The Rule Maker (Boston Hawks Hockey #4)

by Gina Azzi

  The Rule Maker

  Boston Hawks Hockey

  Gina Azzi

  The Rule Maker

  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. Chloe

  2. Austin

  3. Chloe

  4. Chloe

  5. Austin

  6. Chloe

  7. Austin

  8. Chloe

  9. Austin

  10. Chloe

  11. Chloe

  12. Austin

  13. Chloe

  14. Austin

  15. Chloe

  16. Austin

  17. Chloe

  18. Austin

  19. Chloe

  20. Austin

  21. Chloe

  22. Austin

  23. Chloe

  24. Austin

  25. Chloe

  26. Austin

  27. Chloe

  28. Austin

  Epilogue

  Hey Reader!

  Also by Gina Azzi

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Chloe

  “I’ve officially regressed,” I lament to my best friend Abbi, as I kick my feet up on my bedroom wall. My bedroom wall in my parents’ new house in Boston because at the ripe age of thirty, I’ve moved back in.

  “It’s just temporary, Chlo. Just until you get back on your feet,” she reassures me.

  I sigh, staring up at the ceiling fan which turns lazily, breaking the streams of light that flicker across the room. “I’m back in my childhood hometown, in a house eerily similar to my childhood home, being treated like a child, all because I—”

  “Stop,” Abbi cuts me off. “Don’t go there. You didn’t do anything wrong. Steve deserves the blame, not you.”

  Just hearing my ex-fiancé’s name feels like a hot, fire iron is being plunged into my chest. Two months ago, Steve blew up our lives and the tidy, perfect future I’d envisioned for us. I never thought he’d cheat on me and most certainly not with Brittney, one of my most trusted and beloved friends who rounded out the trio along with Abbi and me.

  “And Brittney,” Abbi adds, as if reading my thoughts. The disgust in her voice alleviates some of the ache in my chest.

  At least I still have Abbi, who was quick to cut Steve and Brittney off despite my delusional desire to make things okay between us all. It’s just the hurt talking, Abbi said. She was right. As the weeks passed and Brittney moved into the airy, inviting farmhouse-styled condo I lovingly decorated for Steve and me in Hoboken, New Jersey, my hurt seeped into anger. Anger tinged with humiliation.

  How dare my fiancé and friend have an affair behind my back? Were they planning to keep it up after Steve and I wed? Would I have ever caught on if Abbi didn’t surprise me with a day of pampering for my birthday and I forgot my pedicure flip-flops at home?

  The image of Steve and Brittney going at it like rabbits on my bed, with the wood paneled headboard and white coverlet from Pottery Barn, flares in my mind like a trumpet. I groan.

  Abbi sighs. “Babe, I know you’re hurt.”

  “I’m not hurt. I’m furious,” I correct her, wishing I could bleach my eyeballs to unsee everything I saw. “I’m so angry and pissed off and”—tears well in my eyes—“hurt.” I agree with Abbi’s assessment. “I don’t know what to do with all these dumb feelings.” I swipe the tears away with the backs of my knuckles. “I wish I never intertwined so much of my life with Steve’s. I hate that we have the same friends. I hate that I put my career on hold to support his. And I really hate that he and Brittney are living their best lives in my home while I’ve been banished to Boston.”

  Abbi clucks at my dramatics and I know she’s gearing up to give me some tough love. I bang my heels against the bedroom wall. I’m in desperate need of tough love but that doesn’t mean I want to hear it.

  “Chloe,” Abbi says patiently and in this moment, I love my best friend for helping me navigate these murky waters over the past few months, “you’re not banished anywhere. You’re taking a break from your life to sort out your next moves. You love Boston. Now, you get to spend the summer with your family in your old stomping grounds. You can visit your mimi and take her out to brunch. And when I come visit, we’ll go clubbing and do a bunch of touristy shit.”

  “You’ll really come?” My voice is small and that’s another thing I hate. Since I learned the truth about Steve and Brittney, everything I thought I knew shifted. My perspective changed and in a matter of minutes, I lost some of my confidence. Instead, I feel shaky, like the ground beneath my feet is constantly moving. In short, I’ve become a less-than-independent, needier version of myself who I simultaneously despise and cling to. I’m blaming that on Steve too.

  “Of course I’ll come. You’re not in Timbuktu, you’re four hours away. I wish I could make the engagement party next weekend but I’ll see you at Marissa’s bachelorette in July. I’ll extend my Boston visit then.”

  “Shit.” My breath lodges in my throat at the reminder. How did I forget that Marissa Swanson, one of Brittney’s and Abbi’s and my friends, is marrying Adam Wilson, one of Steve’s closest friends, in August? “Shit, shit, shit.” I bang my heels again.

  “You forgot about Marissa’s bachelorette? Don’t worry, I’ll—”

  “I forgot about the engagement party!” It’s next weekend in Martha’s Vineyard. After my relationship imploded, Marissa begged me to stay on as a bridesmaid, despite the hostility and tension between Brittney and me. Not wanting to sacrifice another friend, I agreed and now I am majorly regretting that decision. “I need a date.”

