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

running through my hair. Every time I ran to her, angry over some argument I had with Dad, she would laugh that we were too similar, both of us hardheaded and passionate. But I never agreed. I wanted to be my mother’s daughter through and through, even after she was taken from me when I was fourteen.

I bite the corner of my mouth and force my eyes open. I take another sip of my wine.

The adrenaline that’s been buzzing through my limbs since Stu touched me begins to recede. Exhaustion sweeps through me. The door to Taps opens and a few of the guys sitting near me whisper excitedly. When I turn my head, I realize why.

Torsten Hansen, a defenseman for the Hawks and sex on a stick, just walked in.

Jesus. My cheeks flame. Could this night get any worse?

Six weeks ago, I went out and got stupidly drunk with Claire. When Claire bounced early, I stayed behind, drinking my body weight in tequila and vodka shots. Torsten Hansen, chivalrous guy that he is, made sure I got home okay.

He didn’t even make a face when he flipped on the lights to my small apartment. I’m the girl who lives in Southie. He’s the guy who owns the apartment buildings a handful of streets over on the Waterfront. In that moment, the disparity between us, between me and my own family, was glaringly obvious. And it hurt. It scraped at my soul to know that my own pride was responsible for my current living conditions. For my lack of options.

And Torsten Hansen, with his broad shoulders and ridiculous six-pack, witnessed it firsthand. I dip my head and take another gulp of wine. I’ve got to get out of here. I need to go home, throw myself in the shower, sleep for a million years, and regroup.

But when I look back up, my eyes slam into two pools of icy blue. Surprise ripples across Torsten’s expression as recognition flares in his eyes. At the kindness in his face, a wave of emotion swells in my throat. Tears prick the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall. God, what is wrong with me?

I try to shake it off but I can’t. I feel unbalanced, like gravity is giving up on me along with the rest of the universe. Old inadequacies and insecurities wrap around me. My failures are on full display for anyone to pick apart.

It must show in my expression because Torsten’s mouth twists and he moves to slide off his barstool.

Oh, no. I shake my head and gesture I’ll come to him. There’s an empty seat beside him and even though he’s definitely not someone I’d want to see me unravel, at least he’s not Claire.

I take a deep breath, pick up my wine glass and coat, and hope I don’t make myself look like even more of a fool.

Although, at this point, is that even possible?

2

Torsten

The beer is cold and tangy. It goes down smooth, just the way I like it.

I grin at Pete, the bartender, and gesture that I’m ready for a shot. Last night, my hockey team, the Boston Hawks, won our first playoff game. Afterwards, we celebrated with a few beers, but tonight, everyone is with their families.

Everyone except me. My family, if you can call them that, are all in Norway and at nearly thirty-eight years old, I still haven’t found the right woman to settle down with here in America.

I snort at myself. The right woman doesn’t exist. At least for me she doesn’t. I’ve been burned too many times to place my future happiness in one woman’s hands. I’m more of a happily-for-now than a happily-ever-after kind of guy and I’ve made peace with that.

“Thanks, Pete.” The bartender places down a shot glass, the necessary saltshaker, and a lime wedge.

“You got it, Hansen. Congrats on the playoffs.”

I dip my head in thanks and shift my weight, groaning at the soreness that ripples through my body. I guess that’s the silver lining of this being my last season; soon, I won’t be in physical pain all the time.

Although, a new slew of issues occupies my mind these days. How will I stay in the US after this season? Last night, right before my game, Farmor called and asked if I’ll come visit this summer. Her voice was quieter than usual, as if it took too much energy to fill it with the laughter and lightness I’m used to. I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake the thought away. Right now, I need to focus on the playoffs, on the Cup.

I raise the shot of tequila to my mouth and freeze, all my troubles flying right out of my mind. Because Rielle Carter is at the other end of the bar, looking like every fantasy I’ve had of her come to life. She must feel my stare because she looks up and her dark eyes, nearly black, pierce mine. Even with the space and people between us, I can tell something’s wrong.

Six weeks ago, I escorted her drunk ass home when she had too much to drink with her best friend and my captain’s little sister, Claire. But from years of casual encounters, I know that Rielle projects confidence. She’s a charming and carefree woman who gets under your skin the moment you meet her.

Tonight, she’s none of those things. Her shoulders curve inward and her arm wraps protectively around her torso, as if she wants to disappear into herself. For a woman who always stands tall and proud, I’m startled by this version of her. Tonight, she looks heartbreakingly sad. She offers me a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

My concern spikes and I lean forward, staring intently at her watery eyes, her puffy lips. Has she been crying?

The thought causes me to slide from my barstool but she shakes her head and indicates that she’ll come to me. I turn toward Pete and order more shots.

I watch Rielle