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

A few evenings later, I lie in bed, trying to scroll on my phone while my other hand throbs with pain. I intercepted a puck during the game tonight—and broke a finger.

That fan account has posted a photo of Georgia wearing the heels with big black bows on the ankles.

Dr. Georgia, please step on me, one comment says, and a strange mix of possession and amusement twists in my gut.

I don’t know why I keep scrolling through this account, studying the photos like there’s going to be a test. I set the phone down and reach for the bottle of ibuprofen on my bedside table, but when I try to open it, my hand hurts like hell, and I let out a low groan.

The door bursts open, and the doctor glares at me.

“How am I supposed to sleep when you’re acting like a fucking baby in here?”

She folds her arms over her chest before she puts her hands on her hips, then folds them again. Her eyes are wild, frantic, and a cute pink color rises on her cheeks. Energy crackles between us.

“I can’t sleep.” She throws her hands in the air. “You’re making way too much noise.”

My eyes drop to her mouth. “I made one little sound.”

Her gaze lands on my hand. “You broke a finger.” Her voice sounds weird. Unhappy. I don’t like it. “Did you take something for it? You’re supposed to be taking an anti-inflammatory every four hours at least. Where’s your ice pack?” She frowns at my hand. “Why is your splint all messed up like that? Who did this?” She strides over, sits beside me on the bed, and takes my hand.

“I took it off after Mei splinted it. It was too tight.”

She gives me an irritated look, removing the splint with care. “It’s supposed to be tight so it can heal properly.” Her gaze lingers on me, on my glasses.

“Miss me, Hellfire?”

“Not even a little bit.” She shifts her gaze to my hand. “You look like hell.”

“Isn’t that a compliment, where you’re from?”

A tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth and she glances up at my glasses again. “You should really get LASIK.”

“LASIK freaks me out,” I admit. “I don’t want a laser near my eye.”

“Oh my god.” She rolls her eyes. “You are a baby.”

I can smell her violet perfume again. “Were you working tonight?”

She nods, eyes on my splint. I stare at her mouth, trying not to think about at the airport.

No more kissing. It’s a good rule to have, especially when I’m thinking about her all the time like this.

“Question for you, Hellfire.”

She makes a mmm? noise, still working on my splint, frowning in concentration. Prickles run up my arms from her fingers brushing me, and I can feel her body heat from where she sits beside me on the bed.

“Why didn’t you want to get married?”

Her eyes flick up to mine, surprised and wary.

The question bothered me the entire road trip. I know why I didn’t want to get married—because I don’t need anyone. I have hockey, I have my teammates, I have my family, and I like my life as is. The last thing I’m going to do is introduce someone into my life only for them to leave. Only for it to be one-sided the whole time.

Georgia could find someone who’s crazy about her, though. As much as I hate it, that Dr. Handjob guy stared at her with stars in his eyes. Half the guys on the team get tongue-tied and nervous around her. There’s no shortage of men who would be happy to marry her.

“I don’t want to give up my career,” she says simply.

I make a face. “Why would you have to give up your career?”

“It’s just the way it goes with men and women.”

“No, it isn’t.”

She gives me a look like I don’t know what I’m talking about.

“You know what I saw when I started working? Two doctors would get married, and she’d go on maternity leave and never come back. Or she’d work for a bit, but it’s hard when she’s been out for a year. Every gain in his career widens the gap between them and makes it harder for her to catch up, and eventually she throws in the towel. I’ve seen it too many times to count, Alexei. The primary caregiver for kids is the one whose career suffers, and it’s always the woman.”

“So don’t marry another doctor.” There’s an ugly stab in my gut, thinking about her getting married for real one day. Having kids with someone.

“It’s not just doctors. It’s most men. Look at you. Your schedule is ridiculous. You’re traveling half the year. Would you retire to take care of your family if your wife wanted to work?”

I can’t even imagine being ready to retire. If I’m not a hockey player, who am I? Hockey is everything to me.

“You could have married someone you didn’t hate for your inheritance,” I say instead. “Your Dr. Handjob would say yes in a heartbeat.”

I hate that idea.

“It would end up meaning something to him.” She frowns to herself. “I could never lead someone on like that.”

I stare at the splint. That warning feeling’s back in my gut. This is why I can’t be thinking about her. She isn’t thinking about me back.

