“Ooooh, that’s gonna leave a mark.” John Kowalsky sucked a breath between his teeth and winced. Across the bedroom, a whistle blew from the sound bar beneath his fifty-five-inch television. “Georgie honey, have you seen the remote?”

Without lifting her gaze from the magazine in her lap, Georgeanne Kowalsky stretched a hand toward the bedside table. Her fingers slid across the smooth oak, skimming a Kleenex box, cell phone, jar of rocks, and finally the remote control. “Here you go,” she said as she handed it to the man in bed beside her.

“Thanks.” A whistle blew once more, followed by the slap of hockey sticks and grunts of colliding bodies that filled the bedroom of their home on the southern tip of Mercer Island.

“Kelly skates like his ass is a pylon.”

Georgeanne’s gaze skimmed a biscuit recipe from Southern Living as her husband indulged in his nightly ritual, insulting hockey players and channel surfing.

This was Georgeanne’s favorite time of day, when she could escape her daily routine. When John was beside her and not on the road. When she could breathe easy in the knowledge that her husband and each of her three children were safe and sound and where they were supposed to be. When she could relax, lulled into a comfortable routine, curled up beside her sweetheart, best friend, and lover.

“For shit’s sake. Hit that son of a bitch. What’s wrong with these young guys?” He pointed the remote across the room and answered his own question. “They’re more concerned with their flow than putting points on the board.”

Georgeanne chuckled. John had lived in the United States for thirty of his fifty-six years. He talked and walked like a natural-born citizen and often teased her about her Texas accent that clung to her like plastic wrap, but when riled, John sounded like a Canadian with his “oats” and “aboats.” Occasionally, he even threw in a few “ehs.”

“All that hair product has shrunk their balls and now they shoot like girls.”

Georgeanne raised her gaze from the magazine and watched John cross his big arms over his bare chest. She’d heard this particular rant for years. The first time had been in 1996 when he’d gone on about Jaromir Jagr and the “girly curls” flowing from his helmet.

“God, what a sissy.”

She glanced at the television screen as a New York Ranger slammed the sissy in question against the boards. His black “flow,” wet from exertion, curled like big commas from beneath his helmet. “Didn’t y’all offer Pittsburgh twelve million for Knox?”

“Not me. I didn’t.” John pointed the remote at his chest. “I hate the guy.”

Until Georgeanne had met John “The Wall” Kowalsky, she’d known very little about hockey. Over the past twenty-one years, she’d learned a thing or two. Like she knew that “snipe” and “snap” were two totally different things. She’d learned the difference between a restricted and unrestricted free agent, and she knew that the beginning of each regular season signaled wild talks of trades and wilder rumors of trades. It was November and no different from any other year, as far as she could tell. “Has Pittsburgh matched the offer?”

“Not yet but they will.” John lowered his hand to his right thigh. “He finished last season with eighty-nine points.”

She also knew that her husband missed being out on the ice, playing the game he loved. She licked her thumb and turned a page in her magazine. He missed shit-talking in a face-off as he waited for the puck to drop.

They’d become predictable, she and John. An old married couple in their fifties, with two children gone from home. Their oldest daughter, Lexie, was on a buying trip in Stockholm, visiting some of the best textile showrooms in the world. It seemed crazy, but her dog apparel business was thriving. Their second was in her sophomore year at Villanova, studying political science. Their son, Jon Jon, was asleep in his bed down the hall.

Predictable. There was something to be said for the comfort and ease of predictability. The luxurious warmth of loving a man so much and for so long that you couldn’t recall a time when you didn’t love him. A man who knew you inside and out and loved you without limit. A man who was your rock, and you were his soft place to land.

“Did you see that?”

“No,” she answered without looking up from a perfectly staged picnic scene. The lifestyle program that Georgeanne had started in 1996, on a small Seattle cable station, had gone into syndication and was seen across the country. She was no Martha Stewart, but Life With Georgeanne had a respectable—

“He can’t take a hit worth a shit,” John scoffed, then finally remembered to apologize for his language. “Sorry,” he said, although she doubted he was sorry at all. He pointed the remote at the television. “I can’t watch this. Knox is such a girly man.”

A smile curved a corner of Georgeanne’s lips as she flipped another page. John was many different things to different people. To hockey fans, he was John “The Wall” Kowalsky, Stanley Cup champion and one of the greatest NHL players of all time. To the people of Seattle, he was head coach of the Chinooks. To his friends, he was the guy you wanted in your corner. To his children, he was the best dad in the world, and to her, he was John. Protective and loyal to those he loved. Dismissive and rude to those he did not. By turns exasperating and calm, but always predictable. Or perhaps she just knew him. Knew his heart and soul and his nightly routine. He watched hockey just long enough to call the players sissies, or worse. Then he’d surf channels until he found something educational. Something to “fill his dome” like PBS or National Geographic, or, like tonight, Nova.

