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

The next week, I’m about to take a seat beside Owens on the plane to Los Angeles when he gives me an odd look.

“I thought you’d want to sit with your new wife.”

I lift my bag to the overhead bin. Rarely does she travel with the team to away games, a couple times a season at most.

He gestures over his shoulder and I catch sight of that familiar auburn hair. She’s sitting five rows behind us, in the window seat, earbuds in and staring out the window.

She wasn’t home when I left for the airport. Was she at the hospital again? When I picked her car up the other day, I used the spare keys she left in the kitchen, found the car in the spot she texted me directions to—with her name on it—and returned it without even going inside the hospital.

I wanted to, though. How did I not know she worked there?

What else don’t I know about her?

“It’s fine,” Owens says. “Go sit with her.”

My gaze lingers on her. She’s wearing a little frown, like she’s concentrating. It would look weird if I didn’t want to sit next to her. We’re supposed to be happily married.

When I put my bag into the bin above her, she pops an earbud out and gives me a flat look. “What are you doing?” she asks quietly as I take the seat beside her.

I can smell that light, sweet smell of hers again. “Sitting beside my wife.”

“I’m working.” She’s reading some medical journal, one long leg crossed over the other.

“I wasn’t planning on having a conversation.”

“Great.” Her heels are a copper color with gold buckles. I haven’t seen these before. “You don’t normally travel with the team.”noveldrama

“What happened to pretending I don’t exist? Let’s do that again.”

“I’m just wondering why you’re here.” And why I didn’t know. This feels like something I should know. We live together, and yet we don’t know anything about each other.

It never bothered me before, but now it does.

She puts her reading down. “Mei’s kid is sick and she couldn’t get her parents to watch him.” Mei is one of the other team doctors. “I said I’d help her out.”

Athlete injury recovery. My thoughts keep going back to that. No wonder Ward hired her.

Maybe she can help me. The thought surfaces before I stamp it down. She’s a specialist in athlete injury recovery and she told me I was a lost cause. The message is loud and clear.

She goes back to her reading and my eyes snag on her shoes again.

“New shoes?”

“Volkov.”

I have the weirdest urge to smile. “You weren’t home this morning.”

“I came straight from the hospital.”

So she worked all day. “Tired?”

“Nope.” She lifts her chin. “Not even a little.”

Liar. I bet she’s exhausted. “Have you eaten?”

“Not this again.”

A bad feeling rises in my stomach. She needs to take better care of herself. “Have you eaten?” I give her a hard look and she narrows her eyes at me, starting to smile like she’s realizing something. “You need to be lucid when you’re treating the players.” Even I can hear the defensiveness in my voice. “I don’t care about you.”

She snorts, turning back to her work. “I don’t care about you, either.”

We sit in silence while the team and staff finish boarding and the plane takes off, and shortly after, a flight attendant makes her way to our row.

“Dinner?” she asks.

“Yes,” I answer in a firm tone, “for both of us.”

“Controlling,” Georgia sings under her breath, making my shoulders hitch. She thanks the flight attendant before her smile drops and she gives me an arch look. “I’m not eating because you told me to. I’m eating because I want to.”

“I don’t care.”

“Good. Me neither.”

“Great.”

Her phone pings, and when she pulls it out, a video plays on the screen of Svetta and the bunnies. One of them is on the sofa in the living room.

“What are those rodents doing out of your room?” And why the hell is Svetta playing with them?

“Don’t call them rodents. They don’t like being cooped up. They need to roam.”

My thoughts go to the other night, when she slipped into my bed. How warm and soft she was. The low, pleased hum she made as she nestled her ass against my cock. “You’re not going to be doing a little roaming yourself tonight, looking for bed partners, are you?”

“Volkov, get real.” She sounds uncertain, though.

I picture her stuck in the hall in a T-shirt and panties, forced to knock on my door and ask for help. An expanding, smug feeling fills my chest. She’d fucking hate having to ask for my help.

Maybe she’d run into someone else in the hall, though. They might take advantage of her.

My protective instincts lurch. I don’t like that thought. Not one bit.

