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

One heavenly week later, during which I don’t see Volkov once because he’s away for games, I find my seat behind the net, where Darcy, Hazel, and Pippa always sit to cheer on their guys.

“We know the marriage is fake,” Darcy says the second I sit down.

Fuck.

And here I was, worried she would feel like I had hidden my relationship from her.

“What?” I do my best shocked face. “What are you talking about?” I gesture at the jumbotron hanging from the arena roof, where a photo of Volkov in his uniform flashes on-screen. Congratulations, Alexei Volkov and Dr. Georgia Greene! it says. “That’s my husband.”

My mind flips to the kiss at the team dinner. Thank god I could get some space this week and clear my head. It wasn’t that good, I’ve decided. It just took me by surprise. I’ve had better.

Darcy smiles. “I know he is. But I still think it’s fake.”

“I love him,” I force out. Even saying those words makes me feel ill.

“Oh, do you?” Her smile turns secretive.

My face is going hot. “Yes. So much. More than anything. He’s my everything.”

Wow. Even I know that sounds fake as hell. Darcy gives me a knowing smile, eyes lit up with amusement, and I blow out a heavy breath. She’s too smart, too analytical.

“Fine,” I whisper, keeping my voice low so we aren’t overheard. “I only get my inheritance if I’m married because my grandfather was a sexist, controlling asshole, and Volkov doesn’t want to be deported the second his career ends. Also, who’s ‘we’?”

“Hayden and me. Don’t worry. He won’t say anything. He’s rooting for you two.”

“Stop rooting for us. There is literally nothing to root for.”

“One of us, one of us,” Hazel chants as she and her sister, Pippa, approach with their arms full of food.

“Hi, Georgia.” Pippa hands Darcy and me a tray of nachos.

“Hey, little Hartley. How’s the new album coming along?”

“It’s hard, but I love it.” She grins before her eyes go to Jamie, skating to his place in the net in front of us. He gives her one of those serious, intense gazes, and she blushes.

Pippa used to be his assistant. They got married last year in Whistler, a mountain-town ceremony made even more beautiful by Volkov’s absence. Pippa and Jamie are the picture of newlywed bliss. They have a dog together and everything. That song Volkov and I danced to at the team dinner? Pippa wrote that about Jamie.

While we wait for the game to start, Hazel updates me on the body-positive fitness studio she started last year, Pippa talks about the new album, and Darcy fills me in on the upcoming Women in STEM events in Vancouver.

I’m the only one of us not wearing a jersey, I notice with a touch of self-consciousness. None of them says anything and I doubt they care, but I’d definitely look the part if I were in costume.

The lights go down, and the fans start to cheer. Around the arena, it’s a sea of Storm jerseys.

I bet Volkov would just love to see me wearing his jersey. He’d get that smug, knowing look.

“Vancouver Storm fans, are you ready?” the announcer calls, and the fans roar.

The pump-up music starts and the players enter the arena, skating laps for their last warm-up. When I cover the game as a medical professional, I stay in the back, sewing up cuts, taping sprains, and assessing for concussions in the medical room. Sometimes, if I’m still in my office while the game is on, I’ll glance down at the ice. I never, ever sit out here with the fans.

I can see the draw, though. There’s an infectious energy in the air.

“Have you seen this?” Darcy asks, showing me her phone. It’s a social media fan account for the Storm, and the latest post is a picture from the team dinner, of Volkov feeding me the piece of cake with a dark glower. The photo has almost a hundred thousand likes.

“Yes, I saw it.” My private account has been bombarded with new followers. I stared at that photo for half an hour last night as I lay in bed.

Don’t get between that guy and his wife, one comment said, mistaking the sick victory in his eyes as possession.

Those two are going to make good-looking babies, another person wrote. Gag. As if we would ever.

Is it horny in here or is it just me?

Those weren’t Volkov’s horny eyes. He was just playing another sick game. That’s what we do.

Volkov hits the ice, and my heart rate jumps. He’s easy to pick out; he’s bigger than every other player.

