Chapter 35

35

“Something’s wrong with Banks.” Kershaw pulled the pot of dollar bills toward him and rolled his shoulders against the seat back in the plane’s lounge. “That’s the third hand in a row he’s lost.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Foreman patted his arm, all condescension. “It’s okay. Happens to the best of us.”

“Dick problems?” Kershaw asked.

“Losing at cards,” Banks said with a scowl.

“Wrong on both counts. Falling in love.” Foreman dealt the next hand but hovered over the last couple of cards. “You’ve been off your card game since news of your nuptials got out.”

O’Malley chuckled. “It’s true. No more poker face.”

Banks glared at the kid, but it had no impact. No one took him seriously anymore.

They were flying out to Boston for Game 6. With luck, they would clinch it on the road and would have a few days rest before Round 2.

Back to cards. With his ability to hide his pain, he should be better at this. He resolved to school his expression on the next hand. Two queens and a ten. He discarded a couple of cards and picked up two more. Nothing good, but he could bluff with the best of them.

Sixty seconds later, he was beaten with a pair of nines by O’Malley of all people. The guy couldn’t bluff his way out of a paper bag but now he suddenly had game?

“See, no good.” Kershaw smirked. “Long may Banks enjoy his lovely wife, so we all have a chance at winning at poker. How’s Mrs. B, by the way?”

“Fine. No lasting effects of the injury.”

“Except she’s still married to you,” Kaz said, barely looking up from his phone.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

His teammate exchanged a quick look with Foreman, who rolled his eyes.

“Just doesn’t seem like your type.”

Kershaw winced and muttered, “Kaz, shut it.”

“Why, because she’s far too good for me?” He knew what they all thought. Hot, young, sexy Georgia.

Foreman pointed. “That’s standard around here. All our wives are out of our league.”

Kaz gave a sour look. He’d gone through a messy divorce a couple of years back, and by all accounts, was still smarting over it.

“She took that puck like a champ, though,” Gunnar Bond said.

“My wife is braver than most of you.”

“True.” Foreman started the deal. “Who can forget Baby Durand’s screams when Piper took him out last fall?” The unfortunate clash between Bast Durand and Coach Calhoun’s daughter in a Rowdy Rebel costume had fueled the Internet for weeks.

“Hey, dickheads!” Durand Junior called out from the seating area. “I sprained my fucking wrist. After it had just healed from being broken almost a year before.”

“Still cried more than Georgia,” Bond said. “Like a French-Canadian baby.”

The next few minutes were spent detailing past player injuries and the decibel levels of the resulting screams. After Foreman won the next hand, Kershaw changed the subject.

“So my brother says I should be investing in Crypto.”

“Jason or Sean?” Bond asked.

“Sean. He’s the computer genius.”

Foreman narrowed his eyes. “Isn’t he fifteen?”

“Sixteen,” Kershaw clarified, “but the kids know all about that tech stuff. He’s making out like a bandit with GameStop stocks.”

“Jesus H.,” Banks muttered. “First, you have to be over eighteen to trade stocks. Second, you’re getting financial advice from a kid whose balls have barely dropped?”

Kershaw pointed. “I heard you majored in finance at Wisconsin. Maybe you could look at my portfolio? I never know if my guy is trying to rook me.”

“Index funds,” O’Malley said as he peeked at his cards. “That’s what Banks advises. And a 529 fund for education. You got one of those for your kids?”

Kershaw frowned. “Maybe? My dad asked me to invest in a restaurant as well.”

“Do not invest in a restaurant. Do not go into business with a family member.” Banks blew out a breath. “You could suffer a career-ending injury next week, so you need to get your ducks in a row now, especially with your growing family.” Kershaw had survived a brain aneurysm a few years back and he was still fucking around with his money? Banks looked around the table with its mix of veterans and rookies. All of them were eyeing him with interest. “If you’re not already working with a financial advisor with real qualifications and no curfew, then let me know. I’ll recommend someone.”

“Or take a look at it himself.” O’Malley grinned at him. “That’s what he did for mine.”

Just a couple of hours spent poring over financial statements and coming up with a few obvious recs. He’d kind of enjoyed it, but then he’d always liked working with numbers.

Foreman nodded. “Excellent. Banks is going to make us all rich. Let’s play poker.”

The door opened, revealing Tara holding a very tired-looking toddler.

“Yay, it’s Auntie Georgia.”

Georgia laughed. “I’m an auntie, now?”

“Everyone’s an auntie. That way, I always have an army of babysitters to call on in an emergency.” She ushered her inside. “Come on, the game’s about to start.”

This would be the first time Georgia had met the rest of the WAGs. She already knew Mia and Tara, but everyone else was new, and she was extremely nervous.

“Say hi to Georgia, Ezzie.” Little Esme burrowed into her mom’s neck while Georgia waved at her.

“Aw, she’s shy.”

“It’s past her bedtime but she said she wanted to see all the pretty ladies. Didn’t you, sweetie?” Tara gestured toward the back of the house. “Go on in and meet everyone. I’m going to put this one down.”

Without Tara’s bubbly chatter as her shield, Georgia took tentative steps toward the gathering. Within a few feet, she found herself in a great room with a buffet of snacks, a help-yourself-bar, and at least eight women gathered in various convo-combinations. Mia spotted her and came bounding over, then wrapped Georgia in a hug.

“Hey everyone, come meet Georgia and her wicked scar.”

Georgia’s wicked scar made for a great icebreaker. Everyone wanted a recounting of the event, how much it hurt, and what kind of compensation she expected (a joke, but maybe not?). She was the first WAG that anyone could recall getting hit during a game, and that gave her some sort of cachet.

In Tara’s absence, Mia made the introductions.