“There.” She sets my hand down and stands, my side going cold from the loss of her body heat. “Don’t move.”

She leaves, and returns holding an ice pack.

“Fifteen minutes on, fifteen off,” she tells me in a firm voice that makes me feel weird. Taken care of or something. Her eyes glint. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You were right,” I say when she heads to the door again. I have the frustrating desire to keep her here, keep her talking. “About Walker being scared shitless.”

She leans on the doorframe, unsurprised.

I’ve been thinking about it since I met his parents but coming up with nothing. The kid and I are complete opposites. I don’t know why Ward paired us together. The rookie would be better off with someone like Miller or Owens.

“How’d you know?”

Her mouth twists in a wry smile. “Medical school. Everyone’s the smart kid. Everyone loves it and works hard. Everyone wants it just as badly as you do. It was a whole new level of competition.”

That sounds like the NHL. “How did you deal with it? Maybe I can learn something that’ll help the rookie.”

But mostly, I’m becoming addicted to every new piece of information I learn about her. Those pretty lips turn up at the corners like she has a secret, and that twist of interest spirals.

“I wore ridiculous heels so they’d underestimate me, then go home and study until I fell asleep at my desk.”

“So that’s how you weed out the assholes, huh?” I clear my throat. “The shoes?”

I don’t realize what I’ve said until it’s too late.

She stares at me dead-on. “Yes. That’s how I weed out the assholes. Especially the ones who call me dumb, or incompetent.”

Deep in my chest, regret yanks hard. I hate that I’m in that group.noveldrama

“I never thought you were dumb.” I hate myself for how wrong I was. How quickly I believed the worst in her. “I know how hard it is to get into medical school in Canada.”

The hurt is still in her eyes, though. “Just incompetent?”

This is where I should tell her the truth—that I was attracted to her, but she reminded me of my ex. That she thought I was a lost cause and I hate when people can see my weak points.

“I’m sorry,” I say instead, hauling in a tight breath, holding her eyes. “I shouldn’t have been such a dick.”

She looks down, studying her nails. I wish I knew what she was thinking.

“It’s okay, Volkov. It keeps things interesting. Besides, I graduated top of my class.” Her mouth curves. “Probably out of spite, honestly.”

I huff an amused sound. “Good girl.”

Something flares in her eyes, and I remember when I said that in the library at the benefit.

Our eyes hold, and my heart rate picks up. “Thinking about the benefit, Hellfire?”

She lifts her chin, a defiant move that only gets my blood racing harder. “Nope. Not even once.”

The air around us thickens. Sharp, crackling desire courses through me. Trying not to be attracted to her isn’t working.

“My bed smells like you,” I say, because I can’t help but provoke her.

I thought I was delusional at first, but no, it’s not just that I can’t get that intoxicating violet scent out of my nose. My sheets actually smell like her.

Her throat works, confidence faltering. “Weird. I don’t know why.”

I’m a sick bastard, because I find her discomfort amusing. “You don’t know why?”

“Maybe Svetta used different soap.”

“You’re a known sleepwalker, and you’re blaming my housekeeper?”

“I’m not a known sleepwalker. Only you know. And Jordan.”

I shouldn’t like that I know something so personal about her, but I do. “Why do you sleepwalk, Hellfire?”

“I don’t know,” she says tightly, before she’s gone, walking back to her own room.

“Liar,” I mutter to myself.

She knows, but she won’t tell me. My determination snags like a jagged edge. I’m going to find out.

Learning more about my wife is a dangerous game that I can’t seem to stop playing.

In the middle of the night, I wake to my bedroom door opening.

“Hellfire?” I murmur, squinting in the dark.

The bed dips and I get another wash of that pretty violet scent. She snuggles in beside me, her warm curves tucked against my front, her hair on my arm.

I should lead her to her bed, but she’ll probably come right back, like in the hotel room. Instead, I lie there, listening to her soft breathing.

It’s nice, with her pressed to me like this. Maybe I don’t mind cuddling as much as I thought I did.

I think about what she told me tonight. Her working hard in medical school. Encouraging me with the rookie. I bet she helps the girls at soccer with this kind of thing, too. I saw the way they looked at her, like they wanted to grow up to be her.

Admiration grows in the center of my chest. I wish I’d never saw this captivating, fascinating side of her.

These feelings I’m starting to have for my wife? They aren’t going away.