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GEORGIA

The next weekend, I hurry in the door of the hotel room Alexei and I are forced to share on another team trip. The week has been a whirlwind—work, soccer, traveling. It’s one of those weeks where everything whizzes past, time races, and I feel unsettled and harried.

I have less than an hour to get ready for this mysterious dinner. Not ideal. The team went straight from the airport to the arena to practice for tomorrow night’s game, so I haven’t even unpacked my bag. My dress, delivered this morning in Vancouver before we left, hangs on the back of the door.

Two beds, I notice, with a weird dip in my stomach. Relief, most likely, that I won’t be forced to inhale his addictive scent all night.

I’m about to open my bag and lay out all my hair and makeup products when there’s a knock at the door. Alexei was still at the arena working with a physio when I left—maybe he got locked out.

At the door, though, a woman and man wait, each with their own rolling black case.

“Hair and makeup,” the woman says.

“I didn’t . . .” I shake my head, confused.

“Alexei arranged for it. He said you wouldn’t have a lot of time to get ready.”

Warmth spills through me and I grin. “Come on in.”

An hour later, I head downstairs to the hotel lobby where Alexei texted me to meet him when I was done.

In the elevator, I study my reflection. No wonder the designer is an up-and-comer.

I smooth a hand over the soft, lightweight fabric that drapes across my body and makes me feel like a Grecian goddess.

This is what I love about fashion—a couple pieces of fabric arranged into art.

In this dress, with my hair done in shiny waves and my makeup highlighting my favorite features—my eyes, my lips—I feel so beautiful.

The shoes the designer included are bloodred and vicious, mostly hidden by the hem of the dress but peek out as I walk.

Even the undergarments she sent along with the dress are pretty—a soft, feminine lace, undetectable beneath the thin fabric. I didn’t even have to open my bag.

Getting ready with two professionals has been a nice distraction from the realization that tonight I’m just a woman on a powerful man’s arm.

Again. Liam would bring me to events, but instead of introducing me as his girlfriend who was about to enter medical school, I was his girlfriend, Hugo Greene’s granddaughter.

I always felt erased at those events. I was there in physical form, but I didn’t matter. Liam didn’t even look at me. I was an accessory to make him seem more important.

My stomach wobbles. I hate that I’m repeating history like this. Not real, I remind myself. I’m just holding up my end of the bargain.

The elevator opens and as soon as I step out, I spot him sitting in a club chair, leaning back, legs spread, taking up a ridiculous amount of space.

Handsome in that scary, bad boy way, wearing the hell out of that suit.

In a busy lobby with a sea of people, his energy feels different.

Magnetic. Heavier. Calm. Steady. Solid. That unsettled, harried feeling I’ve had all week quiets.

Our eyes meet and his gaze hardens, jaw flexing. I force myself to straighten and hold his gaze while I stride over.

“Well?” I put my palm up, gesturing at myself.

“Well, what?” He moves to standing.

I don’t need him to tell me I look hot. I feel hot. That’s all that matters.

I let out a dry laugh to myself, checking my clutch for everything I need. “All right, Volkov. Let’s go.” We start walking toward the ballroom. “What’s this dinner for? You never told me.”

“An award.”

“Oldest player in the league?”

His unamused gaze slides to me. “Hilarious.” His gaze drifts lower, down my dress, before he looks away.

“Wait, I know. Least teeth.”

The corner of his mouth ticks. “Hellfire, keep running your mouth like that and you’re going to regret it.”

“What are you going to do, spank me?”

My stomach dips at the flare of heat in his eyes. “Maybe I will.”

He looks away again, throat working.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

He’s tense. More than usual. “Is your shoulder hurting?”

“Shoulder’s fine,” he says tightly.

“It’s the sparkles, isn’t it?” I gesture at my dress with a mock crestfallen expression. “You hate them.”

He gives me a flat look. “You look nice.”

“Even though I’m wearing ‘sparkly shit’?”

“Your sparkly shit is growing on me.”

We’re about to step through the door of the ballroom when his warm hand encircles my wrist, stopping me. I look up; he’s so impossibly tall and broad. I’ll never get used to it.

“You look beautiful,” he says. “As always.”

My pulse skips a beat. I didn’t mean to fish for a compliment, and I don’t need it from him, but I still float a couple inches off the ground. I don’t care what he thinks. It’s only because his compliments are scarce that I feel this way.

“As always?” I start to beam as we walk into the ballroom, and he rolls his eyes.

