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

I wait for him to grab his stuff before we head to the lobby to meet the team, it strikes me that this is one of the last times I’ll be doing this.

Hanging with all the guys, gearing up for a game, trying to mentally all get in the same headspace. For years, my team has been my family. Now, I’m desperate to create one with Rielle. And it fucking hurts to know that on top of losing hockey, I’ll never have with her what I truly want most. Even if James believes otherwise.

I glide down the ice, the cold air rushing by. With a stick in hand, ice beneath my skates, and a packed arena, I feel settled for the first time since I married Rielle.

Some of the anxiety I’ve been holding in my chest recedes as I lock into the game, my body tensing for the second period face-off. Tampa gains possession of the puck and I angle my body in between the puck carrier and the net, skating backwards until we’re battling it out in the corner.

“Come on, old man,” number seventy-two mutters, his shoulder slamming into mine. Kid’s been trash talking all night, trying to get me off my game. A few seasons ago, it might have worked. But right now, I keep my focus on the puck.

The hit vibrates down my arm, like pins and needles. I hear his loud breathing and his obnoxious chuckle but I don’t pay him any mind. We keep at it in the corner until I gain control of the puck and initiate a clean breakout, skating furiously until I can flip the puck to Easton.

Seventy-two flies by me and I shake my head.

The rest of the period passes in a blur. I give everything I have to the game, leave everything on the ice. Knowing this is my last season, my last time in the playoffs, maybe even my last game fuels my determination to make every play one of my best.

We win 5–3 and the team breathes a collective sigh of relief. We’re up two to one and need best of seven to advance to the second round. “Good game.” Austin grasps my shoulder and squeezes.

My shoulder screams in protest after taking two hard hits in the third period. I wince, Austin frowns, but I laugh it off. This is my last season and I’m going to see it through.

After a quick team meeting, we all go our separate ways with plans to meet up later for a drink at the hotel bar. Back in my hotel room, I debate whether or not to call Rielle.

Does she want to hear from me? Did she watch the game? Will she even pick up?

My stomach twists and I feel more freaking nervous about calling my wife than I did playing tonight. I snort at myself. Man up, Hansen. You married this woman; you want a future with her. The least you can do is call her, check in, make sure she’s okay after you took off with the morning light and no goodbye.

Working a swallow, I pick up my phone, pleased to see that she texted me.

Rielle: Great game! Congrats on the win!

I can’t stop the goofy grin that splits my face. I tap Rielle’s name.

It rings twice and then, “Torsten.”

I smile. “Hey, Ri.”

11

Rielle

“Hey,” I say, some of the knots that have been twisted in my stomach since I woke up to Torsten’s note, loosening.

“You watched the game.”

“You were amazing,” I tell him the truth. “I wanted to knock that punk out,” I add, impressed that he never lost his cool with the dick who spent more time goading him than controlling the puck.

He chuckles and the sound warms my chest.

I lean back into the couch cushions of his living room, tucking my feet up beneath me. The lights of the city twinkle below but up here, in Torsten’s penthouse, I feel a million miles away. In fact, for a brief instant, before he called, I felt like I did at my dad’s house since Mom passed. Apart, separate, lonely.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, knowing that the few hits he took must have taken their toll.

He blows out a breath. “I’m okay. It’s easier to wrap my head around it all knowing my time on the ice is almost up.”

Melancholy mixed with acceptance wraps around his words and I bite my bottom lip, unsure what to say next. Is he a little relieved this is his last season? Is he bitter? Is he both and doesn’t know which emotion should win out?

“What’d you do today?” he asks, pulling my thoughts back to the conversation.

I worry my lip between my teeth, debating if I should tell him the truth. But honesty was part of our vows, not the ones we said in the courtroom, but the ones we agreed to beforehand. “I saw your credit card.”

“I don’t want you to feel bad about it. It’s part of our agreement and—”

“I sold my car,” I blurt out.

“What? Why?” I hear him shift through the line, maybe sitting straight up. “Today?”

“Yeah, Claire came with me. I—look Torsten, I feel really shitty about our wedding night.”

“Ri, sweetheart, I’m sorry I—”

“It’s my fault,” I cut him off again. “I don’t know how to do this with you. I know what we agreed to but sometimes when we’re together, things get…blurred. Confusing.”

“It’s complicated,” he agrees. “Tell me what you want, Ri. Don’t even think about it, just say whatever you’re feeling.”

I twist my hair around my finger, tugging on it as emotions I’m unprepared to deal with rise to the surface. “I’m fine with our arrangement, really. And I wanted things to happen between us the other night. It’s just that, it’s confusing what’s real and what’s not. I don’t want to rely on you so much, to need you for anything. It will just be harder when our agreement ends.”

“I’d never not be here for you, Rielle.”

“I haven’t let anyone