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

A few evenings later, it’s the second period in a home game against Atlanta—and we’re losing one to three.

“Remember what we practiced,” I tell Walker as we line up for a face-off. “Be physical. Disrupt the play. Get in there.”

He nods, and when the whistle blows, the other team snags the puck before he and I are off, skating hard to intercept the puck. The other team brings it toward our net, and Streicher’s on high alert as they pass it back and forth, trying to find their moment while Walker and I get in the way.

Walker blocks their forward from receiving the puck—good—but then he skates to their other forward, the one I’m covering.

I shake my head. What’s he doing? This isn’t the play. This isn’t what we practiced.

Walker tries to snag the puck but their defense checks him out of the way with ease. Their forward snaps the puck at the net and they score.

A collective groan of disappointment ripples through the arena, and I let out a heavy exhale, frustrated.

“Aren’t you going to remind me to play more physical?” Walker asks after the game as we head upstairs to the owner’s box reserved for staff, friends, and family. His usual cocky grin is gone.

I think about the way he got slammed into the boards by the other team tonight. He wasn’t hurt, but he could have been. Walker’s not big like me, he’s lean like Miller. Guys’ careers end due to injuries all the time. Look at Ward, who had been on track to be the next Gretzky when he blew out his knee.noveldrama

The rookie’s only twenty-two. I don’t want his career to be over before it even starts. I’d never forgive myself.

“I don’t know, Walker.” I could tell him to play more physical, but what’s the point?

Nothing we’re doing is working.

“I’m sorry,” he says as we step into the box, and I feel like fucking garbage. I don’t know why I care. I have my own game to focus on, and the last thing I need is mentoring this arrogant rookie.

“Luca!” A taller guy in his fifties with a deep umber skin tone waves at him, smiling. Beside him, a blond guy about the same age wears his own proud grin.

Walker lights up and gestures at me to follow. “Come on. My dads are here.”

I begrudgingly follow the kid to his parents. When he’s within arm’s reach, they pull him into a tight hug, squeezing the life out of him, telling him what a great game he just played.

My gut sinks. I didn’t know they were here, and I wish they’d seen a game where Walker had played better, where some of what we’ve been practicing had actually worked, instead of a loss.

“This is Michael,” Walker gestures to the taller man, who gives me a broad grin, “and Terrence.” Walker’s other father wears a quiet smile.

I shake both their hands with a firm nod. “Alexei Volkov. Nice to meet you both.”

“We’ve heard so much about you.” Michael sends a pointed glance to my left hand, where I slipped my ring back on in the dressing room. “I hear congratulations are in order. Is your wife here?”

“No.” I glance around, rubbing my thumb against the band on my ring finger, thinking about that fucking airport kiss again. About how it felt when she wrapped herself around me every night. “She’s working.”

Probably. I don’t know her hospital schedule. All I know is that she’s in her office at the arena in the mornings, and she doesn’t get home until late.

My cracks about her shopping and spending money replay in my head. During the three-day road trip, I don’t think I saw her stop working once, except to sleep or get ready in the mornings. She was always on her laptop, talking with players, stitching guys up, or helping them retape their injuries.

A bad feeling, like I’ve been very wrong, moves through me.

“Georgia’s one of the team doctors,” Walker explains to his dads.

“Georgia,” Terrence repeats, smiling. “What a beautiful name.”

“It is.” My mom said the same thing after they met. Beautiful name for a beautiful woman, she said to me.

Again, my mind goes to that fucking airport kiss. I thought challenging her and proving her wrong would feel like victory, but it was me who enjoyed it too much.

“We want to thank you so much for everything you’ve done for our Luca,” Michael adds. “We really appreciate it. It’s hard when we’re all the way out in Winnipeg.”

My mood sinks even further. “I haven’t done anything except bark his ear off.”

“No shit,” Walker says with a snort, and Terrence gives him a scolding look before smiling up at me.

“That’s not true. He’s told us all about you. You have a very impressive career and we’re so grateful that he has someone like you to show him the ropes.”

There’s a weird feeling in my chest, watching his parents look proudly at their son. Maybe it’s that they remind me of my parents. Maybe it’s that I know Ward signed him for a reason.

Maybe I’m the problem.

On the way home, I realize that I don’t know the rookie’s story. I hardly know anything about the kid. Maybe his background is like mine, where his parents worked their asses off to pay for hockey. Regardless of where he comes from, playing in the NHL is his dream. It’s all our dreams. His parents want to see him succeed more than anything, just like mine.

Maybe figuring it out for himself is the better option.

Tomorrow, I’ll talk to Ward, and tell him it isn’t working.

The next morning, my trainer and I are leaving the gym in the arena when Ward finds me.

“Got a second?” he asks.

“Sure. I want to talk to you about something, too.”

I nod goodbye to my trainer and follow Ward up to his office. We make easy small talk on the way, but I’m distracted by my resolution from last night—to tell him it isn’t working out with the rookie.

“I have some good news,” Ward says as we enter his office and I take a seat.

My first thought is that he’s found someone else to mentor Walker.

“You’re getting a lifetime achievement award.”

My face falls. “What?”

Ward laughs. “I know. While you’re still playing? Incredible, Alexei. Very proud of you.”

Only a couple guys are given the award every season.

It feels like I just got boarded hard enough to knock the wind out of me. “I don’t want it.”

Ward seems taken aback. His eyebrows lift. “You don’t want it.”

“No.” I scowl. “I don’t want it.”

“Can I ask why?”

“They give that to retired guys.”

“Ah.” He nods. “Okay. I get it.” Ward glances out the window. “Volkov, I’m not going to tell you what to do or how to feel, but I didn’t go to mine, and sometimes I wish I had.”

After his career ended abruptly, Ward disappeared. I was still playing and we weren’t friends, but I heard rumors that he didn’t do well with retirement. Most guys who experience a career-ending injury don’t.

Another wave of worry moves through me.

“You don’t need to give me an answer yet,” he adds, eyes meeting mine. “Just think about it, okay?”

Saying no after his admission would be a slap in the face, so I give him a tight nod.

“Thank you. What did you want to talk to me about?”

This is probably where I should tell him I can’t mentor the rookie anymore, but I hold back. It doesn’t feel like the right moment.

“Nothing.” I stand. “Everything’s good.”

“Good.”

I’m almost at the door when he stops me.

“Hey, Alexei? If you decide to accept the award, and I hope you do, it would help having someone by your side. Someone you trust. For support.”

He’s not referring to my new wife, is he? She’d probably howl with laughter at the idea of me getting a lifetime achievement award. I can just imagine the old and injured jokes.

“You bet,” I say before leaving.

There’s no way in hell I’m bringing her to that award ceremony.