Page 118 of Gloves Off

It starts with him as a child, playing at the local rink. My heart does a funny flip as I recognize him from the photos. There’s Nikita on the ice with him, smiling proudly. Video footage of a game at another local rink, where he must be a young teenager, already bigger than every other player on the ice. A clip of him in the minors,taking big hits without effort, like a brick wall. His first season in the NHL, stunning everyone with his power and strength as he kept up with the stars and proved his merit. Him receiving the Calder trophy awarded to the rookie of the year. More footage through the years of him on the ice—playing for Montreal, winning the Stanley Cup, winning the Norris trophy several times.

Clip after clip of Alexei Volkov being incredible at what he loves.

At my side, his arms are folded across his chest, shoulders tense and stiff while he watches the reel with an indiscernible expression.

That look in his eyes? Determination, longing, and a tiny shard of sadness? That’s how I would look if someone was playing a highlight reel of my career moments in medicine, if I knew it was all about to end.

God. My chest aches and I run a hand over my sternum. Alexei’s eyes cut to me, and my heart aches again. If someone said I couldn’t do what I love, I’d die. I’d just die.

But first I’d fight like hell.

No wonder he wears that stupid watch with the stupid heart rate alarm. No wonder he goes to bed at nine on off nights, like an old man. No wonder he eats clean, does his daily sauna, and spends hours in the gym.

Hockey is everything to him the way medicine is everything to me, and it’s about to go away. It’s inevitable. It doesn’t matter that he’s one of the best. He can’t play forever, and he knows this.

I find myself reaching over to Alexei and slipping my hand beneath his, folded under his bicep. He uncrosses his arms and looks at me in confusion, like he isn’t sure what I’m doing, but he wraps his hand around mine and settles them in his lap.

What am I doing? The warm contact of his palm against mine is almost uncomfortably intimate. I sit frozen, holding his gaze,before the eye contact is too much and I turn my attention back to the screen.

The clip changes, and nausea spikes through me, tightening in my stomach, rising up my throat. His injury two years ago. A head shot that sent him to the hospital. The opening game of the season, after our first meeting. I watch the footage of him being carted off the ice, every cell in my body screaming at me. The room is silent, watching. There’s me on the ice, crouching over him, checking him for spinal cord injuries before watching the trainers move him onto the stretcher. Beside me, Alexei’s eyes are on me, a frown pulling between his eyebrows at whatever he sees on my face.

The reel changes to Alexei working with trainers and physio during his time away after the concussion. Joining practices again with a no-contact jersey. His first game back. His first assist after returning to the Storm. Playing with Hayden Owens, water to Alexei’s oil, but a pair who turned out to be incredible together. More clips of Alexei’s dominance on the ice.

The reel ends and applause thunders through the ballroom. Tate steps onstage, up to the podium.

“Alexei Volkov is one of the toughest bastards I’ve had the pleasure to work with.” Ward wears a wry smile, and chuckles rise around the room. “Full of determination, grit, and passion for the game, he’s an inspiration to everyone who has the privilege of working with him. I am proud to present him with the award for lifetime achievement in the National Hockey League.”

Another roar of applause as Alexei gets up. Before walking up to accept his award, though, his gaze swings down to me, he takes my hand, and he pulls me up to standing before he lowers his mouth to mine. The kiss is brief, hard, and quick, but something warm and fizzing and desperate loops through me.

He needs you here,Ward had said, and my heart aches again.

As fast as it started, the kiss is over, and Alexei strides onto thestage, shakes Tate’s hand, gives the room a terse nod, before he’s seated back beside me, and the ceremony moves on.

I hate Alexei Volkov for what he said about me and my incompetence, but for the first time, I wish his impending retirement wasn’t a given.

CHAPTER 56

ALEXEI

When the ceremony ends,I lean toward my wife, inhaling the scent I’ve been clinging to this entire evening. Whenever the panic about retiring started to gnaw at me, I’d pull her closer, take a deep breath, and shove the feelings away.

“Come with me to the bar,” I murmur.

She arches an eyebrow.

“I’m going to get mauled. You’re a good deterrent.”

She rolls her eyes, smirking, but stands, and doesn’t even say anything when my hand comes to her lower back. Gazes follow her, sweeping up and down her dress, until they spot my hand on her and look away with respect.

I’m not surprised guys are staring. She’s a fucking knockout. She’s always beautiful, but tonight, in that dress, I just—the second I saw her in the lobby, walking toward me like some kind of siren, some dream, my heart stopped.

Doesn’t mean I like them looking at her, though. Possessive feelings course through my veins. She’s my wife.

She hasn’t said a word about what I put in her suitcase, which makes me think she hasn’t seen it. My pulse picks up with anticipation.

And then there’s what I found in her bag. An old book from my mom’s flower shop, with the meanings of flowers. As a teenager helping her out after school, I read it a hundred times.

How did she get it? She must have found it in the library at home. An odd, playful feeling pulses in my chest, cutting through all the weird tension and worry about tonight. The flowers started as a private joke with myself, but now that she’s in on it, I don’t mind nearly as much as I thought I would.

---