Page 22 of Shoot Your Shot

When I left, I only took one large suitcase because I wanted to get out of this house without giving him the chance to talk me into staying, like all the times before. I always assumed my clothes had gotten burned in a pile.

Or given to women he’d let stay the night to wear home the next day.

I do my best to hide my surprise and bob my head. Literally every single thing I left behind is the same—besides him.

Kolt is harder now. The sparkle in his eyes is … gone.

“Okay, great.” I wring my fingers and shift on my feet timidly. “Is the guest bedroom all set?”

“That depends. Do you want the guest bedroom? Or would you rather stay in our bedroom?”

Our bedroom.Two words. Both simple. Not heavy. And yet they send my heart straight into my throat.

“Um, I don’t—” I stutter, growing annoyed that even after all this time, he has this effect on me. And I’m even more pissed that he assumes I’d land in his bed because he said so. “I don’t think that’s what we need to be doing, Kolt,” I snap. “We don’t need to be sharing a bed.”

When my eyes lift to his face, I take in his growing smirk. The asshole is clearly amused as he grins at me, his eyes glimmering with pure delight.

“Simmer down, princess. I meant, I’d sleep in the guest room, and you’d sleep in our bed.” He cocks his head to the side.“Though I gotta say, your mind seems to be in the gutter. So, if you feel like snuggling tonight, I won’t bite.” His eyes darken. “Not too hard anyway.”

“Kolt,” I hiss, “that is so inappropriate! And if this is going to work—me taking care of you—you need to not say shit like that. Otherwise, I’ll let your mom fly out and bring influenza with her.”

He frowns, and a wrinkle forms in his forehead. “No. Don’t do that.” He pats a hand to his chest. “Wouldn’t be good for my ticker, you know.”

“Wasn’t sure you even still had one until I got the phone call,” I sass before exhaling. “Sorry. Sorry. Now is not the time for me to say how I feel. Anyway, I’m going to go get settled. In theguestbedroom. And then I’ll figure out what we’re doing for dinner because you have some meds you need to take with food.”

As I start toward the guest bedroom—a room that we had made up for when friends or family would visit us—he catches my hand in his, sending a shock wave through my entire body.

“I meant what I said. If you’ll be more comfortable in our room—”

“Stop,” I whisper angrily, pulling my hand back. “No, Kolt. I don’t want to sleep in a bed that I once shared with my husband.” Tears threaten to cloud my eyes, but I keep it together. “Leave me be, okay? I want to do this. I want to be here to help you get better. But you’re not making it easy. In fact, you’re making it harder.”

“Making what harder?” he rasps.

“Me being here.” I wave a hand around the house. “Being back in the place that always made me happiest.” I step around him and beeline it for the guest room.

Because I can’t stop the tears from flowing now, and if he sees me cry, he’ll likely try to hold me and make it better. And it’s not about me or even us right now; it’s just about him getting better.

Besides, I can’t let him near me. One touch—that’s all it would take for my entire world to come crashing down. I can’t do that. I need to make sure he gets better … and then I’m gone.

And this time, I’ll be leaving with signed divorce papers in my hand.

Ayawn slips from my lips as I sit at the table in yesterday’s clothes, trying to pretend like everything is fine.

It’s not fine though. It’s the furthest thing from it because absolutely nothing is normal. Or good even. I can’t do the one thing I was made for—hockey. My wife is here, but I can tell she’d rather be anywhere else, and everything in my life is so fucked up.

Last night, I slept in the fucking recliner. And not because of this shit going on with my heart physically, but because Paige had taken the guest room. Which was the same place I’d been sleeping for a year and a half.

The night she’d left, I’d walked into our room, and it felt so cold in there. Every inch of it held memories of us. There wasn’t a square foot in that bedroom that I hadn’t fucked her against. I’d grabbed my shit and moved it to the guest bedroom, and I haven’t been in there since.

After Paige ran into the guest bedroom last night, it took her almost an hour to come into the kitchen, where I was. She raided my refrigerator and whipped together some sort of heart-healthy soup, and we each sat on a barstool in the kitchen, eating in complete deafening silence.

We exchanged a few words, but it was awkward, and a big part of me wanted to just tell her to leave because I never wanted to be the guy who made her feel uncomfortable.

Yet here I am.

Then, there’s the selfish side of me. The one that can’t mentally deal with my mother coming to stay while I recover and instead wants my wife here.

I want my wife to stay and never leave.

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