Page 107 of Hockey Wife

He rubbed his chin, which had the beginnings of some blond jaw scruff, but nothing near as glorious as her husband’s beard.

“This marriage. This whole situation. It’s not right.” He reached for her cheek and cupped it. “If you need money or a way out of this drama, let me help.”

Alarm streaked through her. Oliver had always been clingy, but not to this extent.

She curled out of his grasp. “What’s going on, Oli? Are you feeling down about Sav?”

His eyes flashed. “No, Georgia. This isn’t about Savannah. I’m your oldest friend. I was there for you through everything, when Dani died, when your parents cut you off. I’ve been waiting for you to realize that I’m your guy, the one who will save you. From yourself, really, because that’s clearly what you need. You owe me.”

About halfway through that speech, she felt sorry for him. She’d always suspected a puppy dog crush from his end, but she had assumed it was resolved years ago. By the time his rant ended, anger was on the rise.

“Owe you what exactly?”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I’m a nice guy, your best guy. We had a pact and you ruined it by marrying this brainless jock who is so not your type.”

So everyone kept telling her. Her husband was no dummy, and while he might not be her type, he was something better. He was her man, and she wouldn’t hear a word against him.

“We’re going to forget this ever happened and put it firmly in the camp of bad-decisions-courtesy-of-alcohol.” She wouldn’t push for an apology, not when she just wanted everyone to leave.

“You’d know all about bad drunken decisions. It’s why you made this mistake.”

Okay, enough. “That’s where you’re wrong, Oliver. Sure I’d had a couple of drinks, but you know my tolerance is sky-high. I wasn’t drunk when I married Banks. I knew exactly what I was doing, and if I had a chance to repeat ‘my mistake,’ I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

She went to walk by him. He placed a hand on her arm and pulled her back.

And kissed her.

The plane ride home was nowhere near as exuberant as the one out. Boston had come to play and now the series headed back to Chicago. Banks had been praying to get it done in four or five, but now they had to go to at least six. And that was just the first round.

His shoulder felt worse, and he needed to ice it. Not exactly doable when surrounded by a fitfully sleeping team and support staff. A couple of painkillers down the hatch, and he tried his best to get comfortable, playing on repeat the image of Georgia’s tight, lithe body splayed on that foyer table while she rubbed his come into her pussy.

His wife was something else—and he needed to see her.

It was after three by the time he arrived to find his driveway filled with cars, some parked haphazardly. The house lights blazed into the sky like a nightclub advertisement.

Someone was throwing a party, and the number one suspect was his wife. Disappointment chilled him.

She was young and vibrant, and he’d never forbidden her to host her friends. This was her home for as long as she needed it. But he didn’t like parties—and he especially didn’t like parties in his house when he wasn’t there.

The garage was blocked by a car. Irritation made him itchy. He parked in a small space on the grassy verge of the driveway, then headed into his house. Not as busy as he expected, probably because the size of the great room made it look more spread out than the last party Georgia hosted. A couple of people nodded at him as he walked through. He ignored them, his wife his singular focus.

A girl about Georgia’s age—and damn, he had never felt older—grabbed his arm.

“You’re Banks!” She cast an excited look about the room. “Hey everyone, it’s?—”

He cut her off. “Where’s Georgia?”

“Around here somewhere. I think I saw her heading upstairs.” Her eyes glittered, a mix of inebriation and mischief.

He was tall enough to make a quick scan of the room. No sign of a blonde sprite, so he took the stairs two at a time. It was quieter up here and the doors were locked when he checked, so that was something.

He was about ten feet out from his bedroom when the door opened and Georgia emerged, looking flushed. A hand followed and grasped her arm.

“Georgia, let’s talk about this.” It was her friend. Oliver.

Rage reared up in him. “Get your hands off her.”

Georgia’s gaze snapped to Banks’s. She was upset, but not with him. Within a nanosecond, that spark in her eyes had turned to something closer to relief.

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