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

“Don’t fall in love with me,” the doctor says by way of greeting when she arrives at the restaurant that night. “Write it on a sticky note and put it on your dentures case, Volkov, because I will never, ever love you back.”

Thank fuck I reserved a table in a more private area of the restaurant, where we can be seen but not overheard. People glance over at the woman across from me, because a woman who looks like Georgia Greene draws attention, but no one is within ear shot.

“That’s not going to be a problem, Doctor.” I know better than to fall for someone who values image and wealth above all else. I’d never make the same mistake twice.

She gives me a knowing smirk, those warm whiskey eyes sparkling. “I know I’m your type.”

My eyes trail over her, lingering on her neckline, where freckles peek over, scattered across her pale skin. Her skin looks soft, probably from drinking virgins’ blood.

“You aren’t.”

Does she think I would actually make a move on her? That I’m attracted to her?

My gaze trails over her form. Curvy. Tall. Thick hair I can wrap around my fist. Sharp, assessing gaze and even sharper tongue. And those shoes. I hate those shoes.

The server comes by and she orders a glass of wine, I order a nonalcoholic beer.

Her eyebrow lifts. “You don’t drink?”

“Not during the season.” After even one beer, I can feel the inflammation in my body the next day. Old injuries ache more. It’s not worth it.

Her gaze lingers on me, interest and focus in her eyes, and she looks like she wants to say something.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your date,” the server says, glancing between us with a nervous smile, and I fight the urge to correct her. From the way the doctor stiffens, I’m certain she’s stifling the same urge. “Would we be able to get a photo with you?”

She gestures at the bartender on the other side of the restaurant.

“We’re huge fans,” the server admits.

“Of course.” I clear my throat and stand. “Let’s go to the bar.”

I spend a few minutes signing autographs and taking photos with the staff before I return to the table.

“Wow,” the doctor drawls. “You can be nice.”

I’m about to tell her I don’t mind spending time with fans, that when I was a kid and my dad would take me to minors games—the only ones we could afford—I’d be thrilled to meet the players. Hockey isn’t just a game, it’s part of our culture. It brings people together. It gives people something to get excited about, something to hope for.

“It’s part of the job,” I say instead.

Her gaze lingers on me with a little frown, like she knows there’s more I’m not saying, but she lets it go. “So, one year.”

“One year. Or until my citizenship and your inheritance come through.” I take a deep breath. “We need to live together.”

Her gaze narrows on me.

“I’m not moving,” we say at the same time.

Her jaw drops. “Why should I move? I live close to the arena. It’s convenient for you.”

“Don’t you live with Jordan? I’m not going to fight over the shower in the mornings like I’m living in a frat house. You’ll move into my place.”

“Is your place even livable?”

I shake my head, in awe of how fucking spoiled she is. “I may not have a fountain and circular drive like you grew up with, but I assure you, my place is good enough for the average hockey wife.”

Her nostrils flare. Was it the comment about her being used to wealth, or reducing her education and career to her impending marital status? Looks like I just found another nerve to hit.

“Careful, Doctor.” I raise my brows. People have been subtly glancing at us this whole time. “Don’t look so demonic. People are watching.”

As I say it, some guy passes by the table, gaze snagging on the back of her hair. My hand tightens around my glass.

She puts on a smile, but her gaze cools, pretty amber eyes turning frosty.

Not pretty. Just interesting. Sparkly, with tiny threads of gold. Rich like a glass of bourbon. A little is perfect but too much would kill you.

“Maybe I want to stay in my place. Maybe I don’t want to move,” she adds, glancing at her nails, inspecting them. They’re a deep maroon purple, neat and trim.

“I’m sure you’d love to stuff me in some broom closet and call it my bedroom, but my place has plenty of room for both of us to stay out of each other’s way.”

A few years ago, I bought and renovated a home in North Vancouver. It wasn’t the largest home I looked at, but it had good bones: tucked away in the forest, overlooking the trees, arched and slanted ceilings, loads of natural light, and a massive stone fireplace. Mid-century modern, my real estate agent called it. It’s private, quiet, and the neighbors don’t bug me.

“I’m not moving. Besides, during the season, I’m either away for hockey, at a game, or training. I won’t be home to see you carting in your shopping bags.”

She sighs like talking to me is exhausting. “It would probably be too much hassle to move all your medical equipment anyway. I’m sure your place is set up like a care home.” She rests her chin on her hand, narrowing her eyes. “I’ll need a big closet.”

