Page 166 of Gloves Off

The longest silence of my life. We both know it now. The reason this can’t be real.

Disappointment pulses through me, cold and heavy.

He sighs with frustration. “Come here.”

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I am resting. Come here,” he says again, and I shift over.

Our lips meet and his kiss is soft, sweet, and searching. Loving. Another crack forms in my heart. I reach up and run my hands through his hair, and his eyelids droop halfway.

We watch the rest of the episode, and when it ends, neither of us moves as the next episode cues up.

“We’re away for most of December,” he says in a low voice, not looking at me.

I know. I’ve been thinking about it more and more. The Storm have a few long away-game stretches throughout the season. He’ll be gone for almost three weeks.

When we made the agreement, I remember looking at the calendar and thinking our time apart would be a reprieve. I couldn’twaitfor December so I could get rid of the horrible Alexei Volkov for a few weeks.

Now I’m dreading it.

“The bunnies are really going to miss you.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “I’m going to miss the bunnies, too. I’m going to think about them every day, Hellfire.”

CHAPTER 77

ALEXEI

Three weeks later,I wait with the rest of the team in the lounge for the private plane. Christmas is the day after tomorrow. Through the windows, snow dumps from the sky. Ward and the pilot talk in low voices while everyone darts glances at them. Two days, we’ve been delayed due to this blizzard.

“What the fuck is taking so long?” I mutter.

Miller leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the falling snow. “We’re not getting out of Denver.”

Owens folds his arms over his stomach, an uncharacteristic frown on his face. Streicher sighs, staring at his phone background of Pippa and their dog. Walker dozes with the brim of his hat pulled low over his eyes.

On the ice, the past three weeks have been incredible. The rookie is soaring, racking up the goals and assists, catching the attention of fans, commentators, and the league. Solidifying his spot on the team, I hope.

The next Gretzky,people whisper.The next Tate Ward.

Off the ice, I miss my wife. Being away from her is torture. I hate sleeping alone. I hate having to see her life through the photos she texts me—her at soccer, her and the bunnies, at my mom’s flower shop, helping her—instead of standing beside her, seeing it for myself. I like that picture she sent of her wearing my T-shirt, though.

Ward said it’s dangerous to let hockey become everything, because when it’s gone, you have nothing left. Seeing Georgia wear my clothes, though, makes me feel like…

Maybe I won’t be left with nothing. Maybe I’ll have her.

I think about how Georgia reacted when I got hurt at the beginning of the month. She sleepwalks because me getting hurt causes her stress and pain. I can’t retirenow,though, not when the rookie and I are making progress like this.

It’s what I love. I can’t give it up.

On my keychain, the little pink crystal catches the light. My wedding ring glints. The friendship bracelets from the girls at soccer sit on my wrist. One of the Christmas presents I got Georgia is tucked in my jacket pocket, a little black velvet box that I didn’t dare leave at home in case she found it before she was ready to see it.

I love her,I said during the citizenship interview before I left.I think I’ve loved her for a lot longer than I realized.

It didn’t feel like lying. I’m not sure what to do with that. I’m not sure what to do with any of this.

I’m in love with her. Maybe it’s as simple as that. I love being married to her. I love waking up with her in my bed. I love hosting our friends for dinner, and I love sharing a home with her.

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