Page 129 of Gloves Off

I think about what he keeps saying—that hockey can’t be everything. That he regrets not accepting his award.

“What happened after you retired?” I ask.

He laughs, short and dry. “I was a mess. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t accept my award. I probably would have made a scene and humiliated myself.”

I stare at him, confused. Ward’s the most composed, collected guy I know.

Off my expression, he gives me a wry smile. “After I retired, I spent a good two years hating myself, hating the world, hating the guy who I collided with on the ice. Wasn’t his fault.” He shrugs. “It wasn’t my first knee injury, but I blamed him and blamed the doctors who couldn’t fix me. At one point I actually blamed my brother—he’s a biomechatronics engineer—because he wouldn’t even consider building me a new knee. Said he wasn’t in the business of bionic body parts. I didn’t talk to him for a year after that.” He sucks in a tight breath. “I blamed the world because I made hockey everything and when it was gone, I had nothing.”

Fear trickles into my bloodstream. I don’t want that. I don’t know how to avoid it, though. Hockey is everything to me. When it’s gone, what will I have left?

Nothing.

“And I drank way too much.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys. On the keyring is what looks like a large coin with a tree on it. “Nine years sober.”

Jesus. I didn’t know any of this. “What changed?”

“Found out I was going to have a daughter. Well,” he smiles, “I didn’t know she was going to be a daughter at that time. But I found out I was going to have a kid. I didn’t know what to do, so I went to Ross”—he nudges his chin toward the ceiling, where Ross’s office is on the floor above us—“and he shoved me in rehab. Once I completed the program, he got me a job coaching women’s hockey at UBC. And now we’re here.” A calm, steady smile. “Just keep looking forward, Volkov.”

“How do you cope with not playing anymore?” Asking this is the closest I’ve ever come to accepting my fate.

He folds his arms, thinking. “I realized helping players perform at their best and achieve their dreams is just as rewarding.”

Good for him, but it’s unlikely I’ll ever find something I love as much as playing hockey.

“Think we have a shot at the Cup this year?” I ask.

He takes a deep breath, thinking. “Yes. Maybe. I hope.” His mouth slants. “God, I fucking hope. More than anything, I want that Cup again.”

The year before he was forced to retire, in overtime of the last round of the Stanley Cup playoffs, he scored the game-winning goal. A golden goal, those are called. The Storm haven’t made it to the final round of the playoffs since. I won it with Montreal sixteen years ago, and I still remember the roar of the fans in the arena and around the city.

Winning the Cup is like nothing else.

“You think it would feel the same, winning the Cup from your side of the bench?” I ask.

His eyes meet mine, sparking with determination. “It would be better.”

CHAPTER 60

GEORGIA

“What doyou like about Coach Georgia?” one of the girls asks Alexei at practice the next week, when he insisted on joining.

“She’s mean to me.”

They giggle and I hide a smile.

“And she doesn’t let me push her around.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?”

“Girls.” I give them a look.

“Yes,” Alexei says at the same time, and we exchange a look. My stomach does that annoying rolling thing again, warm and languid and fluttery. Is he thinking about what we did after the awards dinner?

I haven’t. Not even once. Not when I wake up, not when I’m trying to work, and not when I’m falling asleep at night.

The girls grin at one another. “Do you think she’sbeautiful?”

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