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

“So, is he Dr. Handjob because he gives himself hand jobs,” my irritating, stunning wife asks when we arrive at the grand old home in Shaughnessy, “or is it because you think I’m going to give him one tonight?”

Jealousy pounds through me like a drum. She’s trying to get a rise out of me. I can tell from the teasing tone of her voice, the spark in her warm whiskey eyes.

Jesus fucking Christ, she looks good tonight. Took my goddamned breath away when I saw her standing there in the foyer, looking like a million bucks. My fingers itch to run through her soft, wavy hair like I did during that kiss at the airport.

And those shoes. Black velvet, red soles, with a bow on each ankle. I’m going to be thinking about those bows all week.

My teeth grit. “You are not giving him a hand job.”

Her lips curve. I can’t stop looking at her. I can’t stop thinking about the kiss. I can’t stop thinking about her.

I hate this.

A staff member for the event ushers us through the mansion and into the ballroom. This house is so big, it has a fucking ballroom. She probably grew up in a home just like it. My eyes flick to her dress again.

“Why are you always wearing this sparkly shit?”

“Because I love this sparkly shit. It makes me happy. Do you know what ‘happy’ is, Volkov?”

She kissed me back. You can’t fake that kind of kiss—but apparently she was picturing someone else.

“Yes, Hellfire, I remember what happy feels like. When we divorce, I’m sure I’ll feel it again.”

Her eyes flash with competition, her pretty lips part, and she’s about to say something when we’re interrupted by some guy with his eyes all over her.

“Georgia.”

Her face lights up with a radiant smile. “Eric.”

So this is Dr. Handjob. This is who she actually wanted to kiss.

“You look beautiful, as always.” He leans in to kiss her cheek.

My eyebrows go up. Is this guy for real? Calling her beautiful, right in front of me?

She is, but still. That’s for me to say, not him.

My hand comes to her waist, pulling her against me. She gives me an amused, sidelong look that I ignore. He’s still gazing at her with wonder, admiration, and longing. Fucking longing?

He likes her. This guy wants my wife.

“Thanks. Sorry about the last-minute change.” She flicks an unimpressed look at me. “Volkov got home early.”

The event was sold out, but with a sizable donation to the hospital and a few photos and autographs, the organizers hurried to find a seat for me. Being a professional hockey player opens doors like that, thankfully, because there was no way I was letting this guy hang on to the doctor all evening.

Dr. Handjob’s eyes move to me. “This must be your husband.” He sticks his hand out. “Eric Handley.”

“Alexei Volkov.” We shake hands. Mine is bigger.

He looks to the doctor with a teasing smile. “You call your husband Volkov, Georgia?”

I don’t like how friendly they are. She doesn’t joke with me like that and she sure as shit doesn’t smile at me like that.

She blinks, caught off guard, and on her waist, my hand flexes.

“She’s called me that for years,” I cut in. “It’s a hard habit to break.”

Dr. Handjob smiles. “Right. She complained about you more than a few times.”

“Did she now?” I don’t know why that makes me so happy.

“Okay,” she interrupts. “I didn’t complain that much.”

This fucker grins wider. “Remember that meniscus reconstruction the other week? I had to hear⁠—”

With my hand still on her waist, I pull her away without saying goodbye. Something ugly and tight gathers in my gut at the thought of these two teasing each other at work.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” she tells him over her shoulder as I drag her away before she turns to me with a sharp look. “That was rude. He’s my friend.”

I laugh, cold and cruel. “He’s not your friend, Hellfire. Don’t even try to tell me this wasn’t going to be a date.”

She blanches. “It wasn’t.”

“Has he ever asked you out?”

She hesitates.

“He has.” I fucking knew it. “What’s the matter, he’s not rich enough for you?”

“I don’t date colleagues.” Her gaze cools. “But maybe I’ll marry him after we divorce. Dr. Handsome and Dr. Hellfire. Has a nice ring to it.”

I know she’s joking, but I don’t like it. My gaze trails over her in that fucking phenomenal dress, the way it dips into her cleavage. For the millionth time, I think about our kiss. I think about what would have happened if we’d kissed like that somewhere private.

