Chapter 40

40

Ahead of morning skate, Banks placed his gym bag in his cubby and unzipped his jacket. He’d knocked back a couple of extra painkillers while sitting in the car, feeling like he was doing something wrong. He wasn’t. He suspected every other guy here was performing their own little self-med-ritual, faking it ’till they made it in the player parking lot.

O’Malley walked into the locker room, all swagger, and bumped against Banks’s bad shoulder. “Our old team, dude.”

They would fly out tomorrow afternoon for Game 1 of the second round against Nashville. It was a surprise they’d squeaked into the playoffs, to be honest, as they had offloaded Banks precisely because they thought they wouldn’t. There were always mixed feelings when you went up against former teammates, but for now Banks was erring on the side of “fuck those guys.”

“They won’t know what hit ’em.”

O’Malley chuckled, then after a furtive look over his shoulder, took out his phone with its lock screen of Ashley and Willa and opened it to a website. “What do you think of this one?”

A house in Riverbrook, a nice faux Tudor priced just under a million five.

“What do you want me to think of it?”

The kid’s eyes turned dreamy. “I’m gonna buy it for Ash and Sparkle. That’s what I call Willa.”

Cute. “Before you sign a contract?”

He moved closer. “I got the offer yesterday. I’m meeting the brass and my agent after morning skate to sign on the dotted line. Can’t believe it’s happening, to be honest.”

“Since you got your shit together, you’ve played great. Congrats on the contract. It’s thoroughly deserved.”

O’Malley blinked like he couldn’t believe the words out of Banks’s mouth. He couldn’t quite believe them himself, but he meant it. The kid was a great player when his head was in the right space.

On the subject of contracts, Banks’s agent was currently in negotiations for an extension, one more year at least to see out his career. He’d contributed a shit ton to this franchise in the last four months, and frankly, he wanted to stay here. In this city. On this team.

With this woman.

He’d even looked into selling his house in Nashville and putting an offer on the one in Winnetka.

“Thanks, man,” O’Malley said in response to Banks’s compliment. “That means a lot.”

Because it was getting a bit soppy in here, Banks followed with, “You’d better keep it up. Justify the millions they’re spending on you.”

O’Malley grinned. “I will. But the house? Is it too much?”

“I wouldn’t recommend springing it on your woman without running it by her first. It might seem like this big romantic gesture but there are other considerations, too. School districts, work commutes, who pays for what.” He held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah, you’ve got millions in your checking account?—”

“Not anymore. This genius I know showed me how to open a brokerage account and invest in index funds.”

Banks had opened it for him, then spent an hour walking him through dollar-cost averaging and automatic investing. Hard to know if it stuck, but it was a start.

“Right. My point is that you and Ashley are a team now. Don’t go making a unilateral decision that affects her life and the life of her daughter. Communication is what you need, ya feel me?”

Like him and Georgia. It felt like they were in a good place, telling each other the deep stuff and working through it together. He had never expected to be in this position. In love, and with his wife, no less. Maybe he had more to offer than tips on injury prevention and where to invest your hard-earned cash.

O’Malley still looked misty-eyed. “I just want to take care of them, y’know?”

Banks could feel a smile tugging at his lips.

“Maybe slow your roll and involve your partner. She’ll assume it’s a great signifier of your maturity and God knows, you need all the proof you can get.”

“I think you just insulted me, but I’m gonna give you a pass because you generally know what you’re talking about. And you seem different.”

“Yeah?”

“Happier. Marriage suits you.”

Love, man, the fucking worst.

But he was grinning as he thought it, so much so he had to turn away from O’Malley to hide it.

Owen, one of the trainers, came into the locker room. “Banks, the doc wants to see you in Exam 1.”

His defensive hackles rose. “What about?”

Bond and O’Malley stared at him, which was appropriate because that was a stupid question. You didn’t clap back to a request for a meetup with the medics. You just did as you were told.

Owen shrugged, obviously not used to being probed on a perfectly normal ask.

Calm down. “Be right there.”

Once Owen left, Banks smoothed his expression to neutral to hide his pain. The meds had yet to kick in and for a second there, he’d been riding the high of Georgia.

“You okay?” Foreman asked.

“Fine,” he bit out, then put as much pep as possible into his stride. One foot in front of the other. Easy peasy.

In the exam room, the doc was standing with Coach, and Banks’s heart plummeted. No one ever wanted to see this specific combination of people. “You needed a word?”

“How you feelin’, Banks?” Coach sounded gruff, but that was par for the course.

“Good. A few aches, no more than usual.”

Dr. Morgan patted the exam table. “Hop up there and take off your shirt.”

Okay, Houston, we have a problem.

“Sure.” He used the shirt peel-off to hide any telltale signals of pain. By the time he was shirtless, his face was back to passive.

There was no missing his bruised shoulder. Not as bad as a couple of weeks ago, but still noticeable.

“You’ve had a shoulder separation before? Couple of years back?” The doc placed his hand on the AC joint, but didn’t press, thankfully.

“Yeah, touch of rheumatism since, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“How many painkillers are you taking?”

“A couple of extra strength Ibuprofen, two or three times a day.” In Nashville, no one questioned what a player did to make sure he could play in the final rounds. Mollycoddling grown men who knew their own bodies was not done.

“And this recent shoulder separation? When did that happen?”

Not tripping me up that easily. “It didn’t. It was just a hard check to the boards in the first game against Boston.”

“Fuck, Banks!” Coach barked. “That was almost three weeks ago.”

“And it feels better.”

“And what about this bruising here?” Dr. Morgan gestured to Banks’s ribs.

