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

thumb over her cheekbone. Her skin is soft and smooth and perfect. I drop my hand. “Tell me what you need. Right now, don’t even think about it.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she whispers.

I frown. “You must know I am the nicest guy on the Hawks.”

She snorts. “That’d be Noah. Or Austin.”

“Screw them,” I joke and she gives me an almost-smile. I chew the corner of my mouth, giving her another truth. One I rarely share. “Because I know what it’s like to be alone and hurting even when you’re surrounded by people.”

She draws in an inhale, understanding flaring in her irises. “I want to drink tequila until my head spins. And I want to sleep in late just one day, just tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I agree. I pick up my next shot glass just as Pete delivers a new batch. “To sleeping in.”

She rolls her eyes but her expression clears the tiniest bit. She picks up another shooter and clinks it against mine.

We down them and I’ve got to give her credit, she doesn’t flinch. After four shots in quick succession, she doesn’t even look tipsy. But I know they’ll kick in soon, soften some of the spiky edges that are jabbing at her.

“I’ll make sure you get home okay,” I tell her.

“This is becoming a habit,” she says, opting for her wine glass.

“I don’t mind it.” I lean back in my seat. Even though I shouldn’t be drinking heavily right at the start of the playoffs, there’s no way I’m leaving Rielle to drink on her own. Not tonight, not when she needs someone to step up and be there for her. When Pete passes, I order another beer and tell him to keep the shots coming.

“I’m sure you have better things to do.”

“Can’t think of one at the moment,” I reassure her. “So…” I drop my eyes to her arm again. As long as Rielle is beside me, I can remain calm. But there’s no way in hell I’m leaving her on her own without knowing the story behind the asshole who bruised her.

“So…” Worry washes over her face. She doesn’t want to talk and she most certainly doesn’t want to overshare. She doesn’t want to tell me things. Damn, I get it, I want to tell her. I get you.

Instead, I decide to confide in her about my predicament. “Let me get your opinion on something. If you had a friend, let’s call him Stan—”

“Stan?” she asks skeptically.

“Stan’s a nice name.”

She snorts. “Keep going.”

“Say Stan was in a bit of a pickle.”

“Where did you learn English?”

I laugh. “I excel at idiomatic expressions.”

She grins and relaxes a little. “Why is Stan in a pickle?”

I scrub my hand over my jawline. “Stan is caught between something he wants, something for his future, and his family and their expectations.”

Her expression slips and her eyes narrow. I pause for a second, thrown by her intensity. I clear my throat.

“Anyway, Stan needs to make an important decision. It’s one that will affect his career, his legacy so to speak. If he does it, it may hurt the only person in his family he truly cares about.”

“And he doesn’t know if he can live with that,” she says, the softest slur wrapping around her words. Understanding dawns in her expression and she purses her lips thoughtfully. Her mouth is like a rosebud and I wonder what her lips would taste like.

I take a sip of my beer instead. “What do you think he should do?”

“What are his options? His career and livelihood or his word and his heart?”

I nod, drawn to her. Her expression, filled with understanding and compassion, soothes me. She gets it. Without even knowing the whole story, my truth, she understands the anguish I’m battling. A calmness fills me and I lean back in my seat. “And, there’s one other option but it’s a little bit shady.”

She narrows her eyes. “How shady?”

“It would allow Stan to do both things, safeguard his future and fulfill a promise to his family member.”

“But?”

“He would have to enter into a deal, an arrangement, that’s complicated.”

“Complicated,” she murmurs. She tips her wine glass back and her eyes, dark and deep and burning, find mine over the rim.

“Illegal,” I amend.

She drains the glass and sets it back on the bar. “I see.”

“Do you?” I ask, hoping more than I should for her to really see.

She nods slowly.

“What should Stan do?” I press her for a response. I need an answer. One that comes from someone who isn’t me.

“Stan should do whatever it takes to survive. To physically make it but also to preserve his integrity. His word. He shouldn’t sacrifice everything he’s done nor should he compromise his name by reneging on a promise.”

“So”—I lick my lips, my ears suddenly ringing—“Stan may need to bend some rules?”

She picks up a shot glass. “I would.”

I grin, adoring her in this moment. “Me too.”

She throws back the tequila and wipes the back of her hand over her mouth. I don’t want to tell her to slow down but I also know she’s going to feel like shit in the morning. I gesture to Pete that we’re good for a bit.

“I’m starting to feel these,” Rielle says.

“I would imagine so.”

The corner of her mouth lifts. “And because I am, I’m going to tell you the truth. The reason I’m so torn up about my job isn’t just because of the job. I need this paycheck.”

Hope swells in my chest that she’s confiding in me, but I know I have to play it cool or she’ll clam back up. I force myself not to look at the bruises on her arm. “I get it. You have bills.”

She scoffs. “I have more than bills.”

“This is just a bump in the road, Ri. You’re going to find another job. In the meantime, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, but I can help you out until you get back on your feet.” Hell, I can move her into one