The Sweet Talker: A Surprise Baby Hockey Romance (Boston Hawks Hockey)

by Gina Azzi

  The Sweet Talker

  Boston Hawks Hockey

  Gina Azzi

  The Sweet Talker

  Copyright © 2021 by Gina Azzi

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  1. Indy

  2. Noah

  3. Indy

  4. Noah

  5. Indy

  6. Noah

  7. Indy

  8. Noah

  9. Indy

  10. Noah

  11. Indy

  12. Noah

  13. Indy

  14. Noah

  15. Indy

  16. Noah

  17. Indy

  18. Noah

  19. Indy

  20. Noah

  21. Indy

  22. Noah

  23. Indy

  24. Noah

  25. Indy

  26. Noah

  27. Indy

  28. Noah

  29. Indy

  30. Noah

  Epilogue

  Hey Reader!

  Broken Lies

  Also by Gina Azzi

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  Indy

  “You’re coming out tonight,” my cousin Claire demands, glancing at me in the reflection of her bedroom mirror. A mascara wand hovers in her hand and her tongue peeks out between her lips as she applies a second coat.

  I flop back against her bed, staring at the glow stars that decorate her ceiling. We placed them there one summer, over a decade ago, and she’s never taken them down. “I can’t. I have work to catch up on.”

  “Too bad. You’re too young and too hot to never get laid.”

  I snort, dropping my hand over my face. “I get laid.” My voice is defensive, and as soon as Claire starts laughing, I join in.

  I turn my head to meet her eyes in the reflection of the mirror. We’re both sporting goofy grins. She jabs her mascara wand at me in the reflection. “Yeah? When was the last time you did it?”

  I groan, yanking my gaze back to the ceiling. At least the glow stars aren’t judgey. I don’t answer Claire’s question aloud but mentally, I tally up the months. There have been seven of them. Seven months since I had sex. It wasn’t even good sex. More comfortable, one last hurrah before I relocate to Boston, see-ya-when-I-see-ya sex with Chris, the guy who conveniently lived down the street and was usually around for a casual hook-up. My closest childhood friend, Aiden, choked on his beer when I told him about my fling with Chris. He still hasn’t stopped teasing me about it.

  I wrinkle my nose. Meh, thinking of Chris as my last sexual partner is depressing on several levels.

  Six months ago, when I landed in Boston for a new job, as an assistant professor at Brighton University, I swore to myself I’d turn over a new leaf. Now that I am on the tenure-track, I reasoned, I can stop being a self-isolated workaholic. My plan was to embrace the city, meet new people, and not keep myself locked in the library, researching, writing, and publishing. My plan failed.

  The bed dips beside me. Claire’s deep blue eyes peer into mine, determined, with just a hint of compassion. “I know you’re working your ass off because you’re intimidated.”

  “I’m the youngest assistant professor Brighton’s ever hired.”

  “But you’re qualified and competent. You’re prepared for this job, Indy.”

  I shrug, not voicing how unprepared I feel. I’ve worked hard to secure this position but now that I have it, I feel a pressure to work even harder to prove that I can keep it. To show the administration that I was the right choice, that even though I’m only twenty-seven, I’m committed to academia.

  Claire rolls her eyes. “You may be a prim and proper professor now but—”

  “I’m not that prim and proper.”

  Her lips quiver with laughter. “Indiana, you are my favorite girl cousin.”

  “I’m your only girl cousin.”

  Claire ignores me. “I can’t let you wallow away into nothing. Besides, I need a wing woman. Ever since Savannah abandoned me by gallivanting off to New York—”

  “Mike got traded.” I point out that my cousin Savannah, Claire’s older sister, didn’t move by choice. Her husband was traded by the Boston Hawks to the New York Sharks halfway through last hockey season.

  Claire dismisses my logic and ticks on her fingers. “And Rielle is too busy working to have a life—”

  “She’s up for a promotion,” I cut in, sticking up for Claire’s best friend who has been working around the clock lately. Impressively, even more than me.

  Claire glares at me. “My point is, everyone is ditching me and you have the shittiest excuse. The academic year started like, five seconds ago—”

  “Three weeks.”

  “You’re coming out tonight and we’re celebrating,” she concludes, hopping from the bed and striding to her closet. Claire pulls out a short, tight, black dress I would never wear and waves it around. “Put this on.”

  I laugh, pulling myself into a seated position, and play along. “What exactly are we celebrating?”

  “Your new life. I love you, Indiana, but real talk, workaholic, stressed-out, type-A you is not a good look. You have a real job, which is more than I can say, and you’re in a new city. You need to put yourself out there and mingle a little. Maybe you’ll even meet someone.” She eyes me hopefully, making the dress dance on the hanger.

  I offer my cousin a half smile and weigh her words. She got me with the “real job” bit, which I’m sure she did on purpose, knowing my compassionate side would kick in. Since her college graduation in May, Claire’s been freelancing but the work hasn’t been steady. In fact, it’s been so unreliable that she moved back home with my aunt and uncle, which pains her on a cellular level.

