Chapter 8

A yawn 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.

I want this house to feel the way it did before she left.

And I want our room to go back to being just that.

Our room.

But if I’m going to keep her—or at least give her the option to stay—she needs to know the truth. The truth being that I might not ever be able to give her a family. Not naturally anyway. And if she wants to leave after knowing that, I won’t try to stop her. But I’m not ready for that conversation yet. I’m not sure my heart can even handle it.

I need to let her know she can trust me again, and that’s going to take time. Time that I don’t really even have right now.

I hear the door creak open, and she walks out of the guest bedroom, rubbing her eyes.

I’ve always loved her this way—when she’s just waking up. She’s always grumpy when she first gets out of bed, but, fuck, she’s adorable with her hair in every direction and no makeup on.

“How are you feeling?” she says sleepily. She heads straight for the coffee machine that she picked out when we first moved in. “I’ll cook you something so that you can take your medication.”

“I feel good,” I answer, and it isn’t a lie. I feel decent, but I’m tired as hell.

The doctor told me that it would take weeks to get my strength back and to finally feel like me again, and I fucking hate feeling like I’m eighty years old.

As she begins making the coffee, she gives me a pointed look. “Kolt, it’s me. You can’t blow smoke up my ass. I know you too well.”

Just at the mention of putting anything up her ass, my cock twitches. It’s been so fucking long since I’ve buried myself inside of her pussy. And her ass? I miss that too. Hell, I’ve woken up jerking my dick with my seed spilling on my fingers. Since she’s been gone, I’ve fantasized about her more times than I could ever count.

“I’m fine,” I grumble before watching her ass sway around the kitchen as she takes out some eggs and vegetables from the refrigerator.

When she turns toward me, I can tell right away that she has something on her mind. Her eyebrows are pinched together, and she’s gnawing on her bottom lip like it’s her last meal.

“Why are your clothes in the guest bedroom?” she blurts out, and her cheeks instantly grow red. She exhales slowly, leaning over the counter to look across the kitchen at me as I stay perched at the table. “Last night, I was putting away some of my stuff that I’d gotten from your bedroom, and I saw all of your stuff in the guest room.” She swallows. “I just … don’t get it.”

For a moment, my gaze simply holds hers. I fucking hate feelings. I hate talking about them, and I certainly don’t like dealing with them too much either. But I can’t lie to this woman. She knows me better than anyone else in the entire world.

“Because I can’t stay in our bedroom, Paige—that’s why.” I sit back in my seat, dragging a hand down the back of my neck. “If you weren’t in there with me, I sure as hell didn’t want to sleep there. Not in our bed.”

Her face pales as she sucks in a breath, making a small squeaking noise from the force.

“Oh,” she whispers, her face sinking as she looks at the countertop in front of her before squeezing her eyes shut. “I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“Yeah, well,” I utter, “it’s the truth.”

The silence in the room is suffocating, and for a few minutes, she just stands there with her eyes closed. Finally, she drags in a deep breath and stands up straighter.

“Where did you sleep last night then?” she asks, her eyes glossy with tears.

More than anything, I wish I could get up, walk across the kitchen, and pull her to my chest. It’s a natural instinct when it comes to her. I might not be the compassionate, touchy-feely type with other people. But with Paige Hendrix? All I’ve ever wanted to do is make her smile.

“In the recliner,” I say, shrugging when her face falls. “It wasn’t too bad.”

I’m lying; it was fucking terrible. But even as bad as it was, it beat the hell out of being in the hospital, listening to the five thousand machines beeping all goddamn night.

“Kolt,” she whispers, her lip trembling, “you’re the one who is recovering from a freaking heart attack .” She widens her eyes. “I should have been the one to sleep in the recliner, not you.” She points at me. “Tonight, I’ll sleep on the couch. You can have your bed back.”

It’s ironic that we have an expensive-as-fuck bed in our bedroom with the softest sheets you can imagine, and yet we’re both avoiding the room like the plague.

“No.” I shake my head. “You’re still technically my wife. And my wife isn’t sleeping on a couch. Besides, we have three other empty rooms. I’ll have a bed delivered to one of them.”

She opens her pouty little mouth to argue, but she must know it’s a losing battle because she quickly snaps it shut and turns away from me. I watch her shoulders move gently as she inhales and exhales a few times before, finally, she takes out a frying pan and starts cracking the eggs.

For now, I’m going to sleep in the living room. But by the time I get better, maybe we’ll both be in our bed.

Naked.

I start the dishwasher and give the counter one last wipe. After breakfast, Kolt kept trying to help clean the damn kitchen even though I told him absolutely not. He’s supposed to be recovering, not being Suzy freaking Homemaker.

