Chapter Twelve
Blood on the Ice
Winnie
“You’ve really never been to a hockey game?”
Tori looks at me like I’ve just admitted I’ve never eaten pizza or seen the sun.
“I’ve watched them on TV,” I offer weakly. “Parts of them. When I was flipping channels.”
“That doesn’t count.” She grabs my arm and steers me through the crowd toward the arena entrance. “This is going to change your life. Trust me. One game and you’ll either be obsessed or traumatized. There’s no in-between.”
The Knights’ home arena is buzzing with thousands of fans in blue and white jerseys.
The energy is electric, palpable, like the building itself is vibrating with anticipation.
Vendors hawk overpriced beer and hot dogs.
Kids clutch foam fingers and bags of colorful cotton candy.
Everyone seems to know exactly where they’re going except me.
I feel like a tourist in my own city.
Tori navigates the chaos with practiced ease, flashing credentials at security checkpoints and leading me up escalators until we reach a section near the glass. The seats are incredible—close enough to see individual players, to hear the crack of sticks against ice.
“WAG section,” Tori explains, settling into her seat. “Wives and girlfriends. Though technically I’m a fiancée, so I’m in a gray area.”
“And I’m a fake girlfriend, so I’m in an even grayer area.”
“Shh.” She elbows me. “No one here knows that. As far as they’re concerned, you’re Banks Callahan’s woman, and you’re here to support your man.”
My man. The words feel strange. Foreign.
“There are other girlfriends here?”
“A few. Archer’s wife, Bree, is down there with the twins.” She points to a frazzled-looking woman wrangling two small children several rows ahead. “And that’s Logan’s sister—he gets her tickets sometimes. I think that redhead is dating one of the assistant coaches.”
I nod, absorbing this new world I’ve stumbled into.
The lights dim, and the crowd erupts. Music blares—something loud and aggressive with a thumping bass line—and the players take the ice for warmups. I scan the blue jerseys, looking for number 44.
Banks is impossible to miss. Even among a team of oversized athletes, he stands out. Taller than most. Broader. Moving with a controlled power that makes everyone else look almost graceful by comparison.
He’s wearing a helmet now, his face partially obscured, but I’d recognize those shoulders anywhere.
“There’s your boy,” Tori says, nudging me.
“He’s not my—”
“Whatever.” She grins. “He looks good out there, right? All intense and murder-y?”
He does look good. Not that I’d admit it out loud. But there’s something mesmerizing about watching him move, the effortless glide of his skates, the way he handles the puck during drills.
The warmups end, and the players retreat to the locker room. The arena lights shift, the energy building toward the opening faceoff. I find myself leaning forward in my seat, caught up in the anticipation despite myself.
“Okay,” Tori says, sensing my confusion. “Quick primer. Three periods, twenty minutes each. They’re trying to get the puck in the other team’s net. That’s basically it.”
“What about all the… hitting?”
“Legal, mostly. It’s called checking. Banks does a lot of it.” She pauses. “He also does a lot of fighting, which is technically illegal but also kind of expected? It’s complicated.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Hockey is chaotic and violent and weirdly beautiful.” She squeezes my arm. “You’ll love it. Or, like I said, you’ll be traumatized. Either way, it’s an experience.”
The teams return to the ice, and the game begins.
The first period is… a lot.
The speed is the first thing that hits me.
I’ve watched hockey on TV, but the screen doesn’t capture how fast everything moves.
The players are a blur of motion, weaving and colliding and chasing the puck with single-minded intensity.
The sound is overwhelming—skates carving ice, sticks clashing, bodies slamming into boards with bone-rattling thuds.
And the crowd. The crowd never stops. Cheering, groaning, chanting things I don’t understand. It’s like being inside a living, breathing organism made entirely of noise and emotion.
I try to follow the puck, but it’s almost impossible. It moves too fast, disappearing and reappearing like some kind of magic trick. I give up and focus on the players instead.
On Banks.
He’s not flashy like some of the guys, moving efficiently and making highlight-reel plays. He’s solid. Steady. A wall that opposing players crash against and crumble. I watch him check someone from the other team—perfectly timed, perfectly legal—and the guy goes flying.
The crowd roars. I wince.
“That’s your boyfriend,” Tori says proudly.
“He just destroyed that person.”
“That’s his job. Protect the net. Protect his teammates. Destroy anyone who gets in the way. Stop them from scoring.”
I think about the man who held my hand. Who gave me his jacket when I was cold.