  She widens her baby blues at me and I groan, dragging myself to stand. But inside, a thrill shoots down my spine. It’s been ages since I’ve had a proper girls’ night with Claire. My cousin is fun, outgoing, and the life of the party. She’s also right. I do need to put myself out there and make some new friends, meet some new people, and socialize like a normal twenty-something.

  For the past eight years, school was my entire life. Every semester, I stacked my course load. I spent my summers completing summer sessions on campus and my winter and spring breaks contributing to research projects abroad. Graduating with my PhD in political science in January was my greatest accomplishment until I secured an assistant professor position at Brighton and moved to Boston in April. Since then, I’ve been preparing for this next chapter and now, it’s here. As Claire kindly pointed out, I’m boring and predictable. My social life revolves around my family members and a trusty planner.

  If it weren’t for weekly dinners with my family and Claire’s obligatory weekly retail therapy, I probably wouldn’t have gone out at all over the summer. A smile spreads across my face. I deserve a night out, don’t I? Besides, next week, I’ll be back in the classroom and focused on
a research trip I’m planning for a handful of students over winter break. I can take this weekend to have a little fun. After all, didn’t I tell my freshman Intro to Political Theory the same thing? “Okay.”

  Surprise flares in Claire’s eyes. She thrusts the hanger toward me, and when I take it, she lets out a loud whoop. Laughing, I drop the dress on the bed and duck into the bathroom. I study my limp, brown hair, dull green eyes, and plain face. While I’m not unfortunate-looking, I haven’t put much effort into my appearance for a long time and it shows. Jesus, are my eyebrows touching? Cringe. Flipping on the faucet, I scrub my face clean and help myself to Claire’s products, tweezers included. Then, I waltz into Claire’s room and plop down.

  “Make me over,” I demand.

  Her eyes widen and dazzle, deep blue like sapphires. “Indy, are you sure?”

  I nod.

  She squeals, “Oh my God. Tonight is going to be the best!”

  Dad and Uncle Joe frown when Claire and I bound down the stairs, but Mom and Aunt Mary smile. The kitchen is already spotless from our weekly family dinner and our parents hold a drink in hand, talking and relaxing the way they have since Mom and Dad followed me to Boston over the summer.

  “You look beautiful, Indy,” Mom compliments as Dad scowls at my dress.

  Aunt Mary’s grin softens. “Absolutely gorgeous, girls. Where are you headed?”

  “The Hawks are having a team kick-off at Firefly,” Claire answers, filling up a glass of water and taking a long sip. “Austin said we could come.”

  “Oh, good.” Dad breathes a sigh of relief that Austin, Claire’s brother and the captain of the NHL team the Boston Hawks, will be present at the club tonight.

  “Austin will keep an eye on them,” Uncle Joe says, although I think he’s trying to convince himself more than Dad.

  I roll my eyes, stashing my driver’s license and a debit card into the small purse Claire lent me. “You realize we’re adults, right? I’m going to be twenty-eight in a few months.”

  “And I’m moving out as soon as I can afford it,” Claire announces.

  Dad chuckles. “But you’ll always be my little girl, Indy.”

  Claire snickers.

  “Besides, I know hockey players.” His tone turns hard, no doubt remembering all the wild escapades of his long career in the NHL. Dad, a hall of fame inductee and lead scorer for the Tampa Reds, can recount a staggering number of failed marriages and relationships gone wrong from his years in the league. His and Mom’s enduring thirty-plus-year marriage is somewhat of an anomaly.

  “No worries there,” I scoff.

  Aunt Mary stands, brushing her fingers through my hair. “Have fun tonight, Indy. You’ve been working so hard. You deserve a night out.”

  Mom lifts her wine glass in agreement. “Be safe, girls. If you need a ride—”

  “Our Lyft is here,” Claire interrupts, clutching my forearm and leading me toward the door. “If we need anything, we’ll call,” she reassures our parents, who still treat us like kids, probably because Claire is a wild card and I’m an only child. “I’m sleeping at Indy’s tonight,” she hollers over her shoulder as we slip outside.

  Once we’re settled in the Lyft and heading toward downtown Boston, Claire grins at me. “Wait ‘til you see some of the Hawks’ players.” She fans herself.

  I roll my eyes. “You know I’m not into hockey players. Not anymore.” My first love, first heartbreak, first everything is now a defenseman on the Vancouver Eagles. After our very painful and public breakup two years ago, I swore off hockey players for good. Since then, I haven’t been tempted once and I doubt tonight will be any different. If there’s anything I’ve learned from being Dad’s daughter and then dating Jace, it’s that the stable and reliable lifestyle I crave doesn’t mix with the NHL.

  “Jace was a dick. Not all hockey players are like him.”

  I ignore her statement. “You can have your pick, Claire.”

  Her eyes dim and she turns to look out the window.

