Chapter 13

13

Banks

Forgot to tell you the alarm code.

Peaches

For the house?

Banks

Going to call you. Pick up.

The phone rang four times before she answered.

“Hello?”

“Three-two-three-nine.”

“That’s it? Why didn’t you just text it?”

Sighing, he leaned back against the headboard in his Dallas hotel room and adjusted the ice pack on his shoulder. “Because I don’t want it written down. You need to memorize it.”

“Okay, three-three-three-nine.”

“Three- two -three-nine. It’s Gretzky’s point total.”

“Who?”

Give me strength. “Wayne Gretkzy, the Great One? The GOAT?”

“A goat?”

“Greatest of All Time. The GOAT. He’s a hockey player.”

“Oh, good for him. Let me grab a pen.”

“Don’t write it down. If you forget, you can just look up ‘Wayne Gretzky points total’.”

“Hmm. So if I’ve inputted the wrong digits, I shouldn’t panic while the alarm counts down my failure but should instead take the time to do a Google search for Gray Wetzky’s hockey stats. Gotcha.”

He growled.

She laughed, and zing , there it was. The ice had started working its magic, but with the debut of that sexy laugh, he’d need another cold pack for his dick.

“Repeat the number back to me.”

“I’ll look it up later. How’s your trip? How’s Dex?”

Why the fuck was she asking about him? “We have a game tomorrow night and O’Malley’s acting like we’ve already won the Cup.”

“I heard from Tara that he got off with a plea deal and made up with Ashley. He must be so happy.”

Yeah, insufferably so. He’d also latched onto Banks at a time when Banks did not need the trouble. His shoulder still hurt, and it was easier to hide his pain when he didn’t have to talk to anyone or do more than grunt during a conversation. It was bad enough he was rooming with chatty Tate Kazminksi, one of the Rebels D-men. A total gossip hound, he had a million questions about Georgia, all of which were met with Banks’s brand of chat-withering silence.

Now he was alone, having cried off going out with the guys because he needed to rest up and focus ahead of the game tomorrow. He also had some financial stuff to do, analyzing the last quarter returns for his brokerage accounts. Better he do it instead of handing it off to some finance bro who would get an easy commission for following Banks’s very specific instructions.

“As long as O’Malley’s good mood transfers to the ice, then he can be as happy as he wants.”

“Aw, what a friend you are!”

Sarcasm noted. “The guy fucked up, then got a woman to make it all better by saying kind things about him to a judge.”

“Someone sounds jealous.”

“Nope. Just continually amazed at how some guys work the system.”

“By ‘work the system,’ do you mean, ‘fall in love’?” She chuckled. “Quit being so grumpy and let him have his moment.”

So he was a cantankerous old coot. O’Malley’s trajectory was on the up: playing well, finding love, getting away with murder. Banks might be a touch envious at how the kid’s life was shaping up when his own was in the toilet.

“He keeps talking to me. Asking for advice about how to manage his energy levels in the business end of the season.”

Sleep, kale smoothies, and more sleep.

Georgia cooed. “He looks up to you! You have all this experience, so of course he’s going to come to you. You’ve been at this game forever.”

Yep. Banks the Dinosaur, heading for extinction.

He was tempted to ask her what she was up to, maybe what she was wearing. This marriage gig should have some perks. But the other night, she’d walked out of the kitchen when he told her that they’d connected in Vegas. That their marriage had to have some foundation. She had assured him it was a mistake and drawn her line in the sand.

Guess that answered that. They would be all business from here on out.

“So what’s the code?”

She made an exasperated sound. “Good night, Banks.”

Good night, Peaches.

Banks was in line at the hotel breakfast buffet when the Rebels captain, Vadim Petrov, cut in.

“I want a waffle.” I vant a vaffle.

“Have at it, Cap.”

Petrov leaned over and used the tongs to pluck three waffles from the stack. Cheeky. “You ready for tonight?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

The aristocratic Russian gave a somber nod. “How is married life treating you?”

“We’re doing this now?”

Petrov looked amused. “Merely an enquiry after your relationship status.”

“Not sure why everyone’s so interested.”

Several “news” outlets had been in touch, looking to do a joint interview with the new couple. Even the Rebels own PR machine wanted to run a feature on them. Worst of all, Georgia’s high value status as a media property meant her Greatest Hits were on a comeback tour. Like the time she splish-splashed in Buckingham Fountain. Or did the Polar Plunge in a tutu. Or covered herself in mud at Coachella to protest climate change.

The new attention meant that the sports media, who until now had treated his journeyman career with the distance it deserved, were suddenly interested in him. Did he trade to Chicago to be with his wife? (Like he had a choice.) Was Georgia excited about the playoffs? (She barely knew they existed.) Did he think the Rebels would renew his contract at the end of the season? (Now, that was a question he’d like to know the answer to.) Having spent the last sixteen years under the radar, his privacy-craving self was not enjoying this.

“People like the new and shiny,” Petrov said. “It will die down.”

“Can’t happen soon enough.”

He filled up his plate and took a seat at the table, only to be joined by O’Malley a minute later. Barely had he put a piece of bacon in his mouth and the kid was off to the races.

“Mind if I ask a question, dude?”

“Yes.”

