Page 7 of Hockey Wife

As relieved as she felt to not have to come up with a less clichéd origin story, Georgia knew the reason for her parents’ disinterest: they didn’t believe this was planned. It was the ultimate game of chicken, waiting for the other side to crack. They expected she’d come to them in a couple of weeks asking for help.

Meanwhile Georgia had to figure out how to convince the man she’d married to stay that way.

3

It’s just a door.

Georgia stood opposite a hunk of oak with two hockey sticks crossed like cutlasses above the entrance, telling herself this obvious thing about the barrier before her. A piece of wood. The entry to a place of business.

Just a door.

He might not be here. After all, he hadn’t been here last night or the night before. Then she’d figured out that the team’s schedule was public information and that the Chicago Rebels, one of the city’s two pro hockey franchises, had been playing away for the last few days.

But not tonight. No game on the calendar, and a little bird had confirmed the players would be hanging at their usual haunt, the Empty Net. Not that Tara Fitzpatrick knew the value of the information she was sharing. Georgia’s hair stylist also happened to be married to the team’s general manager, and while Georgia hadn’t gone to get her usual balayage done two weeks earlier than usual with information-seeking in mind, she was happy to encourage Tara to chat about “her boys,” how psyched they were after their win in New York, and how they would be celebrating at the Net, as she called it.

Georgia had nodded abstractly, acting as if this precious intel wasn’t exactly what she needed to hear.

A couple overtook her, the bar their destination. The man, built and strong, placed the hand not circling his companion’s waist on the door just as the woman turned to Georgia. Almost as tall as her date, she had an athletic build and amazing cheekbones.

“You okay?” the woman asked, a compassion in her expression that felt surprisingly welcome this minute.

“Me? Oh, fine.”

The woman gave Georgia a subtle once-over, taking in her pink Rebecca Vallance cocktail dress and Jimmy Choo Bee pumps (Jimmy had claimed he was inspired by her—you are always buzzing away, Georgia!—of course she had to wear them). It was early April and a touch chilly, so a woman in an off the shoulder sequined gown standing outside a bar typically frequented by hockey players and their fandom might understandably look a tad out of place.

“If you’re sure …”

Georgia smiled, which was usually enough to assure the world she was whatever she needed them to think.

“Just waiting on someone.”

The man gave a brief tug on the woman’s waist. She subtly resisted.

“Warmer inside,” she said, apparently not buying what Georgia was selling.

Georgia doubted that. She had a feeling it was about to get chilly awfully quick.

“I’ll be in soon. Thanks.”

Not quite satisfied, the woman nodded and headed inside with her companion. After a count of five, Georgia followed her.

The Empty Net was, as the kids would say, hopping. A quick scan told her all she needed to know. Sports people, not her demo at all, but she could spot a groupie and hanger-on at twenty paces. Plenty of those here in team gear, though she doubted trashy crop tops emblazoned with R for Rebels were official merchandise. After a quick study of the battlefield, she finally fixed her gaze on the bar and the one person she recognized. Dex O’Malley was a hockey player and her next-door neighbor and had no idea what was about to go down.

She could have asked Dex if her target was around, just knocked on his door and politely enquired where a particular teammate lived or if she could get his number, like one of these rabid fan girls. But then she’d have to explain herself, and there was no guarantee that he’d want to see her. Not after how she’d behaved.

Instead, she was here, planning an ambush because that was a much better idea.

Dex must have spotted her approach because he was half-smiling in surprise by the time she arrived.

“Hey, Dex.”

“Georgia. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing.” She cast her gaze around, seeking out a set of broad shoulders, a dark warrior, a man alone. Nothing jumped out above the heads of the crowd.

Back to her neighbor. “So this is what this bar looks like. I’ve always wondered.”

A bit of a himbo, Dex also happened to be a complete sweetheart and was once a frequent guest at her notorious parties. Not anymore. The guy was trying to be a very good boy after his arrest following a fight with another player. (A volunteer gig at an animal shelter was his penance.) She’d been keeping an eye on him during this tricky time, but Dex was not her mission tonight.

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