Chapter 26

26

Banks was tired.

He’d barely slept. Waking up to find his wife wrapped around him was both excruciatingly torturous and absolutely amazing at the same time. Which made no sense. How could he be enjoying this drama that had taken over his life when he was the least drama-free person on the planet?

It was hard to say which gave him more pleasure: the easy roll into the morning conversing with Georgia or the fact she’d let him taste her. And not just chaste kisses, but his tongue inside her, his lips drenched with her come, his?—

“Banks, you’re up,” Coach called out.

Clearing the boards, he skated into position, on the same line as O’Malley and Petrov. He won the face-off—his 67% winning percentage still stood—and they were off. Two minutes later, he was back on the bench with a shot on goal and the satisfaction of having acquitted himself decently on his first shift.

Every playoff series, his family came to as many games as they could. He took comfort in their presence, but he didn’t feel a need to check on them every thirty seconds. Tonight should be no different, except all he could think of was Georgia.

Was she excited to be here?

Did she understand what was going on?

Why the hell was she all he could see, her platinum crown a beacon in the wave of blue-and-white, a lighthouse calling him in? (Though lighthouses were supposed to keep ships away from rocky shores, not draw them closer to oblivion.)

Even if he couldn’t have picked her out, it wouldn’t have mattered. The Jumbotron was determined to show her at every opportunity, which is how he knew she was wearing his Rebels jersey. That his wife had his name on her back, a proxy for his claim on her, turned him on in a big way. He should not be going there, but once the idea took root, it was all he could think of.

And what it would be like to peel that jersey off her later.

“Banks!” He looked up. Coach had that exasperated look on his face that indicated he’d been screaming his head off for longer than he felt necessary.

Focus, man. Get it together.

The first period ended, scoreless, and Banks skated off with O’Malley by his side.

“Georgia’s here, huh?” Kind of shifty with it.

“Yep.”

“First time at a hockey game?”

“No idea.”

“Still keeping your cards close to your chest, then.”

He accepted skate guards from an assistant. “Just don’t have a whole lot to say.”

“Is that a dig at me because I can’t shut up about Ash?”

“Sure. Now how about you zip it and let me focus during the break?”

O’Malley just grinned. Like Kershaw, another chatty fucker, he was impossible to offend. Since he’d pulled his head out of his ass and found true love, he thought he was a cut above the rest of the singletons on the team.

But you’re not single. You are husband to a queen, and well and truly fucked.

With the start of the second period, he resolved to apply every ounce of concentration to Game Freakin’ 1. His job was hockey player, not husband, and he needed to put all thoughts of his hot wife aside and set about scoring.

On his first shift in, he won the face-off, natch, and passed to O’Malley. Back to center, a flick to Petrov, who sent it around the back of the net where O’Malley was waiting. After a few more seconds of do-si-do, Banks spotted an opening. The Boston tender was a couple of inches off his line and McMillan, their D-man, had moved too far left. Petrov was waiting for the setup, but Banks could already visualize the throughline. The second the puck left his stick he knew it was destined for the back of the net.

The buzzer went off and finally, the Rebels were on the scoreboard.

McMillan was pissed, enough to whack at the puck and send it flying toward the plexi. Only it missed and went over the glass into the crowd, a result that became obvious when a groan went up in response.

But there was more. Shouting, sort of high-pitched, and the realization that the puck hadn’t merely landed in the crowd.

It had hit someone.

The officials weren’t restarting the game and that was usually down to one reason: a spectator needed a medic. Banks paid more attention now, especially as the puck had landed close to the players’ comp section. His first thought was Connie, but he immediately spotted her, looking uninjured, thank God. His mom was beside her, moving, then standing. She was fine, too.

Please let no one he knew be hurt. Not that he’d wish it on anyone else, but—shit, there was no way to make that palatable. Someone else stood and he recognized April from the back. Skating closer, he sought her out, willing her to turn to him. When she didn’t, he moved along the row.

Georgia was supposed to be sitting next to her, but Sandy was blocking his view. Get the fuck out of the way!

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched with an increasing sense of panic as medics made their way to the section. April turned around and met his gaze squarely, mouthing the words he did not want to hear.

It’s Georgia.

Georgia was hurt.

