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

A week later, I walk into the Filthy Flamingo, a crappy dive bar tucked away in the Gastown neighborhood, and take a seat at the bar in front of Jordan—my friend, my roommate since university, and my bartender.

The narrow, wood-paneled bar has vintage band posters framed on the wall; soft, pretty string lights across the ceiling; and a hundred Polaroids tacked up behind the liquor bottles. There’s one of me giving Jordan a big, smacking kiss on the cheek while she laughs. That one always makes me smile.

A few Storm players already sit at a table in the back. Jordan hates hockey and this quiet bar is the only place they can go where they won’t be hounded by rabid fans. I usually avoid the bar on game nights, when the team is sure to be here after the game. It’s not to avoid a conflict of interest, because I don’t treat the players I’m friends with, like Hayden Owens, but I hate running into Volkov.

“I need to get married,” I tell her, dropping onto a barstool.

She pours me a glass of wine without pause. She knows all about the inheritance and the program losing funding.

She opens her mouth to say something but I jump in. “Marry me.”noveldrama

“No.” The corner of her mouth ticks up.

Despite her delicate, fairytale looks—long, shiny dark hair, emerald eyes, pale porcelain skin with dainty features straight from her late mother—she isn’t fazed or rattled by anything. She doesn’t take any shit, and nothing gets to her. She’s tough as nails.

We’ve been together through thick and thin—through her mom passing away and her dad basically abandoning her from grief, through the whole Liam thing. Through medical school for me and her sports psychology masters. I tried to bring her on as a consultant to the research program, but she said no.

I give her a winning smile. “Please.”

“I really don’t want to.”

“I’d do it for you.” I actually would. She’s the only person I’d marry. “It’s perfect. We already live together. You’d just have to come to events with me and stuff, call me your true love, pretend to kiss me, etc.”

She arches an eyebrow, amused. “I’m not really into the whole fake dating thing.”

I give her a wry smile. I didn’t actually think she’d say yes. It’s a ridiculous ask. “Okay, fair.”

More players arrive, saying hi to us as they pass. She mixes drinks for a few minutes before she sets the shaker down, takes a deep breath, and holds her expression neutral. Her dark nails tighten on the counter. “You could ask my dad for the money.”

I’m ashamed to say, I’ve already considered this. I know what he’d say, and so does Jordan. The one person in Vancouver who has more money than my grandfather did, he’d want the one thing money can’t buy him—time with his daughter, who wants nothing to do with him.

She’d do it for me, too, but I can’t do that to Jordan.

“Nah.” I wave a hand like I’m turning down seconds at a meal. “I’d rather get married.”

She gives me a tiny, relieved smile. “I can think of a dozen guys who’d marry you. Go find one of them. Who’s that guy at the hospital, Dr. Handsome?”

“Dr. Handley.” He would totally marry me, but then he’d get attached and I’d feel bad breaking his heart. “I don’t want that kind of marriage. I want a business arrangement.”

Jordan’s nodding. “No feelings.”

If anyone would understand, it’s her. She doesn’t do relationships, either. “Ideally, we don’t even like each other.”

The door opens and Volkov walks in. Jordan raises her brows at me with a teasing question in her eyes.

I give her a dry look. “As if.”

I head to the washroom, but when I return, Volkov is sitting two barstools away. He and Jordan have their heads together, talking in low voices. They see me and he stops talking. She sends a pointed look at me.

“What?” Jordan knows how I feel about him, but they’re friends, and she refuses to take sides.

“Volkov has something he wants to ask you.”

“No, I don’t.” He glares at her. “Be quiet, Jordan.”

I whirl on him. “Don’t tell her to be quiet. This is her bar.” Back to Jordan. “What is it?”

“Volkov asked me to marry him.”

I probably look like I’ve been slapped, jaw hitting the floor and blinking with wide eyes. “Why?” Does he have a thing for her? I never caught that before. Sharp unease twists in my stomach.

Jordan smiles to herself, mischief sparking in her eyes. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

I lift a hand to stop her. “No⁠—”

Too late. She’s already walking away, and I’m left with Volkov. We sit in silence, both looking straight ahead at the Polaroids. There’s one of him somewhere. My eyes scan—there. With the Hayden and Rory, from last season.

I can’t take this anymore. I turn to face him. “Why did you ask Jordan to marry you?”

His cold gaze flicks to me, then away. “You first.”

So she told him that. “It’s really not your business.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

I turn back to the Polaroids. Does he have an inheritance, too? He doesn’t need the money. The guy’s loaded. All these hockey players are, especially stars like him. He makes millions per year.

“I have an inheritance,” I say for some reason. “I need to be married to receive it.” He doesn’t need to know the rest.

He’s quiet for a long moment. “I need citizenship.”

My eyebrows go up. “But you’ve been here for years.”

“I know.” His nostrils flare. “I don’t want to get into it. I’m on a work visa while I’m still with the team.”

“Lucky for you, you’re the most stubborn bastard I know.” I give him a sparkling smile. “You’ll be playing well into your nineties.”

The unspoken truth hangs in the air: Volkov has three years left in his contract, and it probably won’t be renewed after that. He’s still one of the best defensemen in the league, but one bad injury could take him out. Physical defensemen like him hardly play as long as he has.

Our eyes meet. Oh. Oh no.

“No,” I tell him, shaking my head. “No. No, no, no. No fucking way.”

He scowls.

“You can’t be serious,” I choke out.

“I am.” He says it like it’s causing him physical pain.

“Volkov.” I steeple my hands together. “Did you hit your head again?” Two years ago, he was in the hospital with a bad concussion from a head shot. “Knock a few more teeth out?”

He rubs the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “Like I fucking said ten thousand fucking times, I have all my teeth.”

I look around, ensuring we won’t be overheard, before I lower my voice. “I’m not going to marry you. It would be a disaster.”

A long beat of silence stretches before he answers. “I have no other options.”

“I hate to admit this, but there are women who would marry you. Women who have no idea what you’re actually like.”

His expression darkens. “I don’t want a real marriage.”

I don’t want a real marriage, either. Something snags in my head, and for the first time, I actually consider this.

Incompetent, he called me. He said that to Ward. Top of my class in medical school, but because I wear lipstick and heels and get my nails done, apparently I don’t know what I’m doing.

No. I’ll find another option. Anyone but him.

“No.” I gather my things, pulling out my wallet and tossing a twenty on the bar. “It would never work. We hate each other. Everyone knows this.”

“That’s why it would work.” He watches me shrug my jacket on, gaze trailing over me while his lip starts to curl in distaste. “I would never develop feelings for you.”

I laugh to myself, dropping my head. “Wow. Just when I was getting my hopes up.”

“It won’t get complicated. We’ll both get what we want.”

Again, the logical, problem-solving part of my brain pauses and turns this over. He’s not wrong. I hate this man with every fiber of my being. He’s exactly like Liam. Powerful. Controlling. His career comes first, above everything.

Maybe that’s why it would work, my brain whispers. It wouldn’t be a real marriage. It would never be love. And what other choice do I have?

After Liam, the idea of marriage makes me feel claustrophobic. Like I can’t get enough air. Like the walls are closing in on me.

“No,” I say again. I can’t marry a guy like Volkov, even if it is fake. “Final answer. Go find some shy little wife to bully, because it won’t be me.”

His jaw flexes but he doesn’t say a word as I stride out of the bar, waving goodbye to Jordan.

I’ll figure something out. I have to.