I knew that one.
NHL Draft: 2015, Round 2, Pick 47.
So he was drafted young. Eighteen, if my math is right. That’s impressive—I think. I don’t know enough about hockey to gauge how impressive, but it sounds impressive.
Current Team: New York Knights.
Obviously.
Then I see it in the info box on the side:
Salary: $8.2 million.
I blink and read it again. $8.2 million dollars. Per year.
I mean, I knew hockey players made good money. I work for an NHL team. But seeing the number attached to Banks specifically—Banks, who wears faded T-shirts and drives a truck that looks like it’s seen better days—is jarring.
I scroll down, skimming the career section. Drafted by Detroit, traded to Tampa Bay after two seasons, traded again to New York three years ago. The article mentions his reputation as an enforcer, his penalty minutes, his “physical style of play.”
There’s a section called “Playing Style” that reads:
Callahan is known for his aggressive defensive play and willingness to drop the gloves in protection of teammates. He has accumulated over 800 penalty minutes throughout his career, ranking him among the league leaders in that category. Nicknamed “The Wall” for his ability to shut down opposing forwards, Callahan is considered one of the most intimidating players in the NHL.
Eight hundred penalty minutes. I don’t know exactly what that means, but it sounds like a lot—a lot of fighting, a lot of aggression.
I think about the man who held my hand today, whose palm was sweaty with nerves.
That guy has eight hundred penalty minutes?
I click on the “Images” tab because I’m a glutton for punishment.
The screen fills with photos. Banks on the ice, stick in hand, face set in that familiar scowl; Banks in his blue Knights jersey, mid-game, looking like he’s about to murder someone; Banks without his helmet, dark hair sweaty and disheveled, jaw clenched.
There are a few photos of him fighting—actually fighting, fists flying, blood on the ice. In one, he’s got another player by the jersey, arm cocked back, face twisted with rage. It’s brutal. Visceral. Nothing like the awkward, stiff man who lingered by my yoga studio.
But then I find other photos: Banks at a charity event, kneeling next to a kid in a wheelchair, almost smiling; Banks in a suit at some gala, looking deeply uncomfortable but objectively… handsome? Is that the right word?
I study that photo longer than I should. The suit fits him well—tailored to accommodate his wide shoulders. His hair is styled, pushed back from his face. His jaw is clean-shaven, without the five o’clock shadow I’m used to seeing on him. And those eyes—dark, intense, even in a still image.
He’s attractive. In a growly, I-might-kill-you-or-I-might-kiss-you kind of way.
Not that it matters. This is fake. My attraction to him is irrelevant.
I click on a highlight reel video, then immediately regret it. It’s five minutes of Banks hitting people. Hard. Checking them into the boards, dropping his gloves, throwing punches. The crowd cheers every time. The commentators call him “a force of nature” and “the last guy you want to meetin a dark alley.”
I watch the whole thing anyway.
There’s something mesmerizing about it—the controlled violence, the precision. He’s not just brawling; he’s strategic. Protecting his teammates. Sending a message. Every fight has a purpose, even if that purpose is just “don’t mess with us.”
Is this what he meant when he said he’d “handle it”? Is this how he solves problems—with his fists?
And yet he held my hand with such tenderness.
I close the video and go back to Google, searching for something more personal. Interviews. Features. Anything that tells me who Banks Callahan is when he’s not on the ice.
The pickings are slim.
Most of the articles are game recaps, injury reports, and trade rumors. There’s almost nothing about his life outside hockey—no features about his hometown, no stories about his family, no “get to know the players” fluff pieces where he talks about his hobbies or favorite movies.
