The Faker: A Marriage of Convenience Hockey Romance (Boston Hawks Hockey) by Gina Azzi (little red riding hood read aloud .TXT) 📕

Unfortunately for me, I still haven’t found her. After the sting of Bill’s words recede, I turn them over logically. In this case, marriage is a faster, more certain method to obtaining a green card than filing a bunch of paperwork that will most likely stall in the immigration process. Besides, I can’t agree to not leave the United States for eight months and Bill knows it. Farmor’s health has steadily declined over the past few years. Each time she calls, I jump on the first flight to Oslo. If she needs me, I’ll be by her side, immigration be damned.

“Torst? That was a joke,” Bill reminds me.

I force a chuckle. “Yeah, yeah I know. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“My grandmother.”

“Ah. How is Greta doing?”

“Not that great,” I admit. It pains me to think about her. To accept that I’ve built a life so far from her. The last visit I made to Oslo, I could hardly believe the physical changes in her appearance. She looked nothing like the motherly figure from my childhood. Her hair is entirely white now, her body frail. But her blue eyes still sparkle with mischief and I hold on to that.

“Still your biggest fan?” Bill asks.

I snicker. “She’s still my only fan as far as the Hansens are concerned.” It’s not a secret that I’m not close with my family. Save for Farmor, I doubt they’d even remember I exist. Because the Hansens are practically nobility and I’m the black sheep who ran away to America and never looked back. Well, except for the handful of years I played hockey in Europe. It was at Farmor’s urging, an attempt to make things right with my father, to reestablish the close bond I had with my brother Anders as children. Clearly, it didn’t work and as soon as Farmor gave her blessing, I came back to the US.

“Do you want to start the paperwork?”

I sigh. This will be the third time I initiate this process. I wonder if my past two failures to stay put in the US will count against me. “What do you think?”

“I think you need to be sure. If we start this, you can’t back out again. It doesn’t look good. Are you able to commit to staying in the US until it’s sorted?”

I swear. “Let me think about it, okay?”

Bill’s quiet for a second before he clears his throat. “Okay. For now, just focus on the playoffs. If this really is your last season…”

“Then we need to win the Cup,” I agree with his unspoken words.

I hang up with Bill and stand from the couch in my swanky living room. I live in one of the penthouses in a luxury condo building on the Waterfront. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the open concept of my kitchen and living room, offering spectacular views of downtown Boston and a bit of Boston Harbor.

Almost three years ago, when I turned thirty-five, I gained access to my trust fund. The one Farmor safeguarded as other members of my family tried to dismantle it. Every time I speak to her, she reminds me, “You’re still a Hansen. You’re just the best one.”

Being a Hansen typically means having unbelievable wealth thrust upon you.

It’s adhering to a strict set of expectations. It entails attending the most prestigious universities, being a member of the elitist social circles, and marrying into the right kind of family.

Unless you’re me. Apparently, being the best Hansen means being on your own.

1

Rielle

“You’re seriously going to work now?” my best friend Claire asks.

I shove my bag into the passenger seat and cradle the phone between my face and shoulder as I flip on the ignition.

My old car, a POS I affectionally call Sally, sputters.

“Come on! Don’t do this to me, Sal.” I bang my palm on the top of the steering wheel.

“You still haven’t gotten your car checked out?” Claire’s voice is incredulous and I close my eyes.

Take a deep breath. Everything is fine.

I turn the ignition again, tears of relief springing to the corners of my eyes when ol’ Sally revs up.

“Claire, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. It’s just that—”

“Douchebag Stu called. Ri, why are you still working for this guy? He’s been promising you a promotion for months and still, nada nada enchilada. You’re running yourself ragged trying to meet all of his crazy deadlines and demands. It’s Friday night! I’ve seen you once in the past two weeks.”

Misery clamps down on my heart. Claire’s right. For the past ten months, since I graduated college, I’ve busted my ass at Hendrix Marketing to prove that I’m worthy of my position. I’m in the office by 6 a.m. most mornings and always stay late.

Stu keeps telling me to hang in there just a little longer and the rewards will come. The promotion that he’s been dangling under my nose for the past six months keeps me grinding even when the exhaustion settles in.

I don’t need a reward in terms of recognition. I just need the fat paycheck for my student loans. But over the past few months, my patience has been waning and Stu’s hands have become grabbier.

Last month, he rubbed the backs of his fingers over my ass and tried to pass it off as an accident. Twice. Three days ago, he referred to me as sexy.

He’s repulsive but if I’m being honest, the person I’m most disappointed in is myself. I know I should quit. If I told Claire the truth about Stu, she would make me quit. But I need this job, in a way Claire doesn’t understand. Mainly, because I’ve never told her. I am drowning in debt.

“Let me just run to the office really quick and see what he needs. I’ll message you. There’s still a good chance I can make it to Jolene’s in time.”

“Okay,” Claire agrees, drawing out the word. “I really hope you can come, Ri. And that’s not me trying to guilt you either. I just miss you. And Indy’s not