Chapter Ten
Down the Rabbit Hole
Winnie
I’ve tried everything. Warm milk (disgusting). Meditation app (too many wind chimes). Counting sheep (boring). Reading (my brain won’t focus). I even did a twenty-minute yoga flow in my living room, which usually knocks me right out.
Nothing.
My mind keeps spinning, circling back to the same thing—the same person—no matter how hard I try to redirect it.
Banks Callahan.
My fake boyfriend. My human shield. The man who held my hand today like it were a live grenade he wasn’t sure how to defuse.
I know almost nothing about him. We’re supposed to be dating, yet I couldn’t tell you his middle name, his birthday, or where he went to high school. All I know is that he’s huge, grumpy, has no favorite color, and grew up “here and there”—whatever that means.
It’s not enough. If someone asks me about him, I need to have answers. This is research. Reconnaissance. Totally justified.
That’s what I tell myself as I grab my laptop and settle against my headboard.
I type “Banks Callahan hockey” into Google and hit enter.
The results load instantly. Wikipedia. Sports news sites, highlight reels. I click on the Wikipedia page first because it seems like the most efficient place to start.
Banks Callahan American professional ice hockey defenseman
The basics are all there, laid out in neat little boxes. Born: April 13, 1997. That makes him… almost thirty. His birthday is coming up soon, actually. I file that away for later.
Height: 6’4”
I knew he was tall, but seeing it written out makes me realize just how much he towers over me. I’m 5’6”. He has ten inches on me. That’s almost a foot.
Weight: 225 pounds.
All muscle, from what I can tell. I think about how his T-shirt stretched across his shoulders today, the solid wall of his chest when we stood close.
Position: Defenseman.
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 meet in 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.
It’s like he didn’t exist before he was drafted.
I search for “Banks Callahan family” and get nothing relevant. “Banks Callahan hometown” brings up a single article that mentions he was “raised in the Midwest” with no further details. “Banks Callahan parents” yields zero results.
Who is this guy?
Everyone has a past. Everyone has a story—where they grew up, who raised them, what made them who they are. But Banks is a blank page. A ghost with a Wikipedia entry and eight hundred penalty minutes.
Maybe he’s hiding something. Or hiding from something.
I dig deeper, searching through old interviews. Most of them are useless—generic questions about games, teammates, and playoff hopes. Banks gives the same non-answers every time: short sentences, no elaboration. “We played well.” “The team is focused.” “I just try to do my job.”
Then I find one from three years ago, right after he was traded to New York. A reporter asked about his background, and for once, the question made it into print.
Reporter: You’ve been traded twice now. Do you feel like New York could be home?
Callahan: I don’t really think about it that way.
Reporter: What about your life before hockey? Where did you grow up? Family?
Callahan: [long pause] I’d rather talk about the game.
That’s it. That’s all he gave them. And somehow, even in print, I can feel the walls going up—the door slamming closed.
I’d rather talk about the game.
Who says that? Who refuses to mention their family, their childhood, anything personal at all? Someone with something to hide.
I close my laptop and stare at the ceiling, processing everything I’ve learned.
Banks Callahan. The Wall. Eight hundred penalty minutes and a reputation for violence.
But with me, he’s… gentle.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what we’re doing. But as I finally drift off to sleep, I can’t stop thinking about the man behind the stats.
And I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve barely scratched the surface.