The Faker: A Marriage of Convenience Hockey Romance (Boston Hawks Hockey)

by Gina Azzi

  “I know you’re hurting, man. And I’m sorry.”

  James runs a hand over three-day-old stubble. His gray eyes flash, angry and anguished. “I’m not hurting, Torsten. I’m not anything except numb.”

  I don’t believe him for a second but empathy rocks through me at his tortured expression. James and I came up through the ranks together. We’ve been the starting defensive line for years and a cornerstone of the Hawks team. He’s only a few years younger than me and yet, he’s lived what seems like a hundred years more.

  “I have no idea what you’re going through, Ryan, but if there’s anything I can do to help…”

  He shakes his head. “Appreciate it, man. But I’m not so easily distracted by deflection anymore. Tell me what’s going on with you.”

  I grapple with how much truth to share with James. For years, I was the guy with his heart on his sleeve, an open book, a call-it-like-I-see-it kind of man. Now, it’s as if everyone gets varying degrees of the truth, just shades of my honesty. It leaves me feeling rotten, like less of the principled guy I held myself up to be for years. I guess marrying not for love is a gateway for other, less desirable traits. I blow out a breath. “Man, I can’t tell you everything.”

  He frowns. “You in trouble?”

  I shake my head. “You’re a steel vault, right?” I meet his eye and after a second, he nods. I trust all the guys on my team, some more than others. But James is up there. “My knee never fully recovered from my last surgery. My shoulder is fucked up.”

  James frowns at me, sitting down in the desk chair. He leans forward until his elbows rest on his knees. “What are you talking about?”

  I grab two bottles of water from the mini-fridge and toss one to him. I place mine down so I can rest my left hand over the right side of my chest. Slowly, I rotate my shoulder. The loud popping and clicking sounds ring out in the quiet space and James winces.

  “Physio? Treatments?”

  “I’ve pretty much run the gamut. Look, I’m going to be thirty-eight. I’m getting too old for this and I know it. I’m not re-signing.”

  James sits straight up in his chair, his eyes narrowed, his expression grim. After a moment, he scrapes his hand over his face. “Fuck.”

  “I need to be realistic.”

  “You had an incredible career.”

  “It wasn’t awful,” I agree.

  He gives me a lopsided smile, understanding and compassion in his eyes. No one wants to see a player go. When you do, it makes you start counting down how much time you have left. But for a guy like James, whose been through hell this year, playing hockey doesn’t hold the same weight it once did. “What does this have to do with marriage?”

  I shrug. “It’s time, James. I need to start thinking about the next chapter of my life.”

  “Okay. But this girl, Rielle—”

  “She’s a good woman.”

  “How well do you really know her?”

  “Enough to know I could spend the rest of my life by her side and be happy.” Once the words are out, I realize the truth behind them. Rielle could make me happy forever; it’s me who can never make her light up like the sun.

  James gives me a long, searching look. After a moment, he sighs, and I know that he knows there’s more to this than I’m willing to discuss. “Then why the long face?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  He chuckles and it’s the first time I’ve heard him almost-laugh in months that I look up, surprised. He shakes his head at me. “What do you need, Torst?”

  “Well, now that you’re here, I’m not opposed to a little advice. You’re right, things with Ri happened fast. We don’t really know each other the way most couples do when they marry. But I know the parts that matter to me the most. I know the kind of woman she is.”

  “And that’s great, man. But Torsten, marriage isn’t just some agreement you make for a few years. It’s a lifelong commitment. It’s sacred and special. You say vows.”

  I swallow against the tightness in my throat. Heat spreads across the back of my neck. James would feel sorry for me if he knew that I said vows knowing I was going to break them. But God, I don’t want to. I’m desperate for even a shred of what James shared with Layla. I just have no clue how the hell to create that with a woman who has her whole life ahead of her, one who married me for all the wrong reasons.

  Do Ri and I even stand a chance? Getting married for a green card and a loan buyout is clearly starting off on the wrong foot.

