Page 89 of Hockey Wife

He had heard the panic in her voice, and he knew this was what she needed. It was like she could breathe again.

His lips tugged at hers, parting them, taking control. She felt the press of his hands to her waist and the subtle dig of his fingers into her flesh, like he was molding her to a calmer state. Before the kiss went too deep, he pulled back.

“This isn’t your fault. It could have happened to anyone, and I’m so fucking relieved it didn’t blind you or break your nose or give you a brain injury. You could have blacked out and woken up forgetting we were married.”

She blinked. “And that would be a bad thing?”

“A terrible thing.”

He wanted her to remember they were married. To remember them.

“But you missed the rest of the game.”

“You think that was important to me?”

She placed a fist against his chest. “Yes! It was Game 1 of the playoffs. At home. In front of your family. And you scored a goal. After a season where your face-time percentage is the highest in the league.”

“It’s face-offs, but I like your spin on it.” He raised an eyebrow. “Someone’s been doing her homework.”

“I told you! I have all the freakin’ knowledge.”

That made him laugh, a deep rumble that she’d take to her grave as her favorite sound in the world. All the more precious for its rarity.

His gaze dipped to her mouth again, then down over her blood-stained Rebels jersey. His demeanor turned grave again.

“I’m okay, Dylan.”

He blew out a breath, a hot puff of air that tickled her lips. She wanted him to kiss her again, to peel off this jersey, the one with his name. To move those hot, rough hands over her skin.

He curled a hand around her neck and used his thumb to hold her still while he looked her over. “My wife took a puck to the head. If I wasn’t so worried I’d be pretty proud.”

That thrill through her body when he said “my wife” was a dangerous, dangerous thing.

“I’ve got the scar to prove it.”

“A keepsake for when this is over.”

Her heart dropped to the floor tile. Of course he had the end in sight, as he should. He’d want his no-drama life back.

His family would be leaving soon, and Banks would probably want to start the process of separation. He wouldn’t need to have Georgia on site any longer. Sure he might pretend for Connie, but the mental severance would begin. It would be better for his game, for his life, for his sanity.

But what about her life? Her sanity? She wanted something to remember, something to hold onto. This scar wouldn’t be enough.

His hand stayed where it was, his thumb tracing a gentle line over her cheekbone and jawline.

“Come on, Champ, let’s check in on Cheddar then get you to bed.”

She turned back to her herbal tea, seeking the calm his callused hands couldn’t give her. Wishing like hell she was brave enough to ask for what she really needed.

By the time he came out of the bathroom, Georgia was under the covers, curled up like a cat. Seeing her lying there, vulnerable and quiet, almost had him shaking again.

He’d thought he lost her.

Overstating it, maybe, but a puck to the head was not trivial. There could have been brain damage, and even now there might be lasting effects. All because he asked her to sit in his section.

Insisted. Not for his family, not to save face. Because he wanted people to know his wife was there, rooting for him. He wanted to show her off.

What a selfish fuck he was.

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