“Yes, Hellfire, I’m aware you’re a consumer.” My eyes drop to her shoes and her eyes flash at the nickname she hates so much.

“You’ll have to cut out comments like that or no one will believe us.”

“You have your own comments to cut out.”

“I’ll save those just for you, Volkov.”noveldrama

Our gazes hold, and my shoulders tense. This year is going to be fucking terrible.

“We need to get our stories straight,” I tell her. “People will ask questions about how we got together and why we didn’t tell anyone.”

“Easy. I was humiliated.” She gestures at me. “You’re twice my age.”

“In that case, you look terrible for eighteen.”

The corner of her mouth tightens like she’s trying not to laugh, and I get a weird hit of something warm in my chest. Annoying.

“We’ll tell people we hooked up after the double date.”

Last year, Owens clearly had a thing for Darcy but wouldn’t make a move, so I asked her out in front of him to spur him into action. It worked like a charm—except Owens insisted on bringing Georgia.

“We didn’t want a relationship. We just wanted to,” she arches an eyebrow, “blow off steam.”

Fuck, she means. We just wanted to fuck.

I bet the doctor is incredible in bed. I picture her beneath me, naked and desperate while I thrust into her, those plush lips parted and eyes on me, letting me do what I want to her. Arousal pounds through me.

My thoughts slam to a halt. Even if we put our weapons down, messing around with the doctor would be a fucking disaster. She’s marrying a guy she hates for money. Her morals are paper-thin.

She’d tear my heart out and sell it for this season’s newest heels, and she wouldn’t feel an ounce of remorse while doing it.

My watch is beeping—that fucking heart rate alarm again—and I silence it, ignoring her raised eyebrows and tilting, catlike smile.

“Are you picturing it, Volkov?”

“The thought of fucking you makes me feel sick.”

“Right.” She smirks like she doesn’t believe me. “Sick in the excited way? Like your pants feel tight?” She sends a pointed glance to my crotch.

I close my eyes, rubbing the bridge of my nose. This woman is infuriating.

“So we didn’t think it was going anywhere, we were just hooking up, and then we decided to get married.” I make a face. “Who’s going to believe that?”

“You’re an intense guy. You fell madly in love with me and insisted I marry you.”

“Maybe you fell madly in love with me and begged me to marry you.”

She snorts, unamused. “I would never beg, Volkov.”

My groin tightens, and my watch starts beeping again. I turn off the program that monitors my heart rate outside of training and games. When I’m not exercising, I need to be resting and recovering, but being around the doctor torches all of that.

“Besides, you’re controlling enough that demanding I marry you is actually believable.”

I ignore the dig. “We didn’t tell anyone because I’m private. I don’t like people knowing my business.”

Against protests by the Storm publicity department, I don’t have my own social media. I’m rarely photographed except with the team, and I never do postgame press because they’re always asking about my fucking retirement.

The amusement falls from her expression, and her delicate fingers toy with the stem of her wineglass. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

My gaze snags on the pinch between her eyebrows. “No one can suspect a thing. If people find out this isn’t real and the government thinks people are lying for us, they could get in trouble. My parents could be deported. If you’re not in, tell me now.”

“I’m in.” The long line of her pale throat works as she swallows, and our eyes meet. “We’ll fake it and fool everyone. No one will know but us,” she adds. “And Jordan.”

We both know she won’t say anything, though.

There’s a steel edge to her voice I haven’t heard before. She never takes anything seriously, but this, she cares about.

For shoes, though? This doesn’t add up.

I gesture to the server for the bill. “We’ll get married tomorrow.” I got the license this afternoon, as soon as we talked in her office. “Courthouse. Two pm.”

The doctor’s eyes flare with surprise. “Tomorrow?”

“I want this process started as soon as possible.”

Her gaze flicks to my bad shoulder. If anyone should know I’m on a ticking clock, it’s her. My gut knots. I hate that she knows all my weaknesses. I hate that I wasn’t worth her time as a patient.

I don’t know if I expected her to fight me on this, to insist on a big, flashy, expensive wedding, but she just nods, frowning to herself.

“Tomorrow.” She stands, and puts her coat on. “See you there, Volkov.”

She walks off without a second look. I watch her leave, my gaze catching on the flutter of her light jacket, the flash of her heels, before she’s gone, and the realization sinks in.

The doctor and I are getting married.