The kiss would go a lot further.

“You’ve got a good one here,” a senior nurse tells me during dinner, pointing at my wife. “She has a good head on her shoulders, she works harder than everyone else, and she loves to learn⁠—”

“Thank you so much, Margaret,” the doctor cuts her off before she changes the subject.

I lean in, bringing my mouth close to her ear. “You didn’t tell me the theme for tonight was people raving about you.”

She’s extremely well-liked among her peers—just another thing I didn’t know about her.

“They’re just excited to meet you.”

They are, but not because of hockey, for once. It’s because I’m married to her. I don’t know how to feel about that. “Why do you work at the hospital? You don’t need the job.”

The team probably pays her more than enough. She sips her drink, not looking at me.

“They might ask this during the interview,” I add.

More so, I need to know. I have a sinking feeling the reason has nothing to do with money.

“I love what I do.” Her expression has never softened like this while talking to me. “I help athletes recover and regain mobility so they can do what they love. I get to make their lives better. There’s nothing like it. It’s like flying.”

I’m stunned speechless at the conviction in her eyes. She’s telling the truth. That’s how I feel about hockey—it’s like flying.

A weird, pleased pulse goes off in my chest. She has no reason to trust me, but she did. I don’t know what this means. I don’t like how I feel, confused and intrigued.

“Thank you for coming tonight, everyone,” a woman says into a microphone at the front of the room. “I’m Dr. Heather Joshi, the director of Lionsgate Hospital’s Athlete Injury Recovery Program.”

Applause rises around the room.

“I can’t talk about the program without highlighting the efforts of one person.” A photo of the woman beside me appears behind Dr. Joshi on the screen, wearing a lab coat, working with a teenager on crutches. It looks like she’s saying something encouraging to him.

“Georgia volunteered to make this speech, but I knew she’d leave out all the nice things about herself.” A few people laugh, and at my side, the doctor rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

“I had the pleasure of meeting Dr. Georgia Greene when she fractured her lateral malleolus—also known as a broken ankle—at sixteen. She was sent to the sports medicine clinic where I was a new physician. We worked together for six months so she could return to playing soccer with her high school team.”

She played soccer?

The photo behind her changes. It’s a younger Dr. Joshi and the teenage version of Georgia. Same whiskey eyes, same auburn hair. Big grin, with braces.

A few aws rise around the room. People smile at her.

Dr. Joshi wears a fond expression. “That’s us. Even back then, Georgia was a joy to work with. Smart, curious, and enthusiastic. Incredibly dedicated. Very interested in my shoe collection.”

The room laughs and she flicks to the next photo. It’s Georgia on a soccer field, mid kick. Ponytail flying, a look of concentration on her face. Legs strong and toned.

“Georgia went on to get a full scholarship to the University of British Columbia Women’s Soccer team.”

I turn to her, shock written all over my face. To play on a university team, you have to be good. I didn’t know she was an athlete. She ignores me.

The photo changes, and it’s my wife and Dr. Handjob. My shoulders tense. I hate that she seems to genuinely like him.

She’d never smile at me like that.

“Fast forward fifteen years, and she’s Dr. Greene, applying for government grants and convincing me to start our own athlete injury recovery program at the hospital. She has lured orthopedic surgeons, internal medicine physicians, physiotherapists, and other specialists from all over the world, and I am proud to say we run one of the most advanced programs in the country.”

The room breaks into loud applause.

“Is that all true?” I ask, even though I know the answer. I want to hear her say it, though.

She doesn’t meet my eyes. “Mhm.”

“We can’t talk about the program, though, without mentioning Dr. Greene’s favorite part.”

The photo changes to the doctor with a group of teenage girls on a soccer pitch.

“One goal of our research is to speed up recovery, and Dr. Greene’s hypothesis is that being part of a team environment is a critical part of rehabilitation. Participants have the option to play on a team of other injured athletes within the program. They have weekly practices tailored to their current ability, where they can reap the community and motivational benefits of a team environment under medical supervision. The teams are organized based on age, gender, and skill level.” She smiles at the photo of Georgia and the teenage girls, the one I can’t stop staring at. “This is Dr. Greene’s team, the Vancouver Devils.”