“Future astronomers will not be able to tell that our universe was born in a big bang . . .” The remote paused long enough to learn a nugget or two. “. . . Dark energy itself will destroy dark energy . . .” When he’d had enough of Public Television, he surfed stations until he hit on his guilty pleasure: reality television. The guilty pleasure he could shit-talk to his heart’s content.

“Tonight on this season’s first episode of Gettin’ Hitched, twenty beautiful young women from across the country are here at the Hitchin’ House. All gussied up and just busting at the seams to meet the current bachelor . . . Peter Dalton!”

“Where do they get these people?” He settled back against the pillows and dropped the remote on the bed beside him as the contestants began to introduce themselves.

“I’m Mandy Crumb from Wooster, Ohio. I love chili cook-offs and the Cleveland Indians!”

“Look at Mandy, all dressed up like a slutty hillbilly,” John scoffed.

“I’m Cindy Lee Melton from Clearwater, Florida.”

“Those shorts are so tight, they look painful, Cindy Lee.”

“I love hot summer nights and jazz.”

Georgeanne glanced at the television long enough to take in a young woman dressed in tiny cutoff shorts with the tails of her red gingham shirt tied between her breasts climbing down from a big tractor. It was a good thing the woman had small breasts or she’d fall out of the little shirt. Georgeanne never would have been able to wear a shirt like that. Not since she’d been twelve, anyway.

“I’m Davina Gerardo from Scottsdale, Arizona.”

“I bet your daddy’s real proud, Davina Gerardo from Arizona.” John shook his head in gleeful disgust.

“I love eighteen holes and the smell of fresh cut grass at We-Ko-Pa.”

Georgeanne returned her attention to the biscuit recipe and answered John’s first question. “I think they get these girls from strip clubs.”

“I’m Jenny Douglas from Salem, Oregon. I love rain puddles and karaoke.”

“Strippers aren’t that desperate.” He punched a pillow behind his back and settled in. “Not that I’d know,” he added.

“Of course not.”

“I can’t believe they put this kind of shit on TV,” he complained, but he didn’t change the channel, and Georgeanne smiled.

“I’m Summer Williams from Bell Buckle, Tennessee. I love Muddy Waters and traveling back roads.”

“Too easy. I like a challenge, Summer,” John drawled, imitating her accent. “You shot that one right to me but I’m not taking your garbage goal.”

“I’m Whitney Sue Allen from Paducah, Kentucky.”

“You’re so pale, you look inbred.”

“John . . .” Georgeanne sighed.

“I love yoga and Daddy’s peach wine.”

“Of course you do. Your daddy is your own granddaddy.”

“Not nice, John. Don’t forget that I’m a Texan. Just because she’s from the South doesn’t make her inbred.”

“It would explain this show.” He paused as if in deep contemplation. “Inbred as hell and fed lead paint from toxic baby bottles.”

Georgeanne looked at the television and the barefoot girl climbing down from the tractor before joining the others. “More likely they just weren’t raised right.” She turned her attention to her husband, and his dark blue gaze fixed on the reality show. “Bless their hearts.”

“Their mothers should be whacked with an idiot stick.” Without taking his attention from the TV, he leaned to his left and grabbed a bottle of water from the nightstand. “And their fathers should have their nuts snipped off.” He chuckled at his own joke. There wasn’t anyone on the planet who thought he was as funny as he did himself. “Jesus.” He sat up as if the pillows had ejected him forward, and the bottle launched across the room.

“John—”

“I’m Lexie Kowalsky from Seattle, Washington.” Georgeanne felt her brows rocket to her hairline as her head whipped around. “I love Chinooks hockey and my dog, Yum Yum.”

Georgeanne blinked several times at the impossible sight of her oldest daughter climbing down from a tractor, her butt cheeks showing beneath her shorts, her large breasts threatening to bounce out of her top, all captured in ultrahigh definition.

Lexie straightened, tossed her blond hair, and gave the camera a big white smile that had once cost her parents thousands in orthodontia.

Georgeanne choked and couldn’t get words out. She turned to her husband and pointed at their daughter, who was supposed to be in Stockholm.

John’s stunned gaze met hers, but he had no problem getting his words out. “What the fuck?”