The medics were in there now, and people were stepping aside into the aisle to make room, which gave him his first unobstructed view. Her hand was at her forehead and the unmistakable, oily hue of blood was staining her fingers.

Someone nudged him from behind. O’Malley. “Is that Georgia?”

Keep her name out of your mouth.

The medics would take her somewhere and get her checked out.

Bleeding. Maybe blinded.

She was standing. That had to be a good sign. And then the crowd groaned again because Georgia had lost her footing, or perhaps fainted, and she was half-carried out of the row and into the aisle. The usual hockey stick taps from the players accompanied her exit, with the crowd clapping to encourage a quick recovery.

Back to hockey, people!

Fuck that. With a desperate pivot, he skated back to the boards and hopped over.

Coach eyed him. “Shift’s not over, Banks.”

“Is for me.”

Coach looked flummoxed.

“That’s his wife who got hurt, Coach.” O’Malley was at his shoulder to explain.

Coach opened his mouth, whether to give or deny permission, Banks had no idea. He was already heading to the tunnel.

Georgia did not consider herself accident-prone. Sure, she’d landed in hot water plenty of times but that was usually engineered by her own hands.

And then she met Dylan Bankowski.

Within hours of knowing him, she was married.

Within days of knowing him, she should have been divorced.

Within months of knowing him, she was embedded in this drawing room farce, playacting at husband and wife.

Now she was holding a lump of gauze to her forehead, surrounded by several people who were probably very concerned about litigation.

“I’m so sorry about this,” she said to April. “You should go back to your seats.”

April barked out a nervy laugh. “Like we could leave you alone!”

“Dylan would kill us if we did,” Sandy added, which didn’t make Georgia feel better.

She had been cheering Banks’s goal like everyone else and had just stood when she felt like she’d been shot. Instinctively she’d touched her stinging forehead, only to find wetness. With her hand covered in blood, she sank to her seat, and then all hell broke loose.

Georgia, is it your eye? Did it break your nose? Why aren’t you speaking, crying, howling?

Shocked into silence, she’d spent the next minute protecting her eyes from the dripping blood. There were so many people, and she could barely breathe with all the attention. By the time the medics arrived, the adrenaline was starting to wear off and dizziness was setting in.

“Where are Connie and Trish?”

“We told them to stay put so as not to overwhelm you,” Sandy said. “We’re keeping them updated. Or we would, if we could get some medical assistance! ”

On cue, someone entered with an authoritative air and now proceeded to examine her more closely.

“Georgia, is it?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Dr. Morgan. You’ve got a nasty cut there. If you were a player, I’d stitch you up, but it might leave a scar.”

“I can live with a scar. I’m more worried about internal damage.” And how to get blood out of this Kate Spade.

He smiled. “The fact you can string a sentence together bodes well. Any dizziness? Blurred vision? Nausea?”

She shook her head, though that didn’t feel so good. “A slight headache.”

“Understandable.”

Outside the room, a commotion was brewing.

“Where is she?”

That sounded like Banks! He was supposed to be out on the ice, for God’s sake.

“ I need to see my wife .”

Without dropping his gaze, the doc called out. “She’s here.”

A wild-eyed Banks plowed his way through the crowd. Shouldering the doctor out of the way—kind of rudely, she thought—he cupped her face with both hands and searched her face.

“You okay?”

“I-I think so. The dizziness has passed?—”

“You’re dizzy?” He snapped his stormy gaze to the doctor. “Why isn’t she getting a scan? She has a concussion.”

“Possibly,” the doctor said amiably. “We were just about to send her to the hospital. She’ll need stitches.”

“Is the game … stopped?” Is that what they did when a spectator was injured? She blinked at Banks, not understanding how he was here. He looked like he was about to explode.

“No, it’s started up again,” he gritted out.

She placed both hands on his chest, but it was all padding and not much Banks. Seeing him in his hockey gear up close was doing strange, wonderful things to her, though that might have been the brain injury. “And you’re here?”

“Where else would I be?”

She pushed but it was like trying to move a statue. “No, no, no. You need to get back out there.”

“They already have my goal. And as I can’t rely on my family to keep you out of trouble, I’m going to have to do it myself.” He turned to the doctor. “Now where’s that ambulance?”