  I uncap my water bottle and take a long swig. When I slam it back down on the dresser, James swears.

  I look up and freeze. Because James, my old friend, is looking at me in pure disbelief.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Jesus, Torsten. You want this for real, don’t you? I thought it was some kind of midlife crisis. Some desperate attempt to fill some void, to deal with the weight of almost turning forty. But you want the whole thing, the vows and the marriage and the wife.”

  Pins and needles travel up and down my limbs at the truth, the accusation, in James’s tone. I feel exposed in a way I never have before but after years of being on my own, with no one to count on or trust save for Farmor nearly 3,500 miles away, yeah, I fucking want it.

  James leans back in his chair and rolls the water bottle between his hands. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

  “What day?”

  “The day that Torsten Hansen truly wanted something more than one night only. Or, in this case, one month only.”

  “Rielle is my wife, James.”

  He nods, considering my words. “Do you trust her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she care about your best interests?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it all about the money or social status?”

  I chuckle, remembering how Rielle wanted to pay half my rent. I never bothered to tell her I own the penthouse outright. There’s not even a mortgage. “Not at all.”

  “Do you guys laugh when nothing’s funny? Do you enjoy her company?” He lifts an eyebrow at me.

  Slowly, I nod.

  He smiles back. “Then there’s hope for you yet. You don’t have to be madly, passionately in love, although that helps.” He tilts his head toward mine, his eyes serious. “You need to have the foundation of a friendship, the ability to communicate, and the desire to care. If you’re starting off with that, you may be able to grow a relationship that blossoms into the kind of love you’re searching for.”

  I stare at him for a long moment, suddenly realizing just how much he, Milly, and Mason truly lost when Layla passed. “I don’t know if I’ll ever have even half of what you did with Layla. But fuck, James, I’m so sorry you lost her.”

  He dips his head and a long beat passes. When he meets my eyes again, his are ringed in a sadness so acute, I feel it in my chest. “I hope you do, Torsten. As for me, I’m just grateful as fuck I got to have Layla for as long as I did.”

  I nod, a lump of emotion swelling in my chest.

  James stands from his chair. “Come on.” He clasps my shoulder. “We’ve got a game to win. Everything you’re twisted up over, and trust me, you’re going to have more days feeling like this, put it into your play. Turn off the thoughts eating at you, and channel everything you’re messed up over into your performance tonight. At least then, you’ll go to bed feeling better about something.”

  I snicker, seeing the merit in his advice. I shoulder my bag and follow James out of the hotel room. As I wait for him to grab his stuff before we head to the lobby to meet the team, it strikes me that this is one of the last times I’ll be doing this.

  Hanging with all the guys, gearing up for a game, trying to mentally all get in the same headspace. For years, my team has been my family. Now, I’m desperate to create one with Rielle. And it fucking hurts to know that on top of losing hockey, I’ll never have with her what I truly want most. Even if James believes otherwise.

  I glide down the ice, the cold air rushi
ng by. With a stick in hand, ice beneath my skates, and a packed arena, I feel settled for the first time since I married Rielle.

  Some of the anxiety I’ve been holding in my chest recedes as I lock into the game, my body tensing for the second period face-off. Tampa gains possession of the puck and I angle my body in between the puck carrier and the net, skating backwards until we’re battling it out in the corner.

  “Come on, old man,” number seventy-two mutters, his shoulder slamming into mine. Kid’s been trash talking all night, trying to get me off my game. A few seasons ago, it might have worked. But right now, I keep my focus on the puck.

  The hit vibrates down my arm, like pins and needles. I hear his loud breathing and his obnoxious chuckle but I don’t pay him any mind. We keep at it in the corner until I gain control of the puck and initiate a clean breakout, skating furiously until I can flip the puck to Easton.

  Seventy-two flies by me and I shake my head.