  “You do. You need a hot, hulking, sexy—”

  “Where do I find one of those?” I cut Abbi off, panic edging my tone. How did I forget about Marissa’s engagement party? My entire summer pretty much revolves around her wedding festivities.

  When the daughter of a hotel tycoon and the son of a New York City hedge fund CEO decide they don’t want to wait for their marital bliss, people spring into action. In a mere week, venues magically became available and designers personally called Marissa about her wedding dress. At first, when I was still engaged to Steve, I found my friend’s ability to cram an engagement party, a bachelorette bash, and a high-profile wedding into ten weeks, exciting and romantic.

  Now that I’m painfully single, I’m furious with Marissa for forcing me to find a date to two separate events—her engagement party next week and her wedding in August. How am I going to face Steve and Brittney not once, but twice?

  “We can rent one,” Abbi tosses out.

  I roll my eyes. “I doubt that. Besides, I’d need to rent the same one twice if I want people to think I have a real relationship and not a pity date.”

  “Do you want people to think you’re in a real relationship?”

  “More than I want them to think it’s a pity date,” I say, exasperated.

  “Fair enough.” Abbi is silent for a long moment. “Drew?”

  “I’m not taking my brother to a wedding.”

  “He’s hot.”


  “You’re making this worse, not better.”

  “Too bad he lives in Texas,” Abbi continues as if I haven’t spoken at all. If she keeps up, I’ll need bleach for my eyes and ears.

  A knock at my bedroom door draws my attention as Dad pops his head in. His smile is gentle, his eyes warm and I have the sudden urge to hug my dad tightly and cry into his strong chest the same way I did as a little girl. The same way I did two months ago after chucking my engagement ring at Steve’s head.

  “We’re heading to the Merricks’ in an hour,” Dad reminds me.

  I nod, pointing to the phone.

  He nods and dips out of my room.

  “Abbi, I gotta go. We’re heading to a family friend’s house for dinner tonight.”

  “Oh, see! You have a social life,” she says way too excitedly.

  I snort. Dinner at the Merricks is hardly a social event but considering I’ve barely interacted with the human species in the past two months, I’m not an accurate judge. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Have fun tonight.”

  “‘Bye, Abs.”

  “‘Bye.”

  I disconnect the call and drag myself to my closet. Sliding open the door, I glance at my meager selection of clothing. I really need to unpack my shit but doing so would mean I’m staying in Boston and my life in Hoboken, everything Steve and I built over the past five years, is really over. I heave a sigh.

  Flipping through my hangers, I wonder what to wear. Mary and Joe Merrick were my parents’ closest friends, and our next-door neighbors, when we lived in Boston. Drew and their eldest daughter, Savannah, were in the same grade at school, just like me and their son Austin. As kids, Austin and his sisters, Savannah and Claire, were more like Drew’s and my cousins. We pretty much grew up around their kitchen island and in their backyard. Summer nights catching fireflies with Claire and her cousin Indy, winter mornings sledding with Austin and Drew, and a very memorable shopping experience with Savannah, round out some of my favorite childhood memories.

  Austin Merrick was once my closest friend but always in the-boy-next-door kind of way. If something was truly wrong, I could count on him for advice. But in our daily interactions, he was often more annoying than Drew. He hid my rock collection for an entire weekend, cut the colorful, glitter tassels off the handlebars of my bike, and teased me relentlessly the first time I shaved my legs.

  As we grew older and Austin became a hockey star, we drifted apart. In high school, he ran with the cool kid crowd while I was more of the bookish, geeky set. Even though he was crazy popular, with girls flocking to hang off his shoulders, I still looked at him and saw the boy who pantsed me at a family vacation in Martha’s Vineyard.

  Despite the vast difference in our social stratas, Austin was always nice to me at school. It was me who added the final distance to our friendship. Halfway through our sophomore year, I stopped walking home from school with him because it drew too much ire from his fan club. After that, I rarely saw Austin close-up unless it was a family gathering and he often missed those due to hockey. By the time my family relocated to New York at the end of my sophomore year, Austin and I were acquaintances at best. Afterwards, we lost touch completely, and my only updates about his life came via my mom or Savannah when our paths crossed in New York.

  Now, he’s the captain of the NHL Boston Hawks, something my dad shares with every single hockey fan he encounters. My parents’ pride for Austin knows no bounds.

  Will he be at dinner tonight?

  Probably not. He must be way too busy with his career—his team just won the Stanley Cup—to have dinner with me and my parents.

  I finger a simple, summer dress.

  Does it matter if he’s there?