“So this is Elle—she’s married to Theo Kershaw and they have two adorable littles, Hatch and Adeline.”

“Oh, I love his Insta. He’s so funny.” And sexy, though she didn’t add that. Instead, she tried to imagine Banks on social media and came up blank.

“And this is Casey. She works in the front office and is married to Erik Jorgenson, the Rebels goalie.”

Georgia went for handshakes but got cheek kisses instead. “Great to meet you both.”

“Likewise,” Casey said. “I hope you enjoyed the tea hamper Harper sent.”

“I did! Was that you?”

Casey grinned. “It was. We talked to your husband, and he told us you were a big tea drinker. And that you love oranges. Harper is dying for you to come in and have tea with her one afternoon. She has a new Wedgewood set she wants to try out.”

Banks told people she liked tea? And oranges?

Oh, she got it now. Their origin story, the one he told her parents. He’d chased an orange that dropped from her shopping bag. That was unaccountably cute.

She jerked herself back to the conversation and specifically Casey’s invitation to tea with Harper. “I’d love that.”

On it went. Sadie was married to forward Gunnar Bond and was a famous dress designer. Georgia had one of her dresses, which she was glad she didn’t wear tonight because that would have been a little too much. Jordan was married to center, Levi Hunt, currently injured and being “an absolute bear” about it, per his wife. She was a hockey reporter with a well-known podcast that Georgia had listened to during her research. Such a smart lady. Piper, daughter of the Rebels head coach, was dating Bast Durand and was a student finishing up her master’s in education. A very pregnant Kennedy was married to Bast’s brother Reid. She ran the concierge business that managed errands and dog-walking for high-end clients, many of whom were the Rebels.

“You do our grocery shopping!”

Kennedy chuckled. “Well, not me personally but one of my minions.”

“I used to be a minion.” Tara had just walked in. “Great way to make friends with hockey players and snoop in their medicine cabinets.”

“And that is why Tara didn’t last long in the personal assistant-slash-concierge business.” Casey’s comment produced chuckles from everyone.

These women had history together, a special connection because of their husbands’ jobs. If Georgia wanted to be a good hockey wife, then she could learn so much from them.

It took barely a moment for Georgia to feel at ease.

The Rebels WAGs didn’t think the Bankowskis’ origin story so strange. As Tara and Mia had already hinted, these couples all had stranger than fiction beginnings. Met your man after he texted his dead wife and you got her recycled number? That happened! Got knocked up by a cinnamon roll defenseman in the early hours of Christmas morning? You’d better believe it! How about becoming a live-in dog nanny for the puppy you jointly saved from Lake Michigan with a grouchy right winger? Why not!

A drunken marriage in Vegas was positively tame by comparison. Laughing about it in present company relaxed Georgia and, once the game started, gave her confidence to ask silly questions like why one kind of penalty got two minutes in the box, and another got five. Or what constituted offside (she still didn’t get it). Or why the game was just so darn physical.

It seemed like all kind of contact was allowed short of bashing another player over the head with a stick—and Georgia suspected some officials might turn a blind eye to that if it happened. Neither did she understand why the shifts were so short. Just as a line started to build some momentum, they were replaced by a different set of players. “Fresh legs are competitive legs,” explained Mia. Basically, sprinting for 45-60 seconds was super fatiguing, and an opponent’s switch to a new line would give them an advantage if the team kept the same players on the ice.

Mostly, Georgia watched her husband, marveling at his determination and skill, and cringing whenever he took a hit. Every opposing player seemed to know the exact location of his bruises. How to press on them. How to hurt him.

So when Boston won, sending the series to a Game 7 back in Chicago, all Georgia could think of was how much more Dylan had to endure. The relentless pounding on his body. He would barely get a break before the next game.

Most everyone left to relieve babysitters and check in with their husbands and boyfriends. Mia and Georgia remained behind to help Tara clean up, and when Mia stepped outside to take a call from her husband, Georgia wondered if she should be calling Banks.

“Thanks so much for including me tonight,” Georgia said to Tara. “I learned so much.”

“You’re always welcome. And you can text me anytime, y’know.”

“Do you mind if I ask you something now?”

Tara picked up a couple of wine glasses and put them on the counter near the sink. “Shoot.”

“Do all the guys play through their injuries?”

“It depends. I mean, if something is broken then knocking back painkillers is probably only going to get you so far. But if it’s a light sprain or bruised ribs or something like that, then yeah, lots of them do that. Especially the older guys.”

“Why the older guys?”

Tara shrugged. “The younger ones came up with a different attitude. More open to talking about their feelings, their needs, their injuries. The older generation of players prefer to get on with it, plus they have fewer years left. Every second counts so they’re more likely to play hurt. Why, is Banks hurt right now?”

Before she could answer, Mia walked in. “Tara, you cannot blab about injuries to Fitz.”

Tara pressed a hand to her chest. “I wouldn’t!”

Oh. Georgia hadn’t thought about that.

Mia rolled her eyes. “If she thinks one of the guys is overdoing it, she’ll say something.”

“Only to the player when they’re in my salon chair, which is as sacrosanct as the confessional. I will not be telling anyone in the Rebels front office anything.” She glared at Mia who shook her head.

Mia turned to Georgia. “Listen, hockey players are the most resilient of all pro-athletes. They play hurt. They exist on diets of pasta, kale smoothies, and Toradol. They push through the pain. Banks knows his own body, and frankly, he’s in the twilight of his career. This year or next are probably his last shots at the Cup, so he’s going to push through.”

That was what Georgia was afraid of. After her years with Dani, she hated to see someone else she cared about suffer. But Mia was right: Banks had been doing this for years. He knew his pain tolerance.

Georgia feared she didn’t know her own.