Page 41 of Gloves Off

“All right.” Miller tilts that smile at us. “I’m beginning to see why these two work so well together. This question is from Darcy Andersen of the analytics team. Which pair of Georgia’s shoes is Alexei’s favorite?”

I pause with my marker hovering over the board. She has this black pair with little bows on the ankles. Sharp and pointy. Bright red soles that flash like the flick of a tongue as she walks away, swaying her hips. They’re terrifying and aggressive and look like they’d hurt if they connected with your shin.

Something about those heels piss me off. Something about those heels make her ass look incredible. Something about those heels sticks in my head, and I can’t stand it.

I bet her boyfriend bought her those. I wish I could get that asshole out of my head.

Black with bows on the ankle, red soles,I write, and hold my board up. She’s written the same ones.

“Lucky guess,” I mutter, turning my back to her. “I had to pick one.”

“Mhm. Probably has nothing to do with the fact that your eyes fall out of your head every time I wear them.”

I make a face. “They do not.”

“You remember them in staggering detail, Volkov.”

“This one’s from Ross Sheridan.” The team owner and ex–Storm coach sits quietly near the back of the room, watching with a calm smile. “Alexei, what is Georgia’s favorite moment from your hockey career?”

Probably the head shot and resulting concussion that landed me in the hospital two years ago, right before she transferred me to another doctor. Instead, I scribble out an easy one—defense assist record. I still hold that record to this day.

She hesitates before her marker flies. I’ve lobbed her a softball, she better get this one right.

“Calder trophy,” Miller reads.

My eyes meet hers in surprise. The Calder trophy is given to the rookie of the year. I won it my first season, and even though it was almost eighteen years ago, I still remember how my parents looked on with pride at the award ceremony.

All their hard work. Every double shift and coupon clipped to pay for skates and sticks, every five a.m. ice time. That award wasn’t for me, it was for them.

When I think about retiring, that’s what my mind wanders to.

I don’t know what it means that she wrote the Calder trophy down. I haven’t told a soul what that moment means to me. Before I can say anything, though, the game continues.

“Last one. Another two-parter. What does Georgia love about Alexei?”

My money,I write, before I erase it. I’m supposed to be playing nice.My perseverance,I write as a painful joke to myself and my ex-fiancée. If I had given up on that relationship like I should have, she never would have humiliated me and my family the way she did.

We hold our boards up, and the crowd lets out another collectiveawww.

His determination,she wrote.

Our eyes meet. I’m frowning, and she looks away. A weird tension simmers in my gut.

“I had to write something.” A hint of pink washes over her cheeks. Is she embarrassed?

I look down at my board, feeling like an asshole for what I wrote originally before erasing it.

“And the second part to the question, what does Alexei love about Georgia?”

What would Owens, Miller, or Streicher say about their partners? They’d pick something that has nothing to do with looks. Nothing material.

Her intelligence,I write.

My hilarious sense of humor,she wrote.

Our eyes meet again.

“I had to write something,” I echo.

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