Page 194 of Gloves Off

She leans in for a hug. “Happy for you two,” she tells me, giving me a squeeze, and I’m hit with a wave of gratitude. “If you screw it up, I will poison you.”

I cough out a laugh. “Okay. Fair.”

“I told you not to threaten him,” Georgia says as they embrace. “That’s my job.”

At the bar, Ward’s eyes flick to Jordan before he turns his attention back to his daughter, who’s laughing as Owens gives her a piggyback ride.

“I’m going to talk to Ward for a moment,” I tell them, sensing they need a moment. Georgia gives me another soft kiss on the cheek before I head over to him and nod hello.

“Ward.”

“Coach Volkov.”

Once I was cleared for activity, Ward and I made my assistant coach role official, and I moved into my new office beside Georgia’s at the arena. Having my wife so close at work is both heaven and hell. She’s too distracting to get much done when we’re both there, but having her within reach is a luxury I’m grateful for.

I also resumed work with the rookie—along with the rest of the new recruits.

“I’ve had a few complaints about the rookie training camp,” Ward says, eyes sparking. “They didn’t expect it to be so grueling.”

“It’s nothing they can’t handle. If they want to be ready for the NHL, they need to push themselves.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle. “Do you really need to start at six in the morning?”

“If they want to succeed, they can’t be out drinking and chasinggirls and boys the night before. They need to be in bed by nine. It’s good practice for the season.” I give him a sidelong look. “They only hate me because they can hardly keep up with me.”

Ward laughs. “No one can. You’re still a machine, Volkov, retired or not. They respect you and they want to make you proud.”

If I can be a tenth of the coach Ward is, that’ll be enough for me. A warm pulse hits me in the chest. “I love working with those guys,” I admit. “I’m already seeing incredible progress in them.”

“Ready for the season?”

Opening night is next week. I think about last year, when everything was so uncertain. When the thought of retirement sent cold dread through my veins.

Another thing I was hardheaded and wrong about. My life in retirement is ten times as fulfilling as before. I’m already anticipating what the new players will do on the ice this season. I get to work with my wife, both with the Storm and the Vancouver Devils, whose practices I attend whenever I can. After the hockey season ended, I convinced her to spend a month in Italy, just the two of us. Four weeks of great food, wine, and skinny-dipping with Georgia.

I was clueless and ignorant to dread this life, like I was clueless and ignorant to dread marriage. My eyes go to Georgia, and a sense of calm settles through me. She hasn’t sleepwalked once since I retired.

“I think this is our year,” Ward says quietly.

My chest expands with anticipation. “I think so, too.”

Last year, the Storm advanced to the final round of playoffs before losing in game seven to a better team. Fortunately, our guys walked away from playoffs without a slew of injuries.

Fucking hell, I hope it’s our year. My gaze goes to Streicher, with his arm locked around Pippa’s shoulders, murmuring something in her ear. Miller, teasing his new wife with a cocky grinwhile she pretends to look unamused. Owens, smiling and laughing with Darcy, his best friend. Walker, talking to Georgia and Jordan, his big fun-loving grin stretched ear to ear.

I’ve already won the Stanley Cup in my career, but these guys haven’t. For them, I want it more than anything.

My gaze goes back to Georgia. Well, almost anything.

The team owner, Ross Sheridan, appears and shakes my hand.

“Alexei.”

“Ross.”

“The rookies are looking sharp this year.” On occasion, the ex–hockey player joins my early morning practices, watching with quiet interest. “Where’s Dr. Greene? I’d like to say hello before I have to leave.”

I tilt my chin to where Georgia and Jordan stand, talking. Walker’s disappeared—to flirt with someone, I’m sure. Sheridan sees Jordan standing beside my wife, though, and seems to brace himself.

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