Page 12 of Shoot Your Shot

I’m the brother who would get into a fight at an event if someone said something inappropriate to Paige. Klay is the brother who would walk away when someone tried to rattle him, letting it roll right off his shoulders.

The puck goes into play, snapping my ass back to the present. We’re only up by one with a minute left on the clock. A minute might be short in everyday life, but on the ice, it’s for-fucking-ever. And I’ve seen too many games get tied up in those last fifty-nine seconds.

When our opponent gets possession of the puck, I skate toward it, ready to stop the other team from taking it any further, just like I’ve been doing all night. I have a job to do, and right now in my life, this job is the only thing I have going for me. The one thing I can’t fuck up.

But as I get close enough, a flash of a yellow jersey comes toward me so quickly that I don’t even have time to think until I’m smashed against the plexiglass.

His elbow drives into my chest, and the impact of it is so fucking intense that it practically renders my chest protector useless as my stick flies from my hand. I know instantly that if I didn’t have it on, I’d be a fucking goner. Even as he moves away from me, the pain doesn’t stop. In fact, it gets worse. Abruptly, I feel really fucking lightheaded.

I can’t yell for help or even signal to someone that I’m in trouble. All I can do is grab my chest. I claw at it with my gloves, as if, somehow, that might stop the pain.

But my efforts are useless. My head grows fuzzier, and then, suddenly, everything around me goes dark.

As I pop a few pieces of candy corn into my mouth and start chewing, my phone rings. I frown at the number but know I’d better pick it up because it likely has to do with work.

“Hello?” I answer, positive it’s an emergency call about a patient.

“Is this Paige Kolburne?” the caller asks.

When the man on the other end refers to me as Paige Kolburne, I know this call has nothing to do with one of my patients. I might legally be Paige Kolburne, but since the separation, I’ve resorted back to Paige Hendrix in my day-to-day life.

“This is she,” I say.

When he speaks again, my stomach churns, and my heart sinks.

“I’m calling from Casco Bay General Hospital in Portland, Maine. I’m contacting you in regard to Kolt Kolburne. We have you listed as his wife and emergency contact.” There’s a short pause. “Is that correct?”

“Yes,” I blurt out, unsure of why I’d still be listed as his emergency contact, but I’m not going to tell him that. “Is he all right?”

“Mrs. Kolburne, I’m sorry to tell you this over the phone. Mr. Kolburne was injured in his game today and appears to have experienced a heart attack.”

“Are you serious?” I choke out. “A heart attack? He had a heart attack? Oh my God. But … he’s going to be okay, right?” I cry, tears filling my eyes. “He’s young. He’s healthy.”

Another pause, which only makes me more anxious.

“Because of the type of injury sustained, it’s really difficult to know for sure. But your husband has the best doctors working on him—I promise you that.”

As the man gives me the rest of the details of Kolt’s injury and his current condition, I feel like I might throw up. But I have no time for that. I need to get my shoes and sweatshirt on and race to the hospital. It’ll take me at least an hour to get there, and then I’ll need to find parking.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I say quickly. “I live about an hour away.”

“Okay, Mrs. Kolburne. Drive safe. He’s in good hands,” the man says before ending the call.

Tucking my phone into my back pocket, I pull my sneakers on and grab a hoodie. I’m not prepared to see Kolt lying in a hospital bed. Right now, he’s in intensive care. He hasn’t woken up yet. Apparently, he took a hard hit on the ice that gave him a literal heart attack.

The thought alone makes my lip tremble and my chest ache. My body shakes, but I force myself to get out the door. I’m not sure why I’m Kolt’s emergency contact, but the fact is, I am. So, dammit, I’m going to be there for him. Especially since I know what it’s like to wake up in a hospital room without him being there. I don’t want him to experience that, the way I did a few months ago.

A part of me hates this man. But a bigger part is still stupidly in love with him. And that’s going to make seeing him hurt harder.

It doesn’t matter what happened between us because since we were seventeen years old, we’ve had each other’s back. In the past year and a half, maybe we lost sight of that, but right now, it’s crystal clear—I need to be there for my husband. The rest doesn’t matter.

At least not until he wakes up.

I look down at Kolt’s body, and I feel sick. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this isn’t it. There are so many machines hooked up to him, and his body is lifeless, aside from the steady rise of his chest. His handsome face looks pained, even as he sleeps. And I long to reach out and cup his stubbly cheek, but I refrain.

As a hockey player, he’s always been bulkier and more muscled than most. But that’s what makes him so important to the team—because he’s such a damn bull. Not to mention, his tattooed-covered body is so not the norm for most hockey players. The funny part is, he was only seventeen when we met, so he didn’t have any of them yet. But when he turned eighteen, he got obsessed with them. I’ve watched him get countless tattoos over the years, but as I let my eyes rake over his arms … I see some new ones too.

My breath catches in my throat when I spot one on his arm that looks like me.

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