Page 7 of Gloves Off

I’m reeling, head spinning with questions and emotions. The program has grown to two hundred athletes. Our work is groundbreaking. We’re finding methods for injury recovery that will become the norm in sports and help athletes around the world.

On top of that, healthcare is publicly funded in Canada. Many of our participants wouldn’t be able to afford this level of care otherwise.

“But we—everything was going so well. Our last publication?—”

“I know. We’re doing incredible work.” She takes a deep breath. “The good news is, we both have long careers. Many private clinics need specialists.”

I don’t want to work at a private clinic that only caters to rich people, though.

“And you have the Storm,” she adds.

I’ll admit, I took the job on the team’s medical staff because it would lend credibility to the research program, and to my résumé as an athlete recovery specialist.

It didn’t hurt that Liam, now an orthopedic surgeon in Toronto, was a massive hockey fan. A job with a hockey team would be his dream. It felt good, taking his dream job, when he never believed in me to begin with.

I ended up loving it, though. I love working with athletes, keeping them healthy and overseeing their recovery so they can dotheirdream job.

Except Volkov. He can go to hell for telling Tate Ward I was incompetent. Fuck that guy.

Motivation rockets through me. “I’m not ready to give up,” I tell Heather. “So we raise the funds. We have the benefit coming up. We can get the media involved. I don’t need a salary?—”

“Georgia.” She puts her hand on mine. “We need ten million dollars. The benefit brings in a couple hundred thousand at most.” She gives me that sad smile of defeat. “It’s okay. This is how research goes.”

Like a lightbulb, my mind flicks to my inheritance—for ten million dollars.

No. No way. Marriage is designed to benefit men, not women. How many women have I seen in medicine get married and then fade away to run the home and raise the kids while their husbands ascend higher and higher in their careers?

Years ago, when I learned that Liam, my now ex, unenrolled me from medical school, he proposed.If you stay here in Toronto,he had said,we can get married. No romance, no declaration of love. From how sullen and irritable he became when I shared my academic wins and accomplishments, I suspect he was threatened, but I was so stupidly love-drunk and desperate for his approval that I said yes. For one week, I considered deferring my dreams so I could basically be his unpaid assistant, attending events on his arm, quiet and small in the background.

I thank the universe every day that I didn’t marry that guy. Men like him don’t want a woman who can hold her own. They want to feel like the king, the top dog.

I’m going to come up with the money for the program, but I’m sure as hell not getting married.

Early that evening, before I need to be back at the arena for the Storm’s opening game, I stride across the soccer field in myleggings, windbreaker, and stylish sneakers—because you don’t need to be wearing heels to look hot—carrying a big box I know will make the girls scream with joy.

My absolute favorite part of the athlete recovery program? The Vancouver Devils, a team of incredible, hilarious, gritty teenage girls.

“Is that what we think it is?” one of the girls asks from where they’re waiting in a group, talking and laughing.

I give them a beaming smile. “You know it.”

I’m Dr. Greene at work, but here at soccer practice, I’m Coach Georgia. I’m still technically their doctor, but the goal of the team is for recovering athletes to maintain a team environment appropriate to their ability.

Being on a team has incredible benefits—support, friendship, structure, staying active, competitive, and happy—but when players return to their regular team, they often reinjure themselves because they’re competing with non-injured players. They push themselves too hard. Players who do nothing fall behind on their physio and often experience depression, because when their sport is everything to them, losing it can leave a gaping hole in their life.

Thus, I created sports teams with the program participants. I run the soccer team for teenaged girls and some of my fellow doctors run other teams.

I set the box down and give them a sly smile. “Are you ready to see your new uniforms?”

They cheer. I grin and pull out a red and black jersey.

“Power colors!” Tasha, a seventeen-year-old recovering from an ACL tear, pumps her fists in the air, making me laugh. “We’re going to look so hot.”

“Power colors,” I confirm.

We don’t play regular games, the girls just scrimmage against one another every week, but looking the part and feeling good is important. What we wear can boost our confidence when we need it.

“When you put this jersey on, I want you to remember what a bad bitch you are.”

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