“You should post a picture,” Darcy says quietly, glancing pointedly at Volkov. “As his loving wife.”

She’s right. A loving wife would be proud of her big hockey player. I pull my phone out and snap a picture of him skating past before adding a filter.

Cheering on my man, I type into the caption box, trying not to laugh. Thank god Volkov doesn’t have social media—I’d die if he saw this. The second I post it, my phone starts buzzing and dinging with notifications.

“So how’s it supposed to work when it’s over?” Darcy asks as I put my phone away.

“We divorce.” I shrug. “Easy.”

“What happens if you start to like each other?”

I nearly choke on my nachos. “You’re kidding, right?”

A tiny frown appears between her eyebrows. “He’s not as bad as you think.”noveldrama

“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “You sound like Jordan.”

“It’s true. And if you ever get to know him⁠—”

“Which I won’t.”

“Or if he ever gets to know you⁠—”

“Which he won’t.”

It’s easier this way, I said to her last year, when she realized I’m not the spoiled little princess Volkov thinks I am. When she realized I encourage his inaccurate image of me.

I find him on the ice, stretching. I wonder if his shoulder hurts tonight. I wonder how his ACL feels. I think about him calling me incompetent and anger surges inside me.

“He doesn’t get the privilege of knowing me, Darce. Guys like Volkov are a dime a dozen. They’re controlling, and they only care about themselves. I don’t care if he likes me. You know what’s a major red flag? When a guy doesn’t want a platonic relationship with a woman. It means he sees them as objects.”

“He’s friends with me.”

“I guess it’s just me, then.”

She studies me for a minute. “Sometimes I think you purposefully keep him at arm’s length because him knowing and rejecting the real you would hurt more.”

Heat rises on my face and I give her a bewildered look.

“No.” I shake my head, at a loss for words. “That’s not it.”

She shrugs.

“It’s not,” I insist.

“Okay.”

The game starts with a face-off at center ice, and I watch Volkov use his body as a weapon, knocking guys out of the way like bowling pins. The puck comes to our end of the rink and Volkov and a player from the other team collide. It’s loud, the glass and boards rattling with the impact, and my breath catches in my throat. That was his bad side, with the collarbone that didn’t heal right.

The player from the other team bounces off Volkov’s towering frame, and Volkov skates off like it never even happened.

He’s fine. See? He’s totally fine. He probably didn’t even feel that.

The game continues, and even though it’s been a while since I’ve watched one, I’m hooked. Hockey’s fast-paced, loud, and intense. Time flies, and I can’t look away. Volkov is so focused on the ice, so determined, and watching him skate hard, exert himself, and give it everything is weirdly fascinating.

It’s the fighting I don’t like. It’s the players getting hurt that makes me feel sick. I’m a doctor. Of course I don’t like that stuff.

“Go, go, go,” Darcy murmurs later as Volkov passes to Hayden. An opening appears in front of the net, and Hayden shoots the puck.

He scores, and the arena erupts in noise. Darcy jumps to her feet, smiling and cheering. The guys celebrate before Hayden loops past us, blowing a kiss to Darcy, looking goofy with his gloves and helmet still on. Volkov’s right behind him, eyes on me.

He sends me an arrogant look. Well?

I give him an exaggerated thumbs-up and he scowls before skating off.

“You’re going to need to work on that,” Darcy says to me, grinning.

He does look good in his Storm uniform. Powerful and handsome. Not that I’d admit it out loud.

During the second period, the whistle blows for a penalty and the game stops.

“Hey, ladies.” Some guy from the row behind us leans forward, breath smelling like beer. Ew. “We’re from out of town and we’re going to a bar after. You two want to join us?”

There’s a knocking sound and we all turn to the glass, where Volkov stands, glaring at me, before his cold gaze slides to the drunk guy. He locks eyes with him and slowly shakes his head.

“Jesus,” the guy’s friend mutters. “That’s Volkov.”

The guy tenses. “Do you know him?” he asks me.

Darcy hides a smile as I give Volkov a flat look through the glass.

“That’s my husband.”