Page 11 of Gloves Off

“No, I don’t.” He glares at her. “Be quiet, Jordan.”

I whirl on him. “Don’t tell her to be quiet. This is her bar.” Back to Jordan. “What is it?”

“Volkov asked me to marry him.”

I probably look like I’ve been slapped, jaw hitting the floor and blinking with wide eyes. “Why?” Does he have a thing for her? I never caught that before. Sharp unease twists in my stomach.

Jordan smiles to herself, mischief sparking in her eyes. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

I lift a hand to stop her. “No?—”

Too late. She’s already walking away, and I’m left with Volkov. We sit in silence, both looking straight ahead at the Polaroids. There’s one of him somewhere. My eyes scan—there. With the Hayden and Rory, fromlast season.

I can’t take this anymore. I turn to face him. “Why did you ask Jordan to marry you?”

His cold gaze flicks to me, then away. “You first.”

So she told him that. “It’s really not your business.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

I turn back to the Polaroids. Does he have an inheritance, too? He doesn’t need the money. The guy’s loaded. All these hockey players are, especially stars like him. He makes millions per year.

“I have an inheritance,” I say for some reason. “I need to be married to receive it.” He doesn’t need to know the rest.

He’s quiet for a long moment. “I need citizenship.”

My eyebrows go up. “But you’ve been here for years.”

“I know.” His nostrils flare. “I don’t want to get into it. I’m on a work visa while I’m still with the team.”

“Lucky for you, you’re the most stubborn bastard I know.” I give him a sparkling smile. “You’ll be playing well into your nineties.”

The unspoken truth hangs in the air: Volkov has three years left in his contract, and it probably won’t be renewed after that. He’s still one of the best defensemen in the league, but one bad injury could take him out. Physical defensemen like him hardly play as long as he has.

Our eyes meet. Oh. Oh no.

“No,” I tell him, shaking my head. “No. No, no, no. No fucking way.”

He scowls.

“You can’t be serious,” I choke out.

“I am.” He says it like it’s causing him physical pain.

“Volkov.” I steeple my hands together. “Did you hit your head again?” Two years ago, he was in the hospital with a bad concussion from a head shot. “Knock a few more teeth out?”

He rubs the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “Like I fucking said ten thousand fucking times, I have all my teeth.”

I look around, ensuring we won’t be overheard, before I lower my voice. “I’m not going to marry you. It would be a disaster.”

A long beat of silence stretches before he answers. “I have no other options.”

“I hate to admit this, but there are women who would marry you. Women who have no idea what you’re actually like.”

His expression darkens. “I don’t want a real marriage.”

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