Gloves Off: a marriage of convenience hockey romance (Vancouver Storm Book 4)

“The league’s best goaltender and Vezina Trophy winner three seasons in a row Jamie Streicher wants to know, who’s messier?” Miller asks.

We hold up our boards and Miller lights up with surprise. The audience applauds.

We glance at each other’s boards—we’ve both written her name.

“Wow.” I turn back around. “You admitted a fault. A first for you.”

A quiet scoff. “Because I’m so insecure?”

A weird feeling stabs beneath my ribcage. I didn’t mean to say that earlier. I don’t know why she gets this reaction out of me. I lose control around her, say things I don’t mean.

“Our favorite bartender couldn’t make it tonight but Jordan wants to know, where was your first date?”

I write down my answer, praying the doctor writes the same one. We hold our boards up and Miller reads the name of the restaurant where Owens, Darcy, the doctor and I went last year on the double date.

Our gazes meet, the hostility in her eyes dimming. She gives me a subtle nod, and I nod back. See? We can do this.

“They’re finding their rhythm,” Miller says. “Coach Tate Ward wants to know, what was Alexei surprised to learn about Georgia?”

I scrawl my answer, and the corner of my mouth twitches. I hold my sign up and the crowd laughs. Her morning breath can wake the dead.

“Volkov, I swear to god,” she mutters as everyone chuckles.

“It would look weird if I suddenly started acting too much like Owens or Miller.”

“This one is from a new member to the team, Luca Walker. What’s Alexei’s dark secret?”

Big fan of dog shows and cries when the dogs win, the doctor writes.

Everyone awwws. On the mic, Miller shakes his head, smiling. “Volkov, under all the pins and plates holding you together, we knew you had a heart.”

Beside me, the doctor stiffens before she flips her hair over her shoulder.

“This next question is inappropriate.” Miller’s grin turns mischievous. “I want to know, who looks better naked?”

For a split second, I picture it—the doctor spread out on my bed, beneath me, all that pale, soft-looking skin on display, wearing only that wicked smile.

My groin tightens.

We both write the doctor’s name. It would look weird if I wrote my own name for this. Anyone can see she’s a knockout. This whole thing would crumble into dust if I can’t even admit she’s attractive.

Her boyfriend sees her naked, an ugly, irritating voice whispers in my head, and I grip the marker. Whoever Damon is, I hate him.

“Who’s more likely to burn the house down while cooking?”

We both write the doctor’s name.noveldrama

“Who has the better hair?”

Again, obviously the doctor, but she surprises me by writing my name. I lift my brows at her. “You like my hair?”

Her gaze skates over my hair, lingering. “It’s not your worst trait.”

Huh. Another almost-compliment.

“Who snores the loudest?”

We both write my name, and when the crowd laughs, we glance at each other. There’s something in her expression, a flicker of what my teammates and I feel when we score a goal. She’s competitive, and she likes winning. One of the very few things we have in common.

“All right.” Miller tilts that smile at us. “I’m beginning to see why these two work so well together. This question is from Darcy Andersen of the analytics team. Which pair of Georgia’s shoes is Alexei’s favorite?”

I pause with my marker hovering over the board. She has this black pair with little bows on the ankles. Sharp and pointy. Bright red soles that flash like the flick of a tongue as she walks away, swaying her hips. They’re terrifying and aggressive and look like they’d hurt if they connected with your shin.

Something about those heels piss me off. Something about those heels make her ass look incredible. Something about those heels sticks in my head, and I can’t stand it.

I bet her boyfriend bought her those. I wish I could get that asshole out of my head.

Black with bows on the ankle, red soles, I write, and hold my board up. She’s written the same ones.

“Lucky guess,” I mutter, turning my back to her. “I had to pick one.”

“Mhm. Probably has nothing to do with the fact that your eyes fall out of your head every time I wear them.”

I make a face. “They do not.”

“You remember them in staggering detail, Volkov.”

“This one’s from Ross Sheridan.” The team owner and ex–Storm coach sits quietly near the back of the room, watching with a calm smile. “Alexei, what is Georgia’s favorite moment from your hockey career?”

Probably the head shot and resulting concussion that landed me in the hospital two years ago, right before she transferred me to another doctor. Instead, I scribble out an easy one—defense assist record. I still hold that record to this day.

She hesitates before her marker flies. I’ve lobbed her a softball, she better get this one right.

“Calder trophy,” Miller reads.

My eyes meet hers in surprise. The Calder trophy is given to the rookie of the year. I won it my first season, and even though it was almost eighteen years ago, I still remember how my parents looked on with pride at the award ceremony.

All their hard work. Every double shift and coupon clipped to pay for skates and sticks, every five a.m. ice time. That award wasn’t for me, it was for them.

When I think about retiring, that’s what my mind wanders to.

I don’t know what it means that she wrote the Calder trophy down. I haven’t told a soul what that moment means to me. Before I can say anything, though, the game continues.

“Last one. Another two-parter. What does Georgia love about Alexei?”

My money, I write, before I erase it. I’m supposed to be playing nice. My perseverance, I write as a painful joke to myself and my ex-fiancée. If I had given up on that relationship like I should have, she never would have humiliated me and my family the way she did.

We hold our boards up, and the crowd lets out another collective awww.

His determination, she wrote.

Our eyes meet. I’m frowning, and she looks away. A weird tension simmers in my gut.

“I had to write something.” A hint of pink washes over her cheeks. Is she embarrassed?

I look down at my board, feeling like an asshole for what I wrote originally before erasing it.

“And the second part to the question, what does Alexei love about Georgia?”

What would Owens, Miller, or Streicher say about their partners? They’d pick something that has nothing to do with looks. Nothing material.

Her intelligence, I write.

My hilarious sense of humor, she wrote.

Our eyes meet again.

“I had to write something,” I echo.

“On that adorable note, folks,” Miller sets his notecard aside, and I try not to let my relief be too obvious. “The game is over. Clearly, these two are meant for each other.” He looks to the audience. “Are we ready for the first dance?”