“You seem to have your shit together.”

Banks chewed his bacon and waited.

“You own a house in Nashville, right?”

“Rented out.”

O’Malley nodded. “And you probably know all about the league pension plan, like how that works.”

He put down his fork. “What’s on your mind?”

“I have responsibilities now. Ashley and Willa. And with a bit of luck, more people to look after. Like a new baby when Ash is ready. My mom, too.”

O’Malley’s mother was an ex-con who had recently re-entered his life. Sounded primo sketch, but then this was O’Malley, the sketchiest player in the league.

“Play for ten years, get a pension. It’s pretty simple.”

“Yeah, but what if I want to do other things? Like buy a house? Or set up an education whatsit for Willa? I’ve got a couple of million in my checking account, and I think maybe I could be making it work better for me.”

Jesus. “You keep all your money in your checking?”

“Yeah. I tried to open an investment account, but I didn’t know which stocks to buy. Like Apple is good, right? And Google?”

“It’s Alphabet.”

“What is?”

“Google’s parent company. You need a financial advisor. You can pay people to help you make these decisions. Who’ll do it for you.” Not that Banks trusted anyone else. He handled his mom’s and Connie’s finances. His sisters’ as well, because they were always asking him where they should put their money. He had trusts set up for his nieces. He hired someone to do his taxes because you didn’t fuck with the IRS.

“Can you recommend someone?”

“If I do, will you shut up so I can eat my breakfast?”

O’Malley grinned. “I might.”

If only it were that easy. Next up in the torture cycle was Hudson Grey, who took a seat and sent a significant glance at O’Malley. After several painful seconds of silent yet urgent conversation between them, Grey finally spoke up.

“Heard Georgia moved in with you.” At Banks’s glare, he added, “Tara said.”

The gossip machine was in peak form, oiled by the hair stylist/GM’s wife combo of Tara Fitzpatrick.

“And this is your business because?”

O’Malley took the baton. “When she walked into the Net and told you that the divorce didn’t take, you seemed pissed about it. From where Grey and I stood, it looked like you were ripping her a new one.”

Banks mentally squirmed, not liking how that sounded. That night in the Empty Net, he’d been annoyed. Not because they were still married, but because he’d liked the idea a little too much. Here she was, dangling this carrot of potential in front of his greedy mouth and he was chasing after it like a cartoon donkey.

Banks offered a noncommittal, “It’s complicated.”

O’Malley’s eyes turned shrewd. “So you’re giving it a second chance?”

“Yep.”

The kid’s mouth dropped open, like this was the best news ever. People in love were always advocating for its myriad benefits to the single losers of their acquaintance. “That’s fantastic. Georgia’s a hard woman to pin down and here you are?—”

“What do you mean she’s a hard woman to pin down?”

“She’s been engaged before.”

The rock star from Bison, Keaton something, though “rock” was a complete misnomer and “star” had never been more wrong. They broke up in a public fight at some nightclub. Another top ten Georgia viral moment.

“Your point?”

“That she didn’t go through with it before, but she did with you.”

Sure, way more meaningful. He took a sip of coffee. He hoped she set the alarm, but maybe she didn’t care because she was out with friends or at an all-night party, doing Georgia things with Georgia people. He could check her social media, see if she was being mentioned anywhere, but that sounded like weirdo stalker behavior.

Fuck . He needed to focus on his game and that meant not wondering what Georgia was doing or why she had broken engagements littered in her past. It also meant not imagining her pretty mouth and all the places he wanted it on his body.

“Listen, I don’t want to hear a word against her. Understood?”

“Are you kidding?” O’Malley grinned. “Georgia’s a great girl. So she’s not the best neighbor. Those parties were mighty loud …” At Banks’s glare, he changed his tune. “You’re protective of her.”

“She’s my—” He broke off, restarted. “She might have been featured in gossip rags before, but I don’t want anyone having a go at her while she’s with me.” Or because of me. “Are people talking?”

“You mean, the guys?” Grey looked around as if expecting to find their teammates in a good ole gossip right this minute. No one was paying them any mind. “They’re surprised, that’s all.”

Don’t ask . “Why?”

O’Malley looked skeptical. “You and Georgia do not seem like the most obvious couple.”

“Like you and the kitten wrangler.”

“I suppose from the outside we might seem like a weird pairing. But Ashley is perfect and she’s perfect for me. Why, has someone said something?”

Theo Kershaw plunked his ass down beside Grey. “No one’s talking about you or your woman, Oh-Em-Gee. You met at the puppy pound. Big whoop. And Hudster here met his guy on an app, like the rest of the world in this millennium. Banks and Georgia, though? Their origin story is a thousand times more interesting.”

“The shelter was a good place to meet. Gave us a chance to get to know each other.” O’Malley winced. “Not that you don’t know Georgia, Banks.”

“Good one, Dexter.” Kershaw shook his head in disapproval.

But the kid was right. Banks didn’t know her. They’d done this whole thing ass backwards. If he’d asked Georgia out on a date, she sure as hell would not have accepted. He was far too old for her, not to mention cynical, broody, and set in his ways.

The media and his teammates might be enamored of this strange pairing for now, but they wouldn’t be surprised when it came to its natural and inevitable conclusion.

And neither would Banks.