Page 117 of Gloves Off

“How’s the harem?”

He lets out a short, tired laugh. “Relentless.”

I try not to laughtoohard. “I heard about the field trip.”

A couple weeks ago, Tate invited his daughter’s class and theparents to a game, providing seats in the lower bowl so the kids could watch the game up close and arranging for a meet and greet with the players in the owner’s box after.

A handful of parents monopolized Tate’s attention. A lot of arm touching, hair flipping, big laughs at his jokes. Hints at getting the kids together for playdates.

“The, uh, single parents are kind of aggressive,” he notes, the tops of his ears going pink.

“What do they call you online?” I act like I don’t know. “Daddy Ward?”

“Please stop.” His eyes close, and I laugh harder. “I don’t think Ross likes how much media attention this is getting.”

Ross Sheridan, the owner. Tate used to play for him when Ross coached the Storm, years ago. “Ross, or you?”

“Both.”

“It’ll blow over.”

“I hope.”

My attention is snagged by Alexei saying my name in conversation with someone, and our eyes meet.

Tate leans in and lowers his voice. “I’m glad you could make it.” His gaze slides to my husband, deep in conversation with another hockey legend. “He needed you here tonight.”

I almost laugh in Tate’s face. No, he didn’t. Needed me to distract from the hordes of people trying to shake his hand, maybe.

When I turn back to Tate, though, he’s watching me with a serious expression. “This kind of thing—” He glances around the room, at all the hockey greats eager to talk to my husband. “It can be hard. I don’t think he’d have shown up without you, and he might have regretted it.” He shrugs. “I regret not going to mine.”

To your what?I’m about to ask, but he’s beckoned over by a staff member.

“Talk to you later,” he says, stepping away, “and if not, see you at warm-up tomorrow morning.”

He disappears, and Alexei’s big hand comes back to my waist, pulling me to his side. His warmth permeates the fabric of my dress.

“Let’s find our seats,” he says, leading me away.

“What’s this award for?” I ask as he pulls my chair out at a table near the front of the room.

He clears his throat, looking away. “Lifetime achievement.”

“Lifetimeachievement?”

He makes a low, displeased noise of acknowledgment, and I let out a short laugh. They don’t give this award to just anyone. Rick Miller has one. Tate has one. It’s given to the best of the best—players who don’t come around very often.

“Alexei, you’re getting a lifetime achievement award and you look like you’re bracing yourself for an ice bath. What’s the deal? Is it the attention?” He should be used to it after so many years. These guys learn to ignore it. “You’re getting one and you’re still playing. Has that ever happened before?”

The strong line of his throat works and his expression darkens. “No.”

What is his problem? “You haven’t even retired yet and?—”

“Exactly.” Our eyes meet, his flashing with something. Oh. My stomach tightens. Whatever I see in his eyes, I don’t like. “They give this award to guys who areretired.”

Oh. I sink further.

The ceremony begins. A few guys are getting the award tonight, all retired except for Alexei. When it’s his turn, a reel of his career highlights plays on the screen behind the stage.

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