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

Before the game that night, I wait in the arena concourse with the other players, shifting back and forth on my skates to stay warmed up. Energy buzzes throughout the building, fans roaring as the lights go down and the music starts.

The other players talk in low voices, some staring at the floor, deep in concentration and head already in the game, and some staying warm like I am.

I should be focusing on the game and what we practiced this morning, but instead, I’m thinking about my citizenship problem.

“Vancouver Storm nation,” the announcer calls, “welcome back for the season opener!”

The crowd roars again, raring to go. Fans have been waiting for this since the end of last season, when we were eliminated from the third round of playoffs, the furthest this team has gone in the Stanley Cup playoffs in almost a decade.

In front of me, Hayden Owens, my old defensive partner, gives me his typical beaming smile. “Admit it, Volkov. It’s good to be back.”

I make a low noise of acknowledgment. It’s everything to be back. With eighty-two games in the regular season, our schedule is grueling and packed—but I spent all summer bored and itching to play with my team again.noveldrama

Physically, I feel good tonight. My shoulder doesn’t hurt. My ACL feels okay. I’ve been following a strict low-inflammation diet, training hard, resting hard, and doing everything I can to play my best this season.

Mentally, I’m back in Ward’s office. In this game, everything can end in the blink of an eye. I need to figure something out, fast.

In the arena, the announcer lists team staff, the trainers, and the physios.

“Hazel Hartley,” he announces, and Rory Miller, the Storm’s captain, cups his hands to his mouth.

“That’s my girl!” he yells down the hall toward the arena. His fiancée, Hazel, is a physiotherapist with the Storm, probably standing at the bench with the other staff. Off my flat look, Miller grins, ear to ear, patting his chest over his heart. “It doesn’t matter that she can’t hear me. She can feel my support.”

“Darcy Andersen,” the announcer calls, now listing off the team analysts, and Owens claps his gloves together with enthusiasm.

“Yeah, Darce,” he hollers. “Go get ’em, tiger!”

“Jesus Christ.” These fucking guys and their relationships. “Control yourselves.”

Miller elbows Owens. “You ready to pop the question?”

After practice this morning, Owens showed us the engagement ring he had made for Darcy. The two were best friends for years until last season, when she convinced Owens to be her wingman as she started dating again.

That didn’t last long.

Owens grins. “Not yet. I’m enjoying messing with her too much. Soon, though.”

Again, I think about what Ward said. Too bad you aren’t married to a Canadian.

The announcer lists the team medical staff, and I glare at the floor, getting my head in the game.

“Dr. Georgia Greene.”

My neck tenses.

“Aren’t you going to cheer on your girlfriend?” Miller asks with an innocent smile, his eyes glittering with mischief.

They know we don’t get along. They don’t know why, though.

Finally, they announce the players. The crowd goes wild as Miller, Owens, and our starting goalie, Streicher, hit the ice.

“From Winnipeg, Manitoba, Luca Walker!” The crowd cheers again for our rookie, this time higher-pitched, and Walker flashes us that annoying cocky grin over his shoulder as he steps onto the ice, waving. Walker’s already getting attention with the female crowd.

“From Vancouver, BC, Canada, our homegrown boy and three-time Norris trophy winner,” the crowd starts roaring louder, and I skate onto the ice, “Alexei Volkov.”

The arena noise is deafening as I do a lap, nodding at the fans, feeling that familiar wash of adrenaline race through me. Something I love about the Vancouver fans is that they don’t care where you were born—if you played hockey here at some point, you’re from here. Are they cheering because of that, though, or because they think this will be my last season?

It isn’t. I’m too stubborn to quit. They can drag me into retirement in a coffin.

I skate a loop around the ice, the fans roar, the spotlight follows me, and the energy in the arena vibrates. There’s nothing like this. Playing for the NHL has been my dream since we moved to Canada. I’m not giving it up for anything. I can’t help but glance at the doctor at the bench as I skate past, our eyes meeting before I look away fast.

The players take our places for the anthem, Walker standing beside me, shifting his weight from leg to leg, gazing around the arena with wide eyes like a kid on Christmas. He joined the team mid-season last year, so this is his first season opener.

“Does it ever get old?” Walker asks me.

I look around the arena, taking in the roaring fans, the music playing, the blue lights traveling across the fans. The sea of Storm jerseys. The fans who want us to win almost more than we do.

Here, on the ice, I’m part of something. It means something.

“No,” I tell him as the music ends. “It never gets old.”

Halfway through the game, the other team’s defenseman cross-checks Miller from behind, shoving him forward into the goalie. My spine straightens as sharp protectiveness races through me. It’s a dirty hit and worthy of a penalty, and the fans immediately start booing, a low rumble of disapproval and outrage rippling around the arena. They pound on the glass, furious.

The whistle blows, but instead of the ref calling a penalty on the other team, Miller gets a penalty for goaltender interference.

The fans’ booing gets louder as Miller skates to the penalty box.

“Are you fucking serious?” he yells at the ref in shock.

The Storm players on the ice look to me, but I’m staring at the player who cross-checked Miller. He glares back at me.

He knows how this works. I’m the Storm’s enforcer. I’m the biggest guy on the ice and the strongest, most aggressive fighter.

And now it’s my job to even the score and show the other team that they can’t pull shit like that without consequences.

Two minutes later, there’s a scramble in front of the net for the puck, the whistle blows, and I get my opportunity. I grab the jersey of the guy who cross-checked Miller, and he shoves me back.

Do I know what I’m doing on the ice? Yes. My record-high contract for a thirty-six-year-old player proves that.

Can I back up my team and protect my guys? Yes. My protective instincts are raring to even the score and show them they can’t fuck with us.

Will I win this fight? Also yes. Adrenaline courses through me, sharpening my senses as my heart rate picks up.

And yet, I’m so fucking tired of this shit. This is the part I would say goodbye to in a heartbeat.

My gaze flicks up to the owner’s box, open to friends, family, and team staff during home games. Is she still here? Is she still watching?

I yank my gaze back to the ice. I don’t care about her, and I definitely don’t care if she’s watching.

Circling the other player, my heart beating out of my chest and adrenaline racing through my veins, the fans roar with approval as I throw my gloves on the ice.