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

“Stop,” I yell while the girls run the drills Georgia briefed me on earlier that night. “Bring it in.”

The girls wander over to where I wait on the sidelines. It’s cold out tonight, and our breath puffs in the air.

“Cara, you’re on a low-impact plan. Why are you jumping?”

She shrugs. “I feel okay tonight. I can do it.”

I’ve noticed a few of them ignoring their limitations, pushing themselves hard during the exercises tonight.

“Just because you feel okay doesn’t mean you’re at your ability before you got injured. Coach Georgia knows what she’s doing. She’s a world expert. Do you think the NHL hires just anyone?”

They shake their heads.

“Do you think she’d limit you if she thought you were fully healed?”

More head shakes. The girls look guilty, some wear frowns like they’re pissed off or disappointed, and I feel a wrench of emotion in my chest.

“Look.” I swallow. “I know how it feels to be injured. All you want to do is get back to where you were before.”

“We want to play hard because we’ve always played hard,” one girl says.

“That’s how we got so good,” another says.

“I know. Two years ago, I was in the hospital from a concussion and wasn’t allowed to play for three months.” Even the memory makes me feel sick. Watching from the bench while my teammates did all the heavy lifting. “Being forced to do nothing was torture. I know how hard it is to sit out from your sport when it’s what you love. Rest isn’t nothing, though. Just because you aren’t pushing your body to the limit doesn’t mean it isn’t productive.” I wiggle my bad shoulder. “My shoulder didn’t heal properly and now it hurts most of the time.” I give them a sidelong glance. “Don’t tell Georgia that.”

A few of them smile.

“Rest is part of training, so commit to it. If you’re going to get better, do it right. Think of it like another hard thing. Another challenge. The better you heal, the better you’ll play when you return. Coach Georgia wants you to regain full ability, even if it takes longer. She’s rooting for you.” I make a let’s go gesture. “Let’s run the drill again.”

This time, they’re careful. They check their form, slow it down, frown with focus. Cara isn’t jumping. In the center of my chest, something squeezes.

“Good,” I yell. “Nice work.”

At the end of practice, the girls are tired. I can see it in their faces, in the way they move slower than before, and the way they laugh and smile less. I think back to Georgia and how much the girls like her. I think about how she was during practice, encouraging and fun, and the urge to impress her rises in me.

I don’t want the girls to tell her I did a bad job at this. This is practice, but they should enjoy it.

I glance at my watch—fifteen minutes left.

Georgia would do something to lift their spirits. Something to make them feel good about their skills and progress.

“Bring it in,” I call to them. “Drink some water and then line up in the middle of the field, single file, facing the goal.

“What are we doing?” one of them asks.

“Shoot-out.”

A buzz of interest rolls through them. They’re glancing at one another and smiling.

“Fuck yeah,” I hear one of them whisper.

“Which one of us do you want in goal?” one of the goalies asks.

“Neither.” I point at where the rest of the team is lining up down the field. “You two get in line and take a shot.”

I’m a terrible goalie. Really fucking bad. About half of the balls sail right past me. I’m not built for speed or agility the way guys like Walker and Miller are. For ten minutes, though, I forget about my impending retirement, I forget about trying to help the rookie, I forget about my citizenship, and I just have fun.

It’s the strangest feeling.noveldrama

“Is that all you’ve got?” I goad them. “Don’t go easy on me.”

“You suck at this!” they shout, wicked and gleeful like Georgia probably taught them. “You’re the worst goalie we’ve ever played against!”

“Excuses,” I yell back. “What’s the matter, are you tired or something? Trying to buy yourself time? Quit stalling.”

They’re laughing, kicking balls at me one by one. I can see why the doctor likes coaching. Watching the girls practice skills with determined expressions, watching them smile and high-five when they figure something out, it’s nice.

Rewarding, actually. I haven’t felt this way in a long time about anything. Being one of the better defensemen in the league was rewarding at first, until I got used to it.

“Wow,” one of them says when we bring it in and stretch. Talia, I think. “That was really sad.”

I lead them through a quad stretch. “Georgia didn’t tell me how mean you all were.” I don’t know why I’m playing around with them like this. This isn’t like me. “I hope you get back to playing on your regular teams, though. You girls are good.”

They smile at one another. “We know,” one of them says. Tasha? I think? “This was fun, though. You’re a good coach.”

“I’m not a coach.” A weird, pleasant pressure notches in my chest. “I’m just filling in for my wife.”

When I get home that night, the house is quiet. She’s probably still out at the work dinner. It smells like her, though. Sweet and spicy. Violets. That stupid pink penis crystal sparkles in the foyer, scattering light on the walls and ceiling. Her car keys sit in the bowl.

If her car is here, that means there’s something wrong with it again. Worry threads through me. It could break down while she’s driving. She could get stranded late at night.

It’s not safe. That’s why I care. Because it’s not safe. I don’t want her to get hurt.

And maybe I still feel the need to even the score between us. For two years, I was a complete fucking asshole to her over assumptions I had made. No wonder she can’t stand me. My gaze snags on her car keys again.

I know how to make it up to her.