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

“Rielle?” Torsten strides forward and lowers me to the couch.

He’s breaking up with me. He promised if I was his, he’d never let me go. But now…

He’s divorcing me.

Oh God. I bend over as Torsten guides my head between my knees.

“Breathe, Ri. I got you. You’re okay.” His words are meant to soothe but they don’t. Because he’s leaving.

Or, wait a minute, I’m the one leaving?

How could I have been so stupid? How could I have trusted him? I know better than to let people in. I knew this would happen eventually and yet…

I can’t bring myself to regret it either because for the first time since my mom died, I felt like I had a real home. And it felt good.

That loss slams into me and I grip the material of my jeans over my knees, searching for the air that won’t come.

“Rielle? Ri, come on, baby. You’re scaring me.” Torsten’s voice holds a thread of panic.

His terror allows me to grasp onto the moment, to cling to it. I catch the air and suck it in, hold it in my chest as my heart feels ready to explode.

“Rielle.” Torsten strokes his fingers through my hair. He murmurs nonsensical things that I can’t focus on because my mind is already going a mile a minute. My thoughts are leapfrogging over each other with the fastest way to extricate myself from this situation. Fight or flight and right now, I’m desperate to flee.

I need to go home.

Oh God. I don’t even have a home.

My hands shake and a buzzing sound whirs around my head, like a fly I can’t catch.

“Rielle, talk to me. I didn’t mean to spring this on you. I thought you’d be happy, relieved.”

“Relieved?” I manage to sputter, my voice several octaves too high. I swallow and dip my head, tucking my hair behind my ears. I stand on shaky legs and put some distance between us. My panic attack recedes but still clings to the edges of my mind. “You thought I’d be re-relieved to know that you want to divorce me? That you want to put me on a plane back, back to B-Boston. Without you?” Tears stream down my cheeks.

Torsten stares at me in horror. He stands and I shake my head, stepping away from him.

Anguish twists his expression and his eyes hold mine, pleading. For what? “This isn’t the life you want, Ri. You want a fulfilling career. You want kids. You want a future with a man you’re going to build it with, brick by brick by brick.”

I point at him accusingly. “How the hell do you know what I want? Have you ever asked me? Have you bothered to find out? Or did you just assume that you—the older, wiser, more experienced, and financially sound Torsten Hansen knows best?”

He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. His eyes grow shiny for all the wrong reasons as he reaches for me again.

“You want a divorce? Fine, I’ll give you a divorce. I’ll be on the next flight to the States too so I won’t be in your hair any longer.” I turn toward the suitcase, almost screaming when I remember that we shared one. “I’m taking the suitcase.” I shout at his still form.

I pack angrily, throwing my things into the suitcase.

Torsten remains quiet, watching me with distrusting eyes. “Rielle,” he murmurs as I zip up the bag.

I stand up and cross my arms around my stomach, as if physically holding myself together like Scotch tape. “What?”

“You don’t have to—I don’t want you to…” He trails off.

“Say what you want. Don’t think about it, just say it,” I tell him.

“I want what’s best for you,” he responds automatically, his voice breaking.

And dammit, I can tell he means it. His sincerity makes everything hurting inside of me ache even more. He’s dismantling me, one word and desperate glance at a time. He broke through all the walls I built and now he’s knocking over the foundation so I’ll have nothing solid to start over on.

I feel myself retreating inside, looking for a shield, a way to fend off the giant, gaping hole Torsten Hansen is leaving me with.

But it’s no use.

Because I’m in love with my husband and—

“And I’m not it,” he whispers, his eyes shuddering closed.

I slip into autopilot, my body locking down. I just have to make it to the plane. Then, in front of several hundred strangers, I can break down and sob my eyes out. But not now, not in front of Torsten.

I can’t handle any more humiliation right now. I turn my back to him and pull my cell phone out of my pocket. The tiniest, so small it barely exists, flicker of relief occurs when I realize there’s a flight in three hours to New York. I just need to get on it and then I can figure it out from there.

I clear my throat. “I’m going to ask Lars if he’ll take me to the airport.”

“Rielle, wait a second.” Torsten reaches for my arm but I shuffle back, avoiding his touch. If he touches me, I’ll crumble. And it isn’t time for that yet.

“Send me the divorce papers and I’ll sign. I’ll text you the address I end up at.”

He frowns, concern flaring in his eyes. He looks miserable and if it was any moment but this one, I’d wrap my arms around him. But I can’t. Right now, I need to look out for myself because obviously, no one else is. “What do you mean? The address you end up at? Go back home.” He winces. “Go to the penthouse.”

I shake my head and twist his grandmother’s ring from my finger. I place it on the nightstand and dig into my purse for his gold credit card. When I pull it from my wallet, he swears. His hand snakes out and curls over mine. “Put that back,” he demands.

“No thank you,” I say cordially, placing