Page 12 of The Shots You Take

“Yeah,” he said, surprised she knew about that. “Last summer. Third time, though.”

“And you’re doing your physio?” She smiled. “Sorry, professional curiosity.”

“Are you a physiotherapist? I didn’t know.”

“She sure is,” Susan said proudly. “The best in Nova Scotia.”

Lindsay shook her head, still smiling. “Hardly. But I do specialize in joint pain, especially shoulder, elbow, and knee injuries.”

“Oh,” he said. Then, “I’m getting joint replacement surgery soon. I guess it’s a real mess in there at this point.”

Lindsay huffed and turned back to the sink. “I’m going to shut my mouth now because you don’t want to hear what I think about the way you hockey idiots never let anything heal properly.”

Adam smiled. “Sounds like I just heard it.”

“And you really don’t want to get me started on hockey players and their mental health. When Riley—” She stopped abruptly. “Anyway. Ignore me. I’m exhausted.”

“Riley?” he asked, because he couldn’t help it.

“Nothing,” Lindsay said, at the same time Susan said, “Where is Riley today, anyway?”

“The shop, I think,” Lindsay said.

Susan scoffed. “He doesn’t need to do that. We’re closed for the week. People here understand that.”

“I know. But he needed something to do.”

Susan sighed. “I should bring him some of this food. He’s barely been eating.”

“I could do that,” Adam said quickly, before he could talk himself out of it. “I could bring him his lunch.”

Both women stared at him. He scratched his wrist. “I’d like to talk to him. Y’know, see him. Before I go.”

“Well,” Susan said, as she shared a glance with Lindsay, “that would be nice of you. Do you eat ham?”

Chapter Six

Riley had made a mess of Tuck’s Sporting Goods. What had started as a minor decision to swap the placement of the hockey tape shelf unit and the batting glove rack had turned into a full teardown of nearly every display in the shop. Riley was now standing in the middle, bewildered by how things had gotten to this point.

“Should’ve left those gloves where they were,” he muttered.

Lucky was staring at him with an expression that seemed exasperated.

“Yeah, I know,” Riley sighed. “We’re gonna be here awhile.”

He wanted to crumple to the floor and cry, but he resisted. He needed to put the store back together, one piece at a time. He was halfway through restocking the hockey stick rack when the door chime, and Lucky, announced a visitor.

He had his apologetic but firm explanation that the shop was closed today ready to go, but then he saw Adam coming through the door. Just like yesterday, Riley’s stupid heart bounced.

“We’re closed,” he said, just to be a dick.

“I can see why.”

And, yes. God. Now that another person was here, Rileycould see exactly how chaotic the store looked. How chaotichelooked. Why did it have to be Adam? “Just rearranging some things.”

“I can help.”

“No thanks.” Riley turned his back to him and began fussing with the hockey sticks that he’d already placed in the rack. Just hearing Adam’s voice again—deep and slightly soft, but always steady—was making Riley’s stomach ache. There was a reason Adam had been named captain of the Toronto Northmen at only twenty-four; he had thatthing, that easy competence that made people respect and admire him. He seemed like someone who always knew what to do, what to say. Like someone who never made mistakes or bad decisions.

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