about it. Kolt isn’t afraid of anything, and that’s terrifying. I can’t tell him how I really feel because, right now, things are too weird between us. I’m here, but we aren’t really together.

“Yeah, well, they’re right. It’s hard to say what my season is going to look like,” he grumbles, not looking at me. “Or if the Sharks even want a dude on their roster who had a fuckingheart attackat age twenty-eight.”

I open my mouth to say something that will make him feel better, but the truth is, I don’t have the right words. Given the nature of his injury, this is new territory for me and extremely uncommon—not just for me, but for everyone in sports. A heartattack from a direct hit has happened, but it’s not the norm. And the last thing I’d ever want to do as a physical therapist is give a patient false hope. He might not be my patient, but I’m going to treat him like he is.

“I have to go get a grocery order. And go to Walgreens for some—” I stop, not wanting to tell him I need tampons, before jerking my thumb toward the door. “Go get your shoes on.”

“You know, I’m not a child. I can stay home alone,” he grouches like a ninety-year-old man who was just told he couldn’t have pudding at the nursing home.

“Then, don’t act like one,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “Shoes. Now.”

He rolls his eyes like a toddler, but eventually, when I continue to stare at him with my arms folded over my chest, he pushes himself to stand and walks to the door, where his shoes are.

This is going to be a long few weeks.

“The app won’t let me check in,” I grumble. “Looks like I’m going to have to call.”

As I look at the phone number right below the parking-spot number on the sign, I pull my phone out and dial it. Within seconds, a woman answers.

“Hi. Yes, I’m in spot three, picking up an order for Paige Hendrix,” I say into the phone, feeling Kolt’s eyes on me when I use my maiden name.

Right away, I know I made a mistake because I’d never changed my name in the grocery store’s app, so I wait for the woman to tell me they don’t have an order for a Paige Hendrix, and then I’ll have to look at Kolt’s smug grin.

“Hmm … I don’t have anything under that name. Could it be listed under someone else?” the woman says on the other end.

Pressing the back of my head against my seat, I sigh. “Kolburne,” I barely mutter. “Paige Kolburne.”

I don’t need to look at Kolt to visualize the amused smirk spread across his lips as the lady confirms my order and tells me someone will be right out.

“Okay, thanks,” I say, ending the call.

I finally look at my passenger. “Stop staring at me. It’s creepy.”

The corner of his lip is turned up as he relaxes back. “You can run from that last name, baby girl. But you can’t hide,” he drawls. “Paige Kolburne always sounded better to me anyway.”

“Stoooop,” I say through gritted teeth. “Stop. Just … fucking … stop.”

“Why?” He cocks his head to the side. “Afraid to admit that you and I have unfinished business?”

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