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

on my feet, to move forward with my life. It’s not an opportunity to find myself at his expense. It’s not an invitation to take advantage of his generosity. Or twist his friendship into a relationship that will never last, that will leave us both hurting.

I just need to remember that.

12

Torsten

“Hey Bill,” I answer the phone, pressing my finger into my ear so I can hear him better. “We’re just about to take off.” The team’s already on the plane and we’re all a little desperate to head back to Boston with another win under our belts. Our second game was a tough loss but we’re still leading the series 3-2.

“Hi, Torsten. Oh, okay. This will only take a second then. I know where you stand regarding next season but since you haven’t formally put out a public statement yet, you’re still getting endorsement offers. Autumn just called me”—he mentions my agent who I really need to check in with—“about a vodka deal. The marketing company is making a big push for athletic endorsements, and you’re at the top of their list.”

“What’s the brand?” I ask, grinning my thanks to the stewardess who places a tea in my hand.

“Saint.”

“Never heard of it.” I blow on the hot tea.

“They’re relatively new. They’re working with Hendrix Marketing and since it’s a Boston-based—”

“Hendrix?” I clarify. It can’t be the same Hendrix that Rielle used to work for, could it?

“Yep. Hendrix Marketing, located downtown.”

“Get me their info.”

“You’re serious?” Bill sounds surprised. “I didn’t expect you to be interested in a vodka endorsement but I guess with the season coming to an end, it is a good time to diversify your portfolio.”

“I’m not taking the deal. No matter what they offer, the answer is no. But I want to be the one to tell them that. Get me the heads of the company and a guy named Stu’s contact info.”

“This sounds personal, Torst.”

I take another sip of my tea, relaxing back into my seat. “It’s about as personal as it could get, Bill. We’re about to take-off. Call you this week?”

“Sure thing. I’ll send you the contact information as soon as I have it.”

“Great. Thanks.” I hang up the phone and close my eyes.

Hendrix Marketing and specifically Stu, Rielle’s ex-boss, are going to learn firsthand why the vodka company and any other brand they’re promoting won’t have a Hawks player endorsing shit. They messed with the wrong woman, and by extension, the wrong man.

I close my eyes and sleep soundly until we touch down in Boston.

It’s sunny, cold, and early when I step through the door of my apartment, balancing a tray of Starbucks on my palm.

I place the tray on the kitchen island, drop my things in the living room, and grin at Rielle’s random belongings scattered throughout the room. A pair of boots next to the living room couch. Sunglasses on the console table. An earmarked paperback of Little Women next to the sink. She’s settling into her new life. I rub my hands together and check the time. It’s before 6 a.m. and I know Rielle won’t be up for a while. Even though I should be exhausted after playing two tough games in three days, I’m too restless to go back to sleep. Instead, I decide to cook Rielle breakfast.

Isn’t that something good husbands do? Cook?

Besides, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a woman in my apartment that I genuinely want to cook for. Grinning to myself, I pull out some ingredients, grateful Missy, my housekeeper, is still ordering the groceries. I doubt Rielle would know how much I like smoked salmon. I whip up scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, piling the combination on top of thick slices of toast. Farmor used to make this for me after my early morning hockey practices. Today, I add my own twist: sliced avocado.

Rielle stumbles into the kitchen fifteen minutes later, her eyes still bleary with sleep and her hair snaking down her back in wild waves. She’s so clearly not a morning person and yet, seeing her propped up against the refrigerator, tugging on the hem of the T-shirt that hits her mid-thigh, makes me smile.

“Morning, sunshine.” I raise a Starbucks cup to my mouth and nudge the second one closer to her.

“Morning, Torst,” she replies, picking up the cup. Her eyes widen, the sleep clearing, when she reads the label. “A caramel macchiato? How’d you know?”

I chuckle, not willing to divulge my sources, aka Claire. “You hungry?”

She takes in the two plates and a little line forms between her eyebrows. “You didn’t have to cook breakfast.”

“I wanted to. We can go out for lunch or dinner or something,” I tack on, knowing I promised we’d actually leave the penthouse and do something together.

Rielle shakes her head. “This is perfect.” She slips onto a barstool and I push the plate closer to her.

“Hope you like smoked salmon.” I take the seat next to hers.

She nods and takes a bite, moaning as she chews. “This is delicious. Thank you. What time did you get in? I didn’t even hear you.”

“Not that long ago. How was your last few days here?” I take a bite of my sandwich, my eyes closing as I’m transported back to Farmor’s kitchen and my childhood. The closer we get to summer, to seeing Farmor, to saying goodbye, the more my childhood memories rush back.

“Everything’s good. I’ve applied for some jobs, reached out to some alumni at my university to check out positions. I should be able to line up a few interviews, even without a recommendation letter.”

“And you’re set on marketing?”

She glances up, her eyebrows pulling together. “What do you mean?”

I shrug. “You can do anything you want, Ri. I’ve heard you’re pretty much a marketing guru—”

She snorts and tucks her hair behind her ears.

“But just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean it’s your passion, you know?”

She nods slowly. “You think I should do something else?”

“I think you should explore any option