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

“Volkov,” Ward calls as I pass his office at the arena in Vancouver. He and Darcy sit in the chairs in front of his desk, watching game tape on her laptop screen. “You got a second?”

Their gazes drop to the bouquet in my arms as I step into his office. I was planning on dropping these off before Georgia gets in.

“Nice flowers.” Ward’s eyes shine with interest, and Darcy grins at me. He glances at Darcy with a smile. “Seems like Volkov has caught on to this whole married thing.”

Calla lilies—beauty. My mind slips to the hotel room after the awards dinner, and how addictive making Georgia come was. How she looked in that dress and lingerie. How it felt to see her wear what I bought her.

How I loved holding her wrists together and taking control. Making her lose it. Watching her shudder with pleasure.

It’s all I’ve thought about since.

“Thanks.” I clear my throat, trying not to smile. “What’s up?”

“What do you think of this guy?” He restarts the game tape. “Number eight.”

On the laptop, we watch a defenseman in a minors game. Big guy. Young, from the quick flashes of his face that we can see. He knocks players out of the way with ease, disrupts the play so his teammates can snag the puck. When he can, he passes to his defensive partner or a forward.

“Good team player,” I murmur. He looks like a younger version of me. “He’s young and needs work but he’s good.”

In the right situation, he could be great. Like Walker. My gut wrenches with guilt and anguish.

I still haven’t figured out how to help him. It’s early December. Ward can make trades until early March. We only have a few months to get Walker playing at a higher level.

“Watch him,” Ward tells Darcy about the guy in the minors. “If anyone makes any moves, I want to know.”

Any offers, he means.

“You got it.” She closes up her laptop and stands.

“Thanks, Darcy.” Ward gives her a smile before he looks at me and gestures at her seat. “Stay for a second, would you, Volkov?”

“See you, Darce,” I call as she waves and heads out of Ward’s office. “Are you going to sign him?” I ask, settling into the seat across from him.

Ward sits back, hesitating like he’s choosing his words with care. “Thinking about it.”

The Storm roster is full. My gut tightens. So he’s either thinking about trading Walker or ushering me into retirement.noveldrama

“Relax, Volkov. It’s normal for us to have guys on the back burner. You know how it is in this game. Things change fast.” His mouth tips as he shifts in his seat, glancing at his knee. “I’m glad you decided to accept the award.”

I think about how Georgia looked at me that night, like she finally understood why I’m doing everything I can to delay retirement. If anyone would get it, it would be her.

I have a feeling we’re a lot more similar than I thought. The realization isn’t as uncomfortable as it would have been months ago.

“Fine.” I rub the back of my neck. “I’m happy it’s over.”

Ward’s mouth quirks. “It must have been nice to have Georgia with you. I know it wasn’t easy.”

It wasn’t just nice. I can’t imagine enduring it without her. You hate me, she’d said later that night, but I don’t. Not anymore.

Not even close. It’s a problem that I’ll solve another day, though.

“Thanks for what you said.” I give him a brief nod. “I appreciate it.”

He nods back, pride in his eyes. “All the truth.”

I think about what he keeps saying—that hockey can’t be everything. That he regrets not accepting his award.

“What happened after you retired?” I ask.

He laughs, short and dry. “I was a mess. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t accept my award. I probably would have made a scene and humiliated myself.”

I stare at him, confused. Ward’s the most composed, collected guy I know.

Off my expression, he gives me a wry smile. “After I retired, I spent a good two years hating myself, hating the world, hating the guy who I collided with on the ice. Wasn’t his fault.” He shrugs. “It wasn’t my first knee injury, but I blamed him and blamed the doctors who couldn’t fix me. At one point I actually blamed my brother—he’s a biomechatronics engineer—because he wouldn’t even consider building me a new knee. Said he wasn’t in the business of bionic body parts. I didn’t talk to him for a year after that.” He sucks in a tight breath. “I blamed the world because I made hockey everything and when it was gone, I had nothing.”

Fear trickles into my bloodstream. I don’t want that. I don’t know how to avoid it, though. Hockey is everything to me. When it’s gone, what will I have left?

Nothing.

“And I drank way too much.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys. On the keyring is what looks like a large coin with a tree on it. “Nine years sober.”

Jesus. I didn’t know any of this. “What changed?”

“Found out I was going to have a daughter. Well,” he smiles, “I didn’t know she was going to be a daughter at that time. But I found out I was going to have a kid. I didn’t know what to do, so I went to Ross”—he nudges his chin toward the ceiling, where Ross’s office is on the floor above us—“and he shoved me in rehab. Once I completed the program, he got me a job coaching women’s hockey at UBC. And now we’re here.” A calm, steady smile. “Just keep looking forward, Volkov.”

“How do you cope with not playing anymore?” Asking this is the closest I’ve ever come to accepting my fate.

He folds his arms, thinking. “I realized helping players perform at their best and achieve their dreams is just as rewarding.”

Good for him, but it’s unlikely I’ll ever find something I love as much as playing hockey.

“Think we have a shot at the Cup this year?” I ask.

He takes a deep breath, thinking. “Yes. Maybe. I hope.” His mouth slants. “God, I fucking hope. More than anything, I want that Cup again.”

The year before he was forced to retire, in overtime of the last round of the Stanley Cup playoffs, he scored the game-winning goal. A golden goal, those are called. The Storm haven’t made it to the final round of the playoffs since. I won it with Montreal sixteen years ago, and I still remember the roar of the fans in the arena and around the city.

Winning the Cup is like nothing else.

“You think it would feel the same, winning the Cup from your side of the bench?” I ask.

His eyes meet mine, sparking with determination. “It would be better.”