Page 42 of Shoot Your Shot

“I can’t believe I fell asleep,” she says, widening her eyes. “I didn’t realize how tired I was until I woke up an hour later and realized I’d dozed off.”

“With Ted,” I utter, amused.

“With Ted,” she agrees, bobbing her head up and down a few times before taking out a big plate to pile the ham onto.

The air in the room grows thicker when she lifts her eyes to mine. There are a million thoughts running through that pretty head of hers, but I can’t decipher any of them.

“Paige,” I utter, swallowing thickly, “about what I said—”

“There’s, um … a fundraiser for Mr. Wells tomorrow night,” she quickly says. “Would you be up for going to it? Mom thought—well, we both thought it would mean a lot to Mr. Wells and the town if you came.”

That catches me off guard. I knew Mr. Wells had been diagnosed with a brain tumor, but I wasn’t expecting Paige to ask me to go back home with her. And certainly not her mom after the way I treated her daughter.

“I’m going to start attending practices—”

Her cheeks grow redder as she scoops the potatoes into a large bowl, avoiding eye contact as she says, “That’s okay. I know hockey must take priority right now. I figured it was a long shot. I just—well, Mom brought it up, and I thought I’d check. But it’s no big deal. Really.”

“Hey,” I say, smiling because I’ve always found it so fucking endearing when she rambles this way. She assumes she knows someone’s answer before they even get a chance to fully say it. “I didn’t say no. What I was going to say was that I am going to start taking part in practices next week, so for the rest of this week and this weekend, I’m free. And I’d love to go back home to show my support for Mr. Wells.”

Her eyes lift to mine, and she relaxes, flashing me a bashful smile. “Really?”

“Hell yeah,” I say, strumming my fingers on the counter. “When do you want to leave?”

“It’s tomorrow night—Friday. So, we should probably leave by midday tomorrow?”

“I’ll get my stuff packed,” I drawl. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yeah?” she says nonchalantly, going back to plating our dinner.

“At some point, you’ll have to stop avoiding the conversation you’re so afraid to have with me, you know.” I smirk, sitting back slightly. “Being back home … you’ll have nowhere to hide.”

She doesn’t answer, but her lips part, and her eyes widen a fraction. She can’t hide from this forever. I only have ten days. Ten days to show her that I am exactly the man she thought I was when she saidI do.

From the corner of my eye, I glance at my wife. She looks so cute today with her short blonde hair curled, making her look like the hottest wife alive. When she left me, her hair was halfway down her back. Now that it’s above her shoulders in a style I’m told is a bob … she looks better than ever.

She’s far too quiet on this ride. If this were a few years ago, she would have never shut up. I’ve always been a man of few words, but Paige? She could talk the fucking ears off of Dumbo sometimes. And even though I’m not a huge talker, I’ve always loved that she is. So, the cab of this truck being silent? I hate it.

But things are weird between us, and it’s like she’s keeping her wall up. And it’s fucking thick and tall, and it has spurs all over it.

When we’re stopped at a stoplight, I grab my phone and bring up the music app. It’s on Bluetooth, and right away, a song begins to play. Paige’s eyes peek at me, and the corner of her lips turns up as the light turns green and I press my foot on the gas pedal.

“Trying to force me to sing, are ya?” she murmurs as Hardy’s voice begins to sing “Jack.”

It goes against her beliefs to not sing along to a few music artists when they are on the radio. And Hardy is definitely one of them. Right along with Morgan Wallen, Warren Zeiders, LukeCombs, Bailey Zimmerman, and that handsome fucker, Riley Green. We met him once at a concert a few years ago, and I kind of wanted to punch him in the face just because Paige was blushing so hard.

I even thought about growing out a ’stache. But … that isn’t my thing.

Her head begins to bob. It’s subtle at first before going faster. I see her hand gently tapping her leg, and I grin, knowing my girl’s going to be singing soon.

She sings the rest of the song, and I listen, never joining in. She’s pretty far from the best musician, but I’d never tell her that.

When the song comes to an end, she takes a sip from her water and shrugs. “You know my weakness—that’s for sure.”

“Wait in the Truck”by Hardy, featuring Lainey Wilson, is next, and I know she’s about to basically pretend that she’s live onstage and sing at the top of her lungs. She’s always loved this song.

From behind the wheel, I keep taking small peeks at her, and when the chorus hits, she looks back at me, singing loudly. She wants me to join in, but she knows I don’t sing. So, instead, I just listen to her voice as she attempts to sound Southern.

Luckily, before she can ask me to join in, I see a Starbucks ahead, and I smile before turning in. She reaches forward, turning the music down with her eyes lit up.

---