Page 49 of Gloves Off

“One of us, one of us,” Hazel chants as she and her sister, Pippa, approach with their arms full of food.

“Hi, Georgia.” Pippa hands Darcy and me a tray of nachos.

“Hey, little Hartley. How’s the new album coming along?”

“It’s hard, but I love it.” She grins before her eyes go to Jamie, skating to his place in the net in front of us. He gives her one of those serious, intense gazes, and she blushes.

Pippa used to be his assistant. They got married last year in Whistler, a mountain-town ceremony made even more beautiful by Volkov’s absence. Pippa and Jamie are the picture of newlywed bliss. They have a dog together and everything. That song Volkov and I danced to at the team dinner? Pippa wrote that about Jamie.

While we wait for the game to start, Hazel updates me on the body-positive fitness studio she started last year, Pippa talks about the new album, and Darcy fills me in on the upcoming Women in STEM events in Vancouver.

I’m the only one of us not wearing a jersey, I notice with a touch of self-consciousness. None of them says anything and I doubt they care, but I’d definitely look the part if I were in costume.

The lights go down, and the fans start to cheer. Around the arena, it’s a sea of Storm jerseys.

I bet Volkov would justloveto see me wearing his jersey. He’d get that smug, knowing look.

“Vancouver Storm fans, are you ready?”the announcer calls, and the fans roar.

The pump-up music starts and the players enter the arena, skating laps for their last warm-up. When I cover the game as a medical professional, I stay in the back, sewing up cuts, taping sprains, and assessing for concussions in the medical room. Sometimes, if I’m still in my office while the game is on, I’ll glance down at the ice. I never, ever sit out here with the fans.

I can see the draw, though. There’s an infectious energy in the air.

“Have you seen this?” Darcy asks, showing me her phone. It’s a social media fan account for the Storm, and the latest post is a picture from the team dinner, of Volkov feeding me the piece of cake with a dark glower. The photo has almost a hundred thousand likes.

“Yes, I saw it.” My private account has been bombarded with new followers. I stared at that photo for half an hour last night as I lay in bed.

Don’t get between that guy and his wife,one comment said, mistaking the sick victory in his eyes as possession.

Those two are going to make good-looking babies,another person wrote. Gag. As if we would ever.

Is it horny in here or is it just me?

Those weren’t Volkov’s horny eyes. He was just playing another sick game. That’s what we do.

Volkov hits the ice, and my heart rate jumps. He’s easy to pick out; he’s bigger than every other player.

“You should post a picture,” Darcy says quietly, glancing pointedly at Volkov. “As his loving wife.”

She’s right. A loving wife would be proud of her big hockey player. I pull my phone out and snap a picture of him skating past before adding a filter.

Cheering on my man,I type into the caption box, trying not to laugh. Thank god Volkov doesn’t have social media—I’d die if he saw this. The second I post it, my phone starts buzzing and dinging with notifications.

“So how’s it supposed to work when it’s over?” Darcy asks as I put my phone away.

“We divorce.” I shrug. “Easy.”

“What happens if you start to like each other?”

I nearly choke on my nachos. “You’re kidding, right?”

A tiny frown appears between her eyebrows. “He’s not as bad as you think.”

“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “You sound like Jordan.”

“It’s true. And if you ever get to know him?—”

“Which I won’t.”

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