“No big deal.” Keep it breezy.

With an eye on the door, he willed this meeting to be over. If this was a World War 2 movie, he’d be looking for his chance to spring off the table and leg it out of the POW compound. In the ongoing silence, Banks tried to put positive thoughts out there.

It’s going to be just fine.

I’m going to get away with this.

For fuck’s sake, everything is going right in my life. Let me have this.

But that bitch of a universe was on a smoke break. Without warning, the doc pressed a hand to his AC and Banks couldn’t hide his pained response.

“Let’s get an X-ray and see where we stand.”

Georgia put the broom against the wall and set to folding up the tarps. The patio was looking good after she’d wiped down the weather-resistant furniture and added a couple of Treviso lanterns and planters from Restoration Hardware. She had a rug on order and a plan to hit Pottery Barn later for some throw cushions. So it was Banks’s place and a lease at that, but she wanted to make it nice for his family who would be returning for the Round 2 home games.

She cast her gaze over the patio, with its sweeping view to the beach and Lake Michigan. When Banks’s family returned, would this feel different? Would they abandon the charade and accept that this marriage was real? She had no doubt they had work to do, but once the playoffs were over, there would be time for them . They could figure out if this blazing attraction had the potential for more.

The glass door to the patio opened and Banks appeared.

“You’re home!” Her smile faded at seeing his expression and her first instinct was Connie .

Her second was to open her arms. He fell into them, hugging her like she was his lifeline, the reason for everything.

“What happened?”

“I’m on IR.” He drew back. “Injured Reserve.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. That must be awful.” He didn’t respond, so she filled the silence. “But it’s also brave. To admit you’re not quite at a hundred percent. I’m proud of you. Tara said you guys are always so tough and will never fess up to an injury.”

He stiffened, and his expression turned dark. “I didn’t fess up. They knew already. When did you talk to Tara?”

“About a week ago.”

“And you discussed my injury?”

“I might have mentioned it.” Best to be honest. “Okay, I did mention it.”

He released her, rubbed a hand across his mouth. “Why would you do that? She’s married to the general manager.”

“We were talking about how stoic you all are. I worried that you were overdoing it.”

“So you blab to another wife? Anything I tell you is between us, Georgia. How hard is that to understand?”

“Even when it’s at risk to your health?”

That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “It’s two more weeks, maybe a month. That’s all I needed, just time to get through this so I can finally get what I’ve wanted for years. Years, Georgia!”

“And you’re going to be in pain that whole time. Maybe hurt yourself to the point where you won’t be able to have a decent quality of life once you retire.”

“Who cares about that? I’d have the Cup and a ring. I’d have achieved what I set out to do.”

She found it hard to believe that Tara would take what she’d heard and run that up the chain. But Georgia probably should have kept her mouth closed.

“I wanted to know if it was normal. And if the team thinks it’s serious enough that they can’t just spit and slap a bandage on it, then that says it all. You’re not fit to play.”

Digging her heels in just made him angrier. “This was none of your business.”

“Why? Because I’m your fake wife? Is it not enough that I care about you and want only the best for you?”

“That’s not—fuck, Georgia, that’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“I had a shot in these playoffs and now I don’t.”

The defeat in his voice made her recalibrate her response. He needed comfort not argument. “You have next year.”

He balled his hands at his hips. “If they bother renewing my contract. And even if by some miracle they do, now I’m on their radar. They’ll be watching me like a hawk. The slightest twinge and I’ll be on IR.”

For a man as dependent on his physicality as Banks—as any professional athlete—that had to be crushing. He had said he had a couple of years left, maximum. With this latest blow, he might not make it back on the ice at all.

She tried to see the bright side. “But retirement was bound to happen eventually. Only the other night at dinner with my parents you were talking about settling down.” Maybe even starting a family. She added weakly, “So it starts a little sooner.”

He was strong enough to come out of this. To find meaning in a life after hockey.

Only right this minute, he didn’t agree. His expression was incredulous. Nothing she said was right.

“Are you fucking kidding me? I am not ready for that. I have things I want to achieve. This is my career, Georgia, and I sure as shit do not need some party girl who knows nothing about hockey telling me how to run it.”

She flinched. Of course he wouldn’t see this as any kind of blessing in disguise, not when the disguise was atrophy in the suburbs with your flighty mistake of a wife.

“I shouldn’t have said anything to the girls. I didn’t think?—”

“Exactly. You didn’t think. I live a very private life, Georgia, but since I met you, it’s been anything but. Media attention and everyone up in my business. Your parents announcing our marriage to the world. Why the hell did you even tell them?”

“It-it was an accident.” Another blinding moment of self-sabotage, except this one might have been deliberate. A part of her had wanted them to know about Banks. About this one perfect stroke of intent that was all for her.

“Or another way to get your parents’ attention.”

No, a way to get yours.

Moments ago, she was imagining a happy ending—the playoffs, his family, this man relying on her as his rock, just as she relied on him as hers. Even if he could forgive her mistake, he wouldn’t want her around, reminding him of it. Of his failure at the last hurdle.

He certainly wouldn’t want attention-seeking Georgia, who trapped him into this fake marriage because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

“I’m sorry,” she said. For dragging you into my poor little rich girl drama. For caring about your health.

For falling hopelessly in love with you.

For a moment it looked like he regretted his tone. He took a step toward her, but she held up a hand. The damage was done.

“No, I get it. This is your career.” She bent to pick up the broom and stood quickly. “I’ll give you some space.”

“Georgia—” But she’d already retreated inside.