I turn to my wife, who’s still ignoring me. She coaches soccer?

That’s where she goes at night, I realize. She’s either at this hospital program she clearly puts everything into, or she’s coaching soccer.

Dr. Joshi talks more about the program, the other doctors, and some success stories, before she beams at the audience.

“And now, the part we’ve all been waiting for—the doctor auction.”

A ripple of interest moves around the room. My gaze cuts to Georgia. “What is she talking about?”

“We’ll start with the lovely Dr. Greene,” Dr. Joshi says.

“Hellfire,” my tone is sharp, low enough so only she can hear. “What is she talking about?”

“Fucking relax.” She smiles as everyone looks over at her. “They’re auctioning off dates with the doctors.”

Dr. Joshi sends a cheeky grin our way. “We roped Dr. Greene in for this portion of the evening before she was married, but hopefully her new husband doesn’t mind.”

“Someone gets to go on a date with you?” I don’t like that idea. Not one bit.

“We’ll start the bidding at a thousand dollars.” Dr. Joshi points to Dr. Handjob, who has his hand in the air. “We’ve got Dr. Handley for one thousand.”

The fuck? My gaze whips to that fucker, alarm blaring inside me. He sends Georgia a friendly wink.

“Do we have two thousand?”

A few hands go up, including mine.

“Two thousand, from Dr. Greene’s handsome new husband.”

“Volkov.” My wife’s fingers dig into my thigh. My cock jumps. “Do not.”

Dr. Handjob glances from me to Georgia..noveldrama

“Do we have three thousand?” Dr. Joshi asks.

His hand goes up. My nostrils flare.

“Five thousand?”

Mine goes up. The room starts to buzz.

“Volkov,” she hisses through a smile. “Stop bidding.”

“Ten thousand?” Dr. Joshi lights up. “Ten thousand to Dr. Handley.”

“His family is wealthy and they were going to donate anyway,” she whispers. “I asked him to bid on me. We’re friends. I didn’t want to be humiliated if no one bid on me, and I didn’t want to be stuck with some creep.”

“A friend who calls you beautiful?”

My wife. Not his.

“Do we have twenty thousand?”

“Twenty thousand,” I call, and the tension in the room thickens.

Dr. Joshi looks like she’s about to detonate. “I guess Dr. Greene’s new husband wants to stake his claim. Do we have thirty?”

“Thirty,” Dr. Nutjob calls.

Wait. I frown at Georgia. “You thought no one would bid on you? In that dress? Are you delusional?”

The doctor has a smile that could stop traffic and perfect tits. Her body is a fucking dream.

She looks like she wants to say something, but Dr. Joshi interrupts.

“Do we have forty? Forty to Dr. Handley. We just broke a record, folks. Do we have fifty? Fifty thousand dollars?”

My hand goes up. “Fifty.”

Someone whistles.

A strangled noise slips out of her. “Alexei.” It’s the first time she’s said my first name. I like the way the l and x sound on her lips. “Stop. Bidding. Now.”

The determined look in her eyes makes me feel reckless. Or maybe it’s the way that guy is looking at her like he wants her.

That asshole wants my wife.

“One hundred thousand,” I call, blood beating in my ears, and the room lights up with gasps.

“Dr. Handley?” Dr. Joshi asks, but he gives the room a rueful smile, shaking his head.

Victory pounds through me as the audience roars with applause. At my side, my wife smiles through clenched teeth.

“Congratulations to Alexei Volkov of the Vancouver Storm for winning a date with his new wife, Dr. Georgia Greene, and a massive thank you for your generous contribution to our program.”

Did I just spend a hundred grand because I was jealous? Yes, and I’d do it again.

While everyone watches, I lean in to kiss her cheek, inhaling her, brushing my lips over the shell of her ear. Smug male pride beats through me.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Hellfire.”