Chapter 41

41

A life after hockey? With her? Because if that was what she was hinting at here, that was crazy. Her life was just beginning while his was stumbling towards an ignominious conclusion. This beautiful young thing should not be thinking of binding herself to a man heading downhill fast.

Through the patio sliding door, he peered into the living room for a sign that she hadn’t gone far. Nothing. She was giving the wounded beast space, which was probably for the best. If he spent another second in her presence, he might say worse.

This year had felt like his last shot. He was doing it for his gran, for his mom, for his sisters. For his dad. And now this.

He understood Georgia’s concern, but he knew his body better than anyone. To have her second-guess that was infuriating. If she couldn’t fathom this fundamental thing, then she didn’t know him at all.

He had no idea how long he spent on the patio, staring blindly out toward the lake. Only this morning he was thinking he’d like to take Georgia for a walk along the beach after lunch, her petite hand in his big mitt. Then back to the house for a cuddle and more because it would be days without her while he worked toward his future in the next round of the playoffs.

Their future.

Now, that had all shifted sideways, like the sand before him. Worse, it had vanished into nothing because he was a man with no future. No career, no plan, and a wife in name only.

He was going to lose her.

Though in truth, he’d never had her. He had a marriage certificate, a ring, and a woman who needed someone to have her back against her parents. Georgia was stronger than she looked, and now that she’d worked out how to stand up for herself, what good was he to her?

He was barely able to hold her without wincing in pain. Big, strong man? Sure.

A text came in from O’Malley.

Petrov just told us. That sucks, dude.

Yeah, dude, it did.

He ignored it, but he couldn’t ignore the call from his captain a couple of minutes later.

“Yep?”

Vadim Petrov blew out a resigned sigh. “You’re home?”

“Instead of in some bar trying to forget the last couple of hours, you mean?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“I’m home.”

Petrov huffed out a laugh. “This is better. Let your woman soothe you.”

He had no response to that, so he moved on. “Timing sucks, but you’ll be stronger without me.”

“You don’t believe that but sure, whatever. This is your time to rest and reset.”

“Don’t need it.”

His captain scoffed. “Your face has been contorted in pain after every practice. After every game. Did you think we hadn’t noticed how you left every celebration or commiseration early to go ice your shoulder?”

Shit. “You knew this?”

“I am your captain. I know everything. You were doing what you had to do, but I didn’t tell the tales. I learned that lesson years ago with my wife. One of the trainers figured it out and it got you on their radar.”

Not Georgia.

The straight-talking Russian went on. “Listen, Banks, I have come back from surgery. It can be done.”

Petrov had been skating on a supposedly bum knee for years, but it had struck him at a young enough age for him to recover. Even if Banks went for the surgery, it would be a six-month rehab, maybe longer because he was older and not as resilient. Effectively a death sentence to his time in the NHL.

“Time’s running out.”

“Maybe. But if we win the Cup this year, you’ll still get a ring.”

It wasn’t the same. It would feel like he was getting it by default. And if they didn’t win—if he wasn’t there to push them all the way, which was why he’d been brought on in the first place—how would that play out? He wasn’t sure he had another year in him.

“Thanks for checking in. Watch out for Hamilton. He’s a sneaky fucker on the breakaway.”

“Will do. Call me if you need to talk.” He rang off.

Instead of wallowing, he should talk to Georgia. Apologize for lashing out.

Two minutes later, he was forced to conclude that he had fucked up, not just his career, but his marriage.

His flannel shirt, the one she wore to bed when he was out of town, lay neatly folded on the kitchen counter with a post-it note on top of it.

Sorry. I’ll pick up my stuff later.

Her stuff? It was a stupid argument, his broody asshole self taking center stage. Surely they were strong enough to overcome that.

Only this wasn’t a real marriage. Never had been. There was no foundation here on which to build.

Georgia might have nothing to be sorry about, but it didn’t change the facts. His career was over. Her life, the independence she sought after the loss of her sister, was just beginning. Twelve years was a big gap when two people were at vastly different stages of their lives.

He picked up the shirt, intending to inhale any scent she might have left on it into his lungs. But he didn’t get that far.

A clinking sound echoed in the suddenly too-big space.

Her diamond ring lay on the tiled floor—and that’s when he knew it was truly over.