That same man just sent a two-hundred-pound athlete spinning across the ice like a hockey puck himself.
The first period ends with the score tied 1-1. I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“See?” Tori says. “Not so scary.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far.”
After a short break, the second period starts, and the energy shifts. The game is more physical now, more aggressive. Players are hitting harder, skating faster, emotions running higher. I can feel the tension building, like a storm gathering on the horizon.
Zayden has the puck now, skating toward the opposing goal. He’s fast—all grace and skill and determination—but the defenseman closing in on him is faster. Bigger.
The hit comes out of nowhere.
One second Zayden is skating; the next he’s slamming into the boards. His helmet bounces off the glass. His body crumples. The crowd gasps collectively, and Tori grabs my arm hard enough to bruise.
“Zay—” she breathes.
But I’m not watching Zayden.
I’m watching Banks.
He was across the ice when the hit happened. Now he’s moving, skating toward the defenseman who delivered the blow with a speed that seems impossible for someone his size. His stick clatters to the ice. His gloves follow.
Oh no.
Oh no, oh no, oh no.
The other player sees him coming. He barely has time to drop his own gloves before Banks is on him.
The fight is nothing like the movies. There’s no dramatic circling, no trash talk, no buildup. It’s immediate and brutal—two men grabbing each other’s jerseys and throwing punches with everything they have.
Banks takes a hit to the face. His head snaps back, and there’s blood on his lip.
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He absorbs the punch and delivers one of his own, connecting with the other player’s jaw. Then another. And another.
The crowd is screaming. Tori is screaming. I’m frozen in my seat, unable to look away, unable to process what I’m seeing.
This is the man who watches Bake Off and shares his protein bars.
This is the man who’s currently beating another human being bloody in front of twenty thousand people.
The refs finally intervene, pulling them apart. Banks’s lip is split, blood streaming down his chin. His knuckles look raw and swollen. But his expression is calm. Almost serene. Like this is just another day at the office.
They escort him to the penalty box, and he goes without protest. He sits down on the bench, grabs a towel, and presses it to his mouth.
Then he looks up.
Into the crowd. Scanning. Searching.
His eyes find mine.
I don’t know what my face looks like, but I can guess. Horrified. Shocked. Maybe a little scared.
Something flickers across his face—concern, maybe, or regret—and he holds my gaze for a long moment before looking away.
“Holy shit,” Tori breathes beside me. “That was intense.”
I can’t speak. My heart is hammering. My hands are shaking.
“Hey.” Tori touches my arm. “Are you okay?”
“Is that normal?”
“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 my teammates 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.
Something is shifting between us. I can feel it. Like tectonic plates moving, slow and inevitable and impossible to stop.
“Well, well, well.”
A voice breaks the spell.
Logan is standing a few feet away, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Look at you two. Being all cute and couple-y in the hallway.”
I pull my hand back quickly. Too quickly. Banks’s jaw tightens.
“Some of us are going to O’Malley’s,” Logan continues, oblivious to the moment he just shattered. “Drinks. Celebration. You know the drill.” He looks at Banks. “You’re coming, right? You never come, but now you have a girlfriend, so you have to come. It’s the rules.”
“There are no rules,” Banks says flatly.
“There are definitely rules. Ask anyone.” Logan turns to me. “You’ll make him come, right? Tell him it’ll be fun.”
I look at Banks. He’s already shaking his head slightly, preparing his excuse.
“One drink,” I say before I can stop myself. “Come on. It’ll be fun.” I reach out and take his hand—the one that isn’t bruised and wrapped in tape. “Your teammates want to celebrate. You helped them win. The least you can do is show up for one drink.”
“She’s got you there,” Logan says gleefully.
Banks looks at our joined hands, then at my face. Something softens in his expression.
“Okay,” he agrees.
Logan whoops and takes off down the hallway, probably to spread the news that we’re going to someplace called O’Malley’s.
Banks and I are left standing there, still holding hands.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says quietly.
“Do what?”
“Wait for me. Touch my face. Convince me to go to a bar.”
“I know.” I squeeze his hand. “I wanted to.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me with that unreadable expression, his split lip, bruised knuckles, and tired eyes.
Tori appears at my elbow, practically vibrating with excitement. “O’Malley’s? Did I hear O’Malley’s? Zay’s already getting the car.” She looks at our joined hands and grins. “Well, aren’t you two adorable.”
“Shut up,” I say.
“Never.” She links her arm through mine. “Come on. Let’s go get drinks with your fake boyfriend and watch him try not to squirm.”