  Uh-oh. For years, Claire has secretly pined over Austin’s best friend and Hawks left winger Easton Scotch. Easton and his brother Noah have been fixtures at my aunt and uncle’s home since bunking with Austin at hockey camp when we were all teenagers. Every summer, during our family trip to Boston, the Scotch brothers were present. Crushing on your brother’s best friend is never easy, but with Easton’s trip to rehab last year, Claire’s complicated feelings became even messier.

  I elbow her in the ribs until she turns toward me. “How’s he doing?”

  She sighs, knowing I’m asking about Easton. Other than me, Rielle, and Savannah, no one knows that Claire has been hung up on East for all these years. “Fuck if I know. He’s barely spoken to me over the past year. Not since he came home from rehab.”

  “Have you seen him since the season ended?”

  She shakes her head, her expression guarded.

  Sensing she doesn’t want to talk about Easton when we’re about to embark on a night out, I ask, “Are you sure Austin doesn’t mind that we’re coming tonight?”

  Claire laughs. “Oh, he’s going to be pissed.”

  “What? You said—”

  “Yeah, so our dads wouldn’t worry. There’s no way Austin wants us at Firefly tonight. Not when the team is getting together for the first time since the off-season. They’re going to be partying hard and the puck bunnies are going to be swarming.” She grins mischievously, shrugging one shoulder. “But once we’re there, he’s not going to turn us away.”

  I shake my head at my cousin, impressed. “You’re evil.”

  “I’m resourceful. We’re out for the night, we’re going to have fun, and if we’re lucky, we’re going to get lucky.”

  Tossing my head back, I laugh. Claire doesn’t join in.

  “Wait, you’re serious?”

  She smirks in response.

  2

  Noah

  The club is dark and loud, a perfect backdrop for poor decisions.

  The section I’m in, a private, roped-off space our team captain Austin arranged, is exclusive in a way that permits regrets while keeping them private. I tip back my gin and tonic, letting the alcohol burn through my veins. At the very worst, I’ll wake up with a hangover. Meanwhile, if my brother were here tonight instead of detoxing in rehab, a g and t would be the first domino in a destructive maze straight to rock bottom. Irony.

  I drain the glass, rattling the ice as I set it down on a side table and gesture to a cocktail waitress milling about that I’ll take another.

  Below the railing, puck bunnies clamor for attention, desperate for an invitation up to where the team is enjoying bottle service. Sweeping my gaze over the crowd, pulsing with the beat the DJ dropped, I search for tonight’s pick.

  For three years, I was a saint. Sure, I’d notice if a girl was smoking hot the same way I’d notice if a guy was jacked. But I wasn’t interested in any of the women, and definitely not puck bunnies, because I had my perfect girl waiting at home. Six months ago, right after we lost the game to qualify for the play-offs, Courtney’s perfection cracked when I discovered her serious reservations about marrying me. Courtney called off our wedding two weeks before the big day, leaving me publicly humiliated and personally devastated.

  No matter how many women I’ve slept with over the past six months, and I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve lost count, none of them have held my interest beyond a sloppy hook-up. Still, I keep searching, as if a random screw will somehow heal a bit of my broken. It’s bullshit, because Courtney has already moved on with a lawyer, the kind of guy that can provide the “steady” lifestyle she desires, and I’ve regressed, bouncing back to my mid-twenties, when I partied hard and fucked any willing bunny.

  My teammates tell me I’ve dodged a bullet and while I believe them, it doesn’t make the hurt easier to manage or the betrayal easier to swallow. The off-season was rough, a series of lonely nights and dark thoughts. Between Courtney’s cold feet and Easton’s hitting ro
ck bottom, I’ve never been so elated for training camps to kick off. For the past three months, I’ve thrown myself into preparing for this season and with only two weeks to go until our season opener, I’m feeling optimistic for the first time in months.

  “You good?” Austin asks, bumping me with his shoulder.

  “Yeah, man. You?” I accept my refill from the cocktail waitress with thanks and take a large gulp.

  “How is he?” Austin asks, lowering his voice. As my brother’s best friend, Austin’s concern is deeper than just hockey and what Easton’s rehab means for this season. He’s genuinely worried about East’s recovery, same as me.

  I glance around but no one is paying us any attention. Some of the guys on the team suspect that Easton isn’t really sick tonight. Or that he is but it’s not a flu-like virus. Coach Phillips is going to break the news next week once East makes it through detox. “He’s managing,” I say, keeping my response vague.

  The truth is, I have no clue how East is fairing in rehab. I know that he’s surviving but I haven’t been allowed contact with him. Even when I’m given permission to see him, I don’t know if he’ll want to see me. Or, more accurately, if he’ll want me to see him in rehab. After his stint in rehab last year, my brother could barely meet my eyes. Embarrassed and disheartened, he confided that his inheriting our father’s alcoholic gene bothers him a hell of a lot more than I realized. He fears turning into our old man, a father with a sharp tongue and even sharper hands.