Page 3 of Gloves Off

“You’re transferring me to another doctor?” I asked her the day after I was discharged.

She didn’t meet my eyes.“I’m not the right physician for you.”

“Too much work?I’m going to cut into your shopping time, huh?”

Those whiskey eyes flashed with irritation.“You’re held together with pins and K-tape, Volkov. I’ve recommended you for retirement. I’m not going to invest time into a lost cause.”

One meeting. That’s all it took for her to give up on me.

Fucking finally, the elevator reaches the floor at the top of the arena, where the offices are. It pings and the doors slide open.

“Have a great day, Volkov. Don’t knock any more teeth out tonight.”

She strides out and down the hall to her office, head held high, wearing those pants like they were designed for her.

“I have all my teeth,” I snap after her.

I hate her, but the doctor has a great ass. My watch goes off again.

“Everything okay, Volkov?”

Coach Tate Ward stands at the reception desk, watching me watch the doctor, wearing a curious but amused expression.

“Everything’s fine.” I silence this stupid fucking watch. It’s probably broken or something. “You wanted to talk to me?”

“You bet.” He tips his chin at his office across the hall. “Come on.”

CHAPTER 2

ALEXEI

I followWard into his office, taking a seat in one of the club chairs in front of his desk, across from him.

“What do you think about Luca Walker?” he asks.

The twenty-two-year-old rookie who cares more about having fun, partying, and chasing girls than playing in the NHL? He’s a cocky little shit who needs a reality check. When my last defensive partner, Hayden Owens, moved to offense at the end of last season, Ward signed Walker as a free agent and paired us together.

“He’s young.”

No one makes me feel my age like Walker, baby-faced, bright-eyed, and full of optimism. The kid’s a ray of sunshine, fresh as a fucking spring daisy.

Ward waits, watching.

“Inexperienced,” I add.

More of that patient eye contact. The ex-player turned coach is only a few years older than me but has this unnerving calm and wise thing going that makes him seem decades older.

“He’ll have to work hard this year if he wants to keep playing at this level.” For every guy in the league, ten wait in the wings. One fuckup and he’s gone, sent packing to the Storm’s farm team.

“And I don’t think he’s cut out to play with me.”

Ward’s dark eyebrows lift. “Really.”

“Rookies don’t play in the first defensive pair. They start in the third-tier pair and work their way up.”

Hockey teams have three defensive pairs. The first is for your top players, like me, not the guys who are still finding their feet with a new team, playing at a new level.

Ward knows this. We used to play against each other when he was in the NHL years ago, when I was with Montreal and he was with the Storm here in Vancouver. He rose from first round draft pick with a record yearly contract to the top scorer in the league. The guy won the Hart trophy for MVP of the year eight years in a row until a knee injury ended his career. He disappeared for a few years until he cropped up, coaching women’s hockey at the local university, and was hired as head coach on the Vancouver Storm two years ago.

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