Page 59 of Taking The Shot

Constance bit her lip, barely containing her laughter. “Looks likethat’swhere the last litter box goes… and I’ll get something to clean that up.”

14

BOUCHER

A week later,Keith trudged through the door after an away game, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. Every muscle ached, the sting of blocked shots and hard hits still lingering, but the worst pain of all was the empty space in the stands. He missed them—missed seeing their faces light up when he skated onto the ice, missed the way Constance would cheer a little too loudly, and the girls would bounce excitedly in their seats.

Instead, he had to settle for a picture—a frozen moment in time sent from Constance’s phone. The girls stood in front of the television, tiny arms thrown high in triumph, and on the screen behind them, he could see himself mid-shot, seconds before the puck sailed past the goalie. It should have made him feel connected to them, but it only made the distance feel wider.

Then came the texts.

Bloody his freakin’ nose!

How dare they put you in the box for ten—seriously?

That ref needs glasses…

Gosh, you look sexy in your uniform…

HAHAHAHAHA—I saw what you mouthed on the screen even if they didn’t play the audio. I had no idea you said words like that. You must have been mad.

Okay. You look really hot in your uniform.

Oh my gosh… drop dead sexy.

COME HOME.

I miss you.

I’ll be waiting in the bedroom…

Keith couldn’t help but grin, his exhaustion easing just enough to make his steps lighter.As he quietly opened the garage door, he was met with the soft trill of one of the kittens—a sleepy greeting that was quickly followed by the thunder of tiny paws racing across the hallway toward their scratching pads.

Every night, they did this, unable to contain their excitement, and it was strangely comforting. The girls adored them, doting on them in ways that surprised him. They took care of feeding and water duty without a single reminder.

Litter duty, however, was still his job.

He set his bag down carefully, rolling his shoulders as he stepped further into the house, moving through the quiet darkness—until a voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Welcome home…"

The words, spoken in a hushed, sleepy tone, sent warmth spiraling through his chest. A light flicked on down the hall, casting a soft glow around the silhouette leaning against their bedroom doorway.

Constance stood there, arms folded across her chest, his Wolverine's T-shirt hanging loose over her frame, the bold ‘01’ stretched across her torso. She was watching him, and despite the late hour, her eyes were bright, full of something deep and quiet andhis.

"How are you feeling?" she asked tenderly, and he knew why. After a game he usually had a few bruises that were terrible looking. Last time, he ended up with a massive green, pink, purplish mark on his side where a puck hit him and she’d flipped out because she didn’t realize how hard it was on the body sometimes.

"Better now." His voice came out rough, tired, but honest. He let his gaze rake over her, drinking in the sight of her waiting there for him. "What are you doing up? It’s nearly midnight, honey."

"I missed you."

Keith exhaled softly, feeling the last remnants of weariness fade beneath the warmth of her presence. "I got your text messages."

"And here I am—in the bedroom," Constance chuckled, shifting slightly to the side in silent invitation.

Keith took a step forward, then stopped suddenly, something pulling at the edges of his memory.

"Hang on."

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