He keeps saying he’s fine and that he feels good. But I know he’s exhausted and not feeling like himself because I know him. I know him better than he knows himself and his boundaries.

Everything in this house is how I left it. Nothing has changed or been moved. I don’t know what I was expecting when I came here, but it wasn’t that. I’d really thought he’d make it more his style and his home. Instead, he’s kept it the same.

Walking toward the living room, I find him in his recliner, watching SportsCenter . His eyes are narrowed, and he’s clearly pissed.

“The future of the Bay Sharks this season is really going to depend on defenseman Kolt Kolburne’s recovery,” the reporter says to his colleague, and both nod slowly. “Kolburne is a huge asset to the team. The man won the Hobey Baker Award his rookie season, and he’s a very well-rounded player. You can’t help but think that Coach Jacobs must be concerned about how everything is going to play out at this point.”

“Oh, for sure, Ryan,” the other announcer agrees. “There’s been talk that he could be out for the entire—”

Before the dumbass can finish his sentence, I snatch the remote from the arm of the recliner and hit the power button. Kolt doesn’t look surprised by my action, but more frustrated.

“Don’t listen to them. It’s their job to spin an interesting story. You know this,” I assure him, standing in front of him. “That’s what they get paid for.”

Here I am, trying to make him feel better, when, deep down, I’m terrified of him going back at all this season. He almost died. What if he takes another hit to his chest?

I feel nauseous, just thinking about it. Kolt isn’t afraid of anything, and that’s terrifying. I can’t tell him how I really feel because, right now, things are too weird between us. I’m here, but we aren’t really together.

“Yeah, well, they’re right. It’s hard to say what my season is going to look like,” he grumbles, not looking at me. “Or if the Sharks even want a dude on their roster who had a fucking heart attack at age twenty-eight.”

I open my mouth to say something that will make him feel better, but the truth is, I don’t have the right words. Given the nature of his injury, this is new territory for me and extremely uncommon—not just for me, but for everyone in sports. A heart attack from a direct hit has happened, but it’s not the norm. And the last thing I’d ever want to do as a physical therapist is give a patient false hope. He might not be my patient, but I’m going to treat him like he is.

“I have to go get a grocery order. And go to Walgreens for some—” I stop, not wanting to tell him I need tampons, before jerking my thumb toward the door. “Go get your shoes on.”

“You know, I’m not a child. I can stay home alone,” he grouches like a ninety-year-old man who was just told he couldn’t have pudding at the nursing home.

“Then, don’t act like one,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “Shoes. Now.”

He rolls his eyes like a toddler, but eventually, when I continue to stare at him with my arms folded over my chest, he pushes himself to stand and walks to the door, where his shoes are.

This is going to be a long few weeks.

“The app won’t let me check in,” I grumble. “Looks like I’m going to have to call.”

As I look at the phone number right below the parking-spot number on the sign, I pull my phone out and dial it. Within seconds, a woman answers.

“Hi. Yes, I’m in spot three, picking up an order for Paige Hendrix,” I say into the phone, feeling Kolt’s eyes on me when I use my maiden name.

Right away, I know I made a mistake because I’d never changed my name in the grocery store’s app, so I wait for the woman to tell me they don’t have an order for a Paige Hendrix, and then I’ll have to look at Kolt’s smug grin.

“Hmm … I don’t have anything under that name. Could it be listed under someone else?” the woman says on the other end.

Pressing the back of my head against my seat, I sigh. “Kolburne,” I barely mutter. “Paige Kolburne.”

I don’t need to look at Kolt to visualize the amused smirk spread across his lips as the lady confirms my order and tells me someone will be right out.

“Okay, thanks,” I say, ending the call.

I finally look at my passenger. “Stop staring at me. It’s creepy.”

The corner of his lip is turned up as he relaxes back. “You can run from that last name, baby girl. But you can’t hide,” he drawls. “Paige Kolburne always sounded better to me anyway.”

“Stoooop,” I say through gritted teeth. “Stop. Just … fucking … stop.”

“Why?” He cocks his head to the side. “Afraid to admit that you and I have unfinished business?”

I snap my gaze straight ahead, my jaw tensing. “The only unfinished business you and I have, Kolt, is a paper you need to sign.” Looking back at him, I cast a glare. “That’s it. ”

At first, he looks pissed. And then intrigued. He puts his seat back a little further and shrugs. “We’ll just see about that, won’t we?”

“I guess we will. And it’ll end with two things happening. You getting cleared from your doctor to live alone and you signing a paper so we can both get on with our lives.”

His eyes narrow as I catch the store associate approaching my car. Quickly, I push the door open to help them unload the groceries into my trunk.

And I thank God that they saved me from wherever that conversation was going.