  For a blink, Austin’s deep blue eyes, the color of the Atlantic in October, when winter’s creeping in, flare in my mind. Even though my feelings are still raw from Steve, I can objectively admit that Austin was always devilishly handsome, with quick eyes and a sly smirk. He was a notorious rule breaker although he was too charismatic to ever face discipline for the trouble he stirred up. He was popular, likable, and infuriatingly immature, always hiding his smelly gym socks in my backpack or sneaking a bite out of the sandwich Mom packed me for lunch. Way back when, he used to wear spicy cologne and oversized hoodies. He asked me to dance the first slow song at the Valentine’s Day dance my freshman year after my date kissed another girl.

  I pull the summer dress off the hanger. Where did that thought even come from? This isn’t some trip down memory lane. I’m tagging along with my parents while they visit their friends. I’m not rekindling a friendship with Austin, a guy who is now larger than life. I probably don’t even register on his radar, save for a handful of childhood memories.

  Man, Steve did a number on my head if I’m even thinking about Austin at all.

  I shimmy into the summer dress. I slip into simple, strappy sandals and find a pair of earrings in my purse.

  Austin’s not going to be at dinner tonight. Neither is Savannah, since she lives in New York City. We’d occasionally meet for lunch before my life turned upside down and I was too embarrassed to see friends, save for Abbi.

  If anything, I should hope Claire or Indy make an appearance so I can reconnect with girlfriends. At least they’ll invite me out with them and sprinkle my summer with social outings that don’t include bingo and rummikube with Mom and Mimi.

  My phone buzzes with an incoming message and I swipe it up, assuming it’s Abbi.

  Mimi: I hope your heart’s not too broken to notice Austin Merrick.

  I snort. I swear, Mimi is more of a troublemaker than Austin. At eighty-four, she’s sharper than a whip and more meddlesome than Mom.

  Me: I doubt he’ll even be there.

  Mimi: He’s a good boy. Sees his Mom and Dad once a week for dinner. He’ll be there.

  Eye roll.

  Me: Even if he is, he won’t remember me.

  My phone rings.

  “Mimi, I regret ever teaching you to text,” I answer.

  She chuckles, her warm laughter spreading through the line and right through me. As much as the reason why I’m back in Boston pains me, spending time with Mimi is a definite plus. “I would have learned without you.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Why don’t you think Austin will remember you? You used to bathe together for crying out loud.”

  I wince at the visual because imagining a man like Austin bathing now…well, I shouldn’t imagine that while on the phone with my octogenarian grandmother.

  “I haven’t seen him in fifteen years,” I point out.

  “He was at your parents’ Christmas party a few years ago.”

  I squint, as if that will somehow help me recall the evening in question. It comes back slowly, the clink of glasses, sparkle of tinsel on the tree, and I vaguely recall seeing the Merrick family, Austin included. But that Christmas, I only had eyes for Steve. I barely remember anything other than my intense feelings for him.

  “Hmph. He’ll more than remember you, Chloe Ann. What I don’t like is you needing me to remind you of this. Steve deserves a good talking-to after the way that boy treated you. In my day—”

  “Mimi.”

  She sighs. “I know, I know. It’s none of my concern how you squander your twenties.”

  I wince at her honesty, feeling very much like I wasted the second half of the decade wrapped up in Steve’s life instead of cultivating my own.

  “What are you wearing to dinner?” She changes the subject.

  I describe my sundress and she hums appreciatively, making me laugh. “Get any ideas of playing matchmaker right out of your mind,” I say. “If Austin is there, he’ll be polite and charming, the way he always is.”

  “I’ll say. That boy could charm the pants off of—”

  “Good night, Mimi.”

  “Bring me doughnuts tomorrow morning. I want to know how big his biceps are now. And how he’s handling all the pressure now that he
’s won the Stanley Cup. Won it, Chloe! He always did carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.”

  I roll my eyes because that’s a stretch if I’ve ever heard one. But Mimi always had a soft spot for the reckless athlete.

  She’s still muttering when I gently remind her that I need to get ready.

  “Oh, yes. Don’t forget about your eyebrows. If you pencil them in neatly, you won’t have to do that micro-blading thing that’s all the rage these days. Although, in my day we did tattooing too you know. I can still teach you—”

  “Mimi.”

  “Love you, Chloe girl. Have fun tonight. Real fun. With Aus—”

  I disconnect the call, muttering to myself. Even though Mimi has an uncanny ability to predict my life, she’s wrong about this one.

  I haven’t thought of Austin Merrick since high school. Dinner at his parents’ house isn’t going to change that.

  I eat my words.

  I eat them all so quickly I choke on them.

  Because when the door to the Merricks’ home swings open, I’m greeted by the same intense blue eyes of my teenage years. My mouth drops open and the irrational thought of how the hell I ever forgot about Austin zips through my mind.

  How does anyone forget a man who looks like, well, him?

  “Chloe Crawford,” Austin murmurs, giving me a sly smirk before greeting my parents.

  I can hardly process the fact that he’s here, looking like a sex god mated with a Roman one, as Mary and Joe pull me into their embraces and welcome me back to Boston. A whirlwind of exclaimed greetings and hugs unfolds in the foyer.