“For Banks? Yeah, kind of.” She studies my face. “He was protecting Zayden. That hit was dirty—the guy could’ve seriously hurt him. Banks made sure he knew there’d be consequences.”
“By punching him repeatedly in the face?”
“By sending a message.” Tori shrugs. “It’s hockey. It’s what enforcers do.”
Thankfully Zayden appears to be alright. He skated back to the team bench and sits there now, looking slightly pissed. I look back at the penalty box. Banks is still there, towel pressed to his lip, staring at the ice. He looks calm. Unbothered.
The rest of the game passes in a blur. The Knights win 3-2, Zayden apparently uninjured, the dirty-hit player subdued for the rest of the night. Banks returned to the ice after his penalty and played the remaining periods without incident.
But I can’t stop seeing it. The blood. The brutality. The look on his face when our eyes met.
After the final buzzer, Tori leads me down toward the locker room area. “Come on. We usually wait for them here.”
“I can just go home—”
“Winnie. You’re his girlfriend. Fake or not, you should be here.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. But my stomach is in knots as we join the cluster of women waiting in the hallway. The locker room door opens periodically, releasing players in various states of post-game disarray. Archer emerges first, sweeping his wife into a hug while his twins cling to his legs. Logan bounces out next, high-fiving everyone in sight.
Then Banks.
He’s changed out of his gear and into the suit and tie he’s expected to wear. His hair is still damp from the shower. His lip is swollen, split down the middle, held together with what looks like butterfly bandages. His knuckles are wrapped in white tape.
He looks like he went ten rounds in a boxing ring.
He looks like he won.
Our eyes meet, and he stops walking. Just stands there in the middle of the hallway, watching me like he’s not sure what kind of reception he’s going to get.
I close the distance between us.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.”
“You didn’t have to wait,” he says. “It’s late.”
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine.” He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s part of the game.”
“Getting punched in the face is part of the game?”
He doesn’t even flinch. “Protecting myteammates is part of the game.”
I look at his lip—swollen, split. Then at his knuckles, wrapped and probably throbbing underneath.
“Banks.” Without thinking, I reach up and touch his jaw. Gently. Carefully. My fingers brush against the stubble on his cheek, avoiding the split lip but close enough that I can feel the warmth of his skin.
He goes completely still.
Not rigid like before, when holding my hand made him freeze up. This is different. This is… arrested. Like I’ve stopped time. Like he’s afraid to breathe in case it makes me pull away.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
His throat moves as he swallows. “No.” His voice is rough, barely above a whisper. “Not anymore.”
We stand there. My hand on his face. His eyes on mine. The hallway full of people, none of them paying us any attention.
