Page 131 of Hockey Wife

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.

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