Page 73 of Gloves Off

She blinks, caught off guard, and on her waist, my hand flexes.

“She’s called me that for years,” I cut in. “It’s a hard habit to break.”

Dr. Handjob smiles. “Right. She complained about you more than a few times.”

“Did she now?” I don’t know why that makes me so happy.

“Okay,” she interrupts. “I didn’t complain that much.”

This fucker grins wider. “Remember that meniscus reconstruction the other week? I had to hear?—”

With my hand still on her waist, I pull her away without saying goodbye. Something ugly and tight gathers in my gut at the thought of these two teasing each other at work.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” she tells him over her shoulder as I drag her away before she turns to me with a sharp look. “That was rude. He’s my friend.”

I laugh, cold and cruel. “He’s not your friend, Hellfire. Don’t even try to tell me this wasn’t going to be a date.”

She blanches. “It wasn’t.”

“Has he ever asked you out?”

She hesitates.

“He has.” I fucking knew it. “What’s the matter, he’s not rich enough for you?”

“I don’t date colleagues.” Her gaze cools. “But maybe I’ll marry him after we divorce. Dr. Handsome and Dr. Hellfire. Has a nice ring to it.”

I know she’s joking, but I don’t like it. My gaze trails over her in that fucking phenomenal dress, the way it dips into her cleavage. For the millionth time, I think about our kiss. I think about what would have happened if we’d kissed like that somewhere private.

The kiss would go a lot further.

“You’ve got a good one here,” a senior nurse tells me during dinner, pointing at my wife. “She has a good head on her shoulders, she works harder than everyone else, and she loves to learn?—”

“Thank you so much, Margaret,” the doctor cuts her off before she changes the subject.

I lean in, bringing my mouth close to her ear. “You didn’t tell me the theme for tonight was people raving about you.”

She’s extremely well-liked among her peers—just another thing I didn’t know about her.

“They’re just excited to meet you.”

They are, but not because of hockey, for once. It’s because I’m married toher. I don’t know how to feel about that. “Why do you work at the hospital? You don’t need the job.”

The team probably pays her more than enough. She sips her drink, not looking at me.

“They might ask this during the interview,” I add.

More so, I need to know. I have a sinking feeling the reason has nothing to do with money.

“I love what I do.” Her expression has never softened like this while talking to me. “I help athletes recover and regain mobility so they can do what they love. I get to make their lives better. There’s nothing like it. It’s like flying.”

I’m stunned speechless at the conviction in her eyes. She’s telling the truth. That’s how I feel about hockey—it’s like flying.

A weird, pleased pulse goes off in my chest. She has no reason to trust me, but she did. I don’t know what this means. I don’t like how I feel, confused and intrigued.

“Thank you for coming tonight, everyone,” a woman says into a microphone at the front of the room. “I’m Dr. Heather Joshi, the director of Lionsgate Hospital’s Athlete Injury Recovery Program.”

Applause rises around the room.

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