I’m about to start teasing him when we’re surrounded by three enormous hockey players.

“Volkov.” It’s Rick Miller, Rory Miller’s dad, a retired Canadian hockey legend. He shakes Alexei’s hand with enthusiasm. “Good to see you again, and good to see you getting the recognition you deserve.”

Recognition he deserves?

“Thank you.” Alexei gives a tight nod before gesturing at me. “This is Dr. Georgia Greene, my wife.”

Rick’s gaze moves to me and we shake hands. “Ward has mentioned you. Nice to meet you. You work with the team?”

“I do.”

“She works in injury recovery research at Lionsgate,” Alexei adds.

Rick’s eyes light up with interest. “Really.”

I give Alexei a strange look. His hand is still on my waist, keeping me close. “Yes. I run a research program and work with athletes in their rehabilitation.”

“Volkov.” A man I recognize as a coach in the league interrupts, shaking Alexei’s hand and slapping him on the back. “Congratulations. Well deserved.”

“I’ll find you later,” Rick says to me while Alexei’s pulled into the conversation. “I’m going to pick your brain. ”

He disappears, and I edge away, wanting to give Alexei space, but his grip on me tightens.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he says in my ear.

“Just giving you space.”

“Stay.”

Again and again, people come up to him, congratulating him, and he introduces me.

The athletes learn what I do and have a million questions, and I answer them with half my attention on my husband, and how he’s treated like royalty among the players.

People are eager to meet him and say hello.

They hang on to the few words he says to them.

Despite the attention and admiration from every level in the league, from current players to retired ones, from coaches to owners, he seems unfazed, deferring their praise and introducing me instead.

Dr. Georgia Greene, my wife, he keeps saying.

My profession first, my status as his wife second, I can’t help but notice.

This is Hugo Greene’s granddaughter, Georgia, Liam would say.

“Lucky guy, Volkov,” the New York coach tells him after we talk about new methods of inflammation reduction. “Lucky guy.”

“I’m aware.” My husband’s hand smoothes over my lower back, and a thrill runs through me.

“Dr. Greene.” Ward appears at my side, giving me a friendly nod.

“Hi, Tate.” I send a pointed glance to his suit. “Great suit.” He always cleans up nice. It’s probably why he’s getting an increasing amount of attention in the media for his single status.

“How’s Bea?” His daughter.

He smiles, his eyes crinkling. “She’s great. Eight going on thirty-five.”

“How’s the harem?”

He lets out a short, tired laugh. “Relentless.”

I try not to laugh too hard. “I heard about the field trip.”

A couple weeks ago, Tate invited his daughter’s class and the parents to a game, providing seats in the lower bowl so the kids could watch the game up close and arranging for a meet and greet with the players in the owner’s box after.

A handful of parents monopolized Tate’s attention. A lot of arm touching, hair flipping, big laughs at his jokes. Hints at getting the kids together for playdates.

“The, uh, single parents are kind of aggressive,” he notes, the tops of his ears going pink.

“What do they call you online?” I act like I don’t know. “Daddy Ward?”

“Please stop.” His eyes close, and I laugh harder. “I don’t think Ross likes how much media attention this is getting.”

Ross Sheridan, the owner. Tate used to play for him when Ross coached the Storm, years ago. “Ross, or you?”

“Both.”

“It’ll blow over.”

“I hope.”

My attention is snagged by Alexei saying my name in conversation with someone, and our eyes meet.

Tate leans in and lowers his voice. “I’m glad you could make it.” His gaze slides to my husband, deep in conversation with another hockey legend. “He needed you here tonight.”

I almost laugh in Tate’s face. No, he didn’t. Needed me to distract from the hordes of people trying to shake his hand, maybe.

When I turn back to Tate, though, he’s watching me with a serious expression.

“This kind of thing—” He glances around the room, at all the hockey greats eager to talk to my husband.

“It can be hard. I don’t think he’d have shown up without you, and he might have regretted it.

” He shrugs. “I regret not going to mine.”

To your what? I’m about to ask, but he’s beckoned over by a staff member.

“Talk to you later,” he says, stepping away, “and if not, see you at warm-up tomorrow morning. ”

He disappears, and Alexei’s big hand comes back to my waist, pulling me to his side. His warmth permeates the fabric of my dress.

“Let’s find our seats,” he says, leading me away.

“What’s this award for?” I ask as he pulls my chair out at a table near the front of the room.

He clears his throat, looking away. “Lifetime achievement.”

“Lifetime achievement ?”