Page 63 of Shoot Your Shot

Mom: Don’t downplay it, Kolt. It still means you’re on the right path to getting back out on the ice.

Me: Thanks.

I type the message and slide my phone into my pocket, knowing I’m not even supposed to be on it anyway.

I wish I had been watching all the weeks prior, but my doctor knew it would only cause me more stress to watch my team train and not be able to participate. Now that my heart is stronger, he must think it’s safe for me to get stressed the fuck out, being here. Because, to be honest, that’s exactly what this is doing.

Watching my team out there on the ice, running drills that I know I’m strong enough to run, sucks balls. And I know having me here is making a few of the guys who have stepped up in my absence nervous—because every time they fuck up, they glance over at me.

We have a game this coming weekend, but because my appointment isn’t until the following Monday, I won’t get to play. Even if my appointment were sooner, I don’t know if I’d have been cleared.

Physically, I feel fine. I’ve even been able to do more workouts and go on runs. But I’m continuing to be held back, and I fucking despise it. To be honest, if Paige wasn’t living with me, I probably wouldn’t be listening to the doctor. I’d likely be pushing myself to get better faster and wind up more hurt.

I’m working her in slowly, but she’s warmed up to me so much more than the first day I saw her at the hospital. And even though telling her the truth hurt her, I know she understands why I did what I did. As fucked up as it was, I did it all out of love.

Because, fucking hell, I love my wife so much. And it’s clear she still loves me, too, because if she didn’t, she wouldn’t have left her office for weeks to be with me while I got better. She went back there this morning to work half of the day while I was at the arena. Since it’s only an hour away from our house, she said she’s going to be traveling there all week now that I’m feeling better.

But my checkup is a week away. It’s a catch-22. Because, on one hand, I’m wishing time away until I’m told I’m ready to return to work. On the other hand, I’m scared as hell that once they give me a clean bill of health, she’s going to leave me.

There’s some sort of ballet tomorrow night at the theater downtown. I don’t give a shit about ballet, but Paige has mentioned before that she’d like to go, and I’ve never taken her. So, I got us tickets and even booked us a fancy dinnerbeforehand. I want her to stay more than anything. Even more than I want to get back out on the ice.

Hell, I want her to stay more than I want my next breath.

“I want you to help me come up with our plan for this weekend’s game. It’s against the Bruins, and without you on the ice, I’m worried Hardy and his team might give us a run for our money.”

For fucking sure,I think, but don’t say it.

Cam Hardy is a beast and has been an excellent leader in Boston for years. We have a solid lineup, but with one of us down, it changes the entire dynamic.

And I fucking hate more than anything that if we lose, it could partly be my fault for not being there. Especially when I feel like I could play.

“No doubt they will,” I say, keeping my eyes firmly on the ice. “I’m just pissed off that my appointment isn’t Friday. I’m telling you, Coach, I’m good. I feel good.”

He smacks his hand on my shoulder, forcing me to look over at him. When I do, I’m met with anare you for realexpression.

“Kolburne, you can’t be that fucking dense,” he mutters, looking at me like I’m an absolute dumbass. “Even if you did get cleared this week, you have to know it’s going to take a fucking minute for you to regain what you’ve lost.” He squeezes my shoulder. “How many times do I have to tell you, there is no rush back? We don’t need a half-assed-recovered Kolt Kolburne; we need the whole thing. So, while I’m praying like hell that you get cleared on Monday, I hope you know me well enough by now to know I’m not just going to throw you back in the game full force. Hell, you’ll be lucky if you get back on the ice at all this season.”

His words hit me like a ton of bricks. I realize I am one dumb fuck for thinking that the doctor telling me my heart was healed would instantly give me the green light to go back out on the ice. But, Jesus Christ, it’s been weeks. Fuckingweeks.

“Speak, Kolburne,” he barks. “Do you understand or not?”

“Yeah,” I huff out, my jaw tensing. “I get it. It just … fucking sucks dick. I feel good, Coach. I know I could fucking play.”

Pity flashes across his face, and he nods meekly. “I know. And that look in your eyes right now? That hunger? I’ve seen it before. I saw it in your very first season with us. But you’re this close, Kolt.” He holds his thumb and finger up, keeping them a mere inch apart. “This. Close. And then this will be behind you. Don’t fuck it up now by pushing yourself too far. Okay?”

“Yes, sir,” I utter honestly. “I won’t.”

Slapping me on the back, he jerks his chin toward the ice. “Help me get these clowns ready?”

“Beats sitting here,” I say, attempting to joke before following him onto the ice.

He’s right. I’m almost there. Just a little bit further to go. And hopefully, when it’s time to go back to work … my wife will be back in the stands again.

I want to get better to play the game. But more than that, I want my wife to tell me she’s staying.

After seeing a few of my patients this morning, I’m in the car and headed toward Portland. As good as it was to see everyone andbe back, things felt different there. Not as … home-like as they did a few weeks ago, before my life got turned upside down and I had to leave. While it was nice to see the place running smoothly despite my absence, it was glaringly obvious that I had built a team that didn’t necessarily need me there to keep going.

The drive home isn’t nearly as peaceful as I imagined it would be. My mind can’t relax, and I just keep thinking about everything that’s happened between Kolt and me since I returned to take care of him.

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