She opens the camera app on her phone and holds it out, leaning toward me. “Pretend you like me.”

“What are you doing?”

“Taking a photo.” She gives me an emphasizing look, lowering her voice even more. “For my social media. It helps with—” She gestures between us.

It helps with making this look real, she means. That makes sense. I don’t have social media so I forget about this stuff.

“Okay.” I lean on the armrest divider, toward her, but she frowns.

“Mmm.” She shakes her head. “No.” A tap of her fingers on my elbow has me moving my arm before she lifts the divider and slides close to me, against my side.

My lungs tighten as her scent washes up my nose. She’s warm, like she was in my bed. Blood rushes to my cock.

In an instant, she’s sliding back to her seat, doing something on her phone. I didn’t even notice her taking the picture. I watch as she posts the photo. Her phone starts buzzing immediately.

“Is that your account?” I ask.

She nods.

“Show me.”

She arches an eyebrow, skeptical.

“I’m not going to mess with anything, Hellfire. I just want to see what you’ve been posting online.”

She must see that I’m telling the truth, because she hands her phone over.

The higher the heels, the closer to heaven, the caption on her profile says. I’ve seen her profile image before—it’s a Polaroid tacked up behind the bar at the Filthy Flamingo. Big, sparkling smile, the kind that lights up a room.

In the photo she just posted, I’m looking at her with a tight, tortured expression, like I want to devour her.

Wife guy, someone already commented.

Another photo on her profile catches my eye. It’s me on the ice, during the game she attended last week.

Cheering for my man, the caption reads. I give her a look, and a hint of pink washes over her face. Pretty.

She snatches the phone away. “Darcy told me to post that.”

“Did she write that caption for you?”

She won’t meet my eye, and I have the weirdest urge to smile again. “You should be thanking me. That photo got a lot of views. I look like the perfect little hockey wife, drooling over her husband.”

I’m torn between asking to see the rest of her profile photos and teasing her harder about being her man—a phrase that’s setting off an unfamiliar pressure in my chest—when Ward appears beside us.

“Hi, newlyweds.”

On instinct, I reach for the doctor’s hand, enveloping it in mine.

Like at the team dinner when we cut the cake together, I get a weird twist of pleasant warmth at the feel of her hand beneath mine. Delicate, with neat, glossy nails.

She doesn’t pull her hand away as she smiles up at Ward. “Hi, Tate.”

I nod a hello and he hands me my game packet, which contains information about the other team, diagrams of the plays we’ve practiced, and my hotel room number and key card.

“Dr. Greene,” Ward adds, “your key is in Alexei’s packet.”

Beneath my hand, she stiffens. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t worry.” He gives her a smile. “I put you two in the same room.”

My watch starts going off. Her eyes narrow as I silence it.

That’s one way to keep an eye on her tonight.

Ward must read her weird energy because his gaze swings between us, eyebrows high. “Is that a problem? I thought since you’re married now⁠—”

“It’s not an issue.” I clear my throat, my hand settling on her bouncing knee. She stills. “We wanted to be professional. That’s why we didn’t ask to share.”

“Oh.” Ward lets out a short laugh. “I’m not worried about that with you two. You would barely kiss her at your own wedding dinner, Volkov.”

Ward moves on, handing out more packets, and the doctor yanks her hand out from under mine, staring after him, chewing her lip, a worried expression all over her features.

“Is this going to be a problem?” I ask in a low voice.

“Not for me.”

“Most of the rooms have two beds.” Her shoulders are tight and she’s worrying her bottom lip like she’s silently freaking out. “I’m not going to bother you, Doctor. You’re not my type.”

As much as I don’t like her, I don’t want her to worry for her safety.

She lets out a light laugh, shaking her head. “Thanks, Volkov.”

Nothing’s going to happen tonight with the doctor, but that doesn’t stop me from picturing us in a million positions.

I scrub a hand down my face. That’s enough of that. Maybe I don’t know her like I thought I did, but I’m not dumb enough to think blurring the lines of our agreement is a good idea. If I’m kerosene, my wife is the match.

We’d kill each other within the week.