Page 85 of Hockey Wife

Was she excited to be here?

Did she understand what was going on?

Why the hell was she all he could see, her platinum crown a beacon in the wave of blue-and-white, a lighthouse calling him in? (Though lighthouses were supposed to keep ships away from rocky shores, not draw them closer to oblivion.)

Even if he couldn’t have picked her out, it wouldn’t have mattered. The Jumbotron was determined to show her at every opportunity, which is how he knew she was wearing his Rebels jersey. That his wife had his name on her back, a proxy for his claim on her, turned him on in a big way. He should not be going there, but once the idea took root, it was all he could think of.

And what it would be like to peel that jersey off her later.

“Banks!” He looked up. Coach had that exasperated look on his face that indicated he’d been screaming his head off for longer than he felt necessary.

Focus, man. Get it together.

The first period ended, scoreless, and Banks skated off with O’Malley by his side.

“Georgia’s here, huh?” Kind of shifty with it.

“Yep.”

“First time at a hockey game?”

“No idea.”

“Still keeping your cards close to your chest, then.”

He accepted skate guards from an assistant. “Just don’t have a whole lot to say.”

“Is that a dig at me because I can’t shut up about Ash?”

“Sure. Now how about you zip it and let me focus during the break?”

O’Malley just grinned. Like Kershaw, another chatty fucker, he was impossible to offend. Since he’d pulled his head out of his ass and found true love, he thought he was a cut above the rest of the singletons on the team.

But you’re not single. You are husband to a queen, and well and truly fucked.

With the start of the second period, he resolved to apply every ounce of concentration to Game Freakin’ 1. His job was hockey player, not husband, and he needed to put all thoughts of his hot wife aside and set about scoring.

On his first shift in, he won the face-off, natch, and passed to O’Malley. Back to center, a flick to Petrov, who sent it around the back of the net where O’Malley was waiting. After a few more seconds of do-si-do, Banks spotted an opening. The Boston tender was a couple of inches off his line and McMillan, their D-man, had moved too far left. Petrov was waiting for the setup, but Banks could already visualize the throughline. The second the puck left his stick he knew it was destined for the back of the net.

The buzzer went off and finally, the Rebels were on the scoreboard.

McMillan was pissed, enough to whack at the puck and send it flying toward the plexi. Only it missed and went over the glass into the crowd, a result that became obvious when a groan went up in response.

But there was more. Shouting, sort of high-pitched, and the realization that the puck hadn’t merely landed in the crowd.

It had hit someone.

The officials weren’t restarting the game and that was usually down to one reason: a spectator needed a medic. Banks paid more attention now, especially as the puck had landed close to the players’ comp section. His first thought was Connie, but he immediately spotted her, looking uninjured, thank God. His mom was beside her, moving, then standing. She was fine, too.

Please let no one he knew be hurt. Not that he’d wish it on anyone else, but—shit, there was no way to make that palatable. Someone else stood and he recognized April from the back. Skating closer, he sought her out, willing her to turn to him. When she didn’t, he moved along the row.

Georgia was supposed to be sitting next to her, but Sandy was blocking his view. Get the fuck out of the way!

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched with an increasing sense of panic as medics made their way to the section. April turned around and met his gaze squarely, mouthing the words he did not want to hear.

It’s Georgia.

Georgia was hurt.

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