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

We hit the ice for the last warm-up before the game, and when I skate behind the net, my eyes meet Georgia’s.

She’s wearing the jersey I got her, and fucking hell, she looks good in it. I nod at her and while Darcy talks to her, she gives me a little nod back, eyes dragging over me in my Storm uniform.

Is she checking me out? Pride beats through me.

My gaze lifts to the owner’s box reserved for friends and family, where our parents are watching the game and hanging out. It’s still strange, seeing our parents get along after the image I had in my head. Strange, but not unpleasant.

At the bench after the anthem, I take a seat beside the rookie.

“Today—” I start, but he’s already nodding.

“I know. Be more physical. Get them up against the boards. Disrupt the play.”

“No.”

The rookie pauses.

“Let’s try something different.”

All night, I thought about what Georgia did at soccer practice, tailoring the training to the player’s personality. She found what motivated Teddy and used it to help her.

“I reviewed your old game tape with Darcy this afternoon,” I tell him.

“From my college games? Why?”

“Darcy saw something in those tapes that made her recommend you to Ward, and Ward saw something that led him to signing you.” It’s so obvious when I lay it out like that. “I was encouraging you to play like me, because that’s all I know. But now you’re going to play like you.”

You steamroll everyone, Georgia had said when I screwed up and got rid of her car. You always think you know best.noveldrama

I don’t want to be that guy. Not anymore.

On the game tape, Darcy pointed out his sharp, shifty turns and the ease at which he moved the puck around the ice. Forget getting physical, he barely touched other players, because they couldn’t catch him. He doesn’t have the hardest shot in the league but as soon as he has time and space, he’s deadly. He picks corners of the net with proficiency I’ve only seen in the most highly skilled forwards. He’d give Miller a run for his money.

And most importantly, Walker could read what was happening on the ice before it took place. Before the other team had even passed the puck, he was intervening, and he’s so fast and nimble, the other team doesn’t have time to respond.

We watched this happen again and again and again. He was like nothing I’ve ever seen in defense—and I’ve been so hardheaded that I almost missed it.

I think about the rookie’s playful, competitive spirit. All the kid wants is to have fun.

“Don’t let them touch you and don’t let them get the puck.”

A light sparks in his eyes.

He could be great, with the right mentoring. He could be great, if I let him. This whole time, I’ve been in the way.

“I’ve been pushing you to play in a physical style that doesn’t work for you.” I swallow, guilt writhing inside me. “The fewer injuries you sustain, the better. You’ll have a longer career.”

The way I was forcing the kid to play, he’d be out of the league by his early thirties, battered and beat up, and it would be my fault for pushing him to be like me.

I clear my throat and look away, embarrassment tightening in my gut. “I’m sorry.”

“Wow.” Walker doubles over. “I need a moment.”

I shake my head, trying not to smile. The little shit reminds me of Georgia sometimes. “Yeah, yeah. Very funny.”

“Are you okay? Let me check your temperature.” The rookie tries to put his glove on my helmet but I smack him away.

“Volkov, Walker,” Ward calls to us as the forwards hit the ice for the first face-off. “You’re up.”

Walker and I climb over the boards and skate into position.

“Ready, Rookie?” I call.

He just grins, a new light shining in his eyes.

The whistle blows and the other team steals the puck. While their forwards pass back and forth, I glance at Walker. He watches the play with hawk-eye focus, a little smirk on his mouth.

I do what I do best—use my size and strength as a weapon, disrupt the play, and pass the puck to Walker.

He’s off like a shot, dodging and swerving the other team as he handles the puck with a deftness I’ve only seen from Miller and his dad, a Canadian hockey legend. The fans are on their feet as the players trail Walker. He’s on a breakaway. The noise crescendos, energy heightening as he approaches.

He snaps the puck up and it hits the back of the net. The arena explodes with noise.

Walker crows with victory, skating past the fans as they slam their fists on the glass, jumping up and down. Nothing gets these fans going like a goal less than sixty seconds into the game.

“There you fucking go,” I yell as I wrap Walker in a tight hug, jostling him. “Now you’re playing hockey, Rookie.”

“There we go,” he yells back, beaming, and pride expands through my chest, so strong and sharp it takes my breath away.

I hope his parents are watching. I hope they see Walker soar. My fucking god, that was fun to watch. The skill, the surprise, the way the game can change in an instant—it’s what I love about hockey.

Does this ever get old? Walker asked me at the beginning of the season. To my shock, watching Walker score feels even better than a goal of my own.

Behind the net, Georgia’s on her feet with Darcy, Hazel, and Pippa, smiling and cheering. Our eyes meet and my heart jumps into my throat, pounding.

Nice job, she mouths with a wink, that gorgeous mouth of hers grinning ear to ear, eyes sparkling. At the sight of her in her jersey, the one I bought for her with my name on it, I smile.