  The rest of the period passes in a blur. I give everything I have to the game, leave everything on the ice. Knowing this is my last season, my last time in the playoffs, maybe even my last game fuels my determination to make every play one of my best.

  We win 5–3 and the team breathes a collective sigh of relief. We’re up two to one and need best of seven to advance to the second round. “Good game.” Austin grasps my shoulder and squeezes.

  My shoulder screams in protest after taking two hard hits in the third period. I wince, Austin frowns, but I laugh it off. This is my last season and I’m going to see it through.

  After a quick team meeting, we all go our separate ways with plans to meet up later for a drink at the hotel bar. Back in my hotel room, I debate whether or not to call Rielle.

  Does she want to hear from me? Did she watch the game? Will she even pick up?

  My stomach twists and I feel more freaking nervous about calling my wife than I did playing tonight. I snort at myself. Man up, Hansen. You married this woman; you want a future with her. The least you can do is call her, check in, make sure she’s okay after you took off with the morning light and no goodbye.

  Working a swallow, I pick up my phone, pleased to see that she texted me.

  Rielle: Great game! Congrats on the win!

  I can’t stop the goofy grin that splits my face. I tap Rielle’s name.

  It rings twice and then, “Torsten.”

  I smile. “Hey, Ri.”

  11

  Rielle

  “Hey,” I say, some of the knots that have been twisted in my stomach since I woke up to Torsten’s note, loosening.

  “You watched the game.”

  “You were amazing,” I tell him the truth. “I wanted to knock that punk out,” I add, impressed that he never lost his cool with the dick who spent more time goading him than controlling the puck.

  He chuckles and the sound warms my chest.

  I lean back into the couch cushions of his living room, tucking my feet up beneath me. The lights of the city twinkle below but up here, in Torsten’s penthouse, I feel a million miles away. In fact, for a brief instant, before he called, I felt like I did at my dad’s house since Mom passed. Apart, separate, lonely.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask, knowing that the few hits he took must have taken their toll.

  He blows out a breath. “I’m okay. It’s easier to wrap my head around it all knowing my time on the ice is almost up.”

  Melancholy mixed with acceptance wraps around his words and I bite my bottom lip, unsure what to say next. Is he a little relieved this is his last season? Is he bitter? Is he both and doesn’t know which emotion should win out?

  “What’d you do today?” he asks, pulling my thoughts back to the conversation.

  I worry my lip between my teeth, debating if I should tell him the truth. But honesty was part of our vows, not the ones we said in the courtroom, but the ones we agreed to beforehand. “I saw your credit card.”

  “I don’t want you to feel bad about it. It’s part of our agreement and—”

  “I sold my car,” I blurt out.

  “What? Why?” I hear him shift through the line, maybe sitting straight up. “Today?”

  “Yeah, Claire came with me. I—look Torsten, I feel really shitty about our wedding night.”

  “Ri, sweetheart, I’m sorry I—”

  “It’s my fault,” I cut him off again. “I don’t know how to do this with you. I know what we agreed to but sometimes when we’re together, things get…blurred. Confusing.”

  “It’s complicated,” he agrees. “Tell me what you want, Ri. Don’t even think about it, just say whatever you’re feeling.”

  I twist my hair around my finger, tugging on it as emotions I’m unprepared to deal with rise to the surface. “I’m fine with our arrangement, really. And I wanted things to happen between us the other night. It’s just that, it’s confusing what’s real and what’s not. I don’t want to rely on you so much, to need you for anything. It will just be harder when our agreement ends.”

  “I’d never not be here for you, Rielle.”

  “I haven’t let anyone in in a really long time, Torst. Trust and full transparency are new for me. Needing someone, relying on another person, it’s really hard for me to give up any control over my life. I don’t want to need your money. I don’t want your credit card. The fact that I’m living in your place, in a freaking penthouse, when last week, I was going to be homeless, it’s messing with my head. And then, when we…sleep together, it makes me feel…cheap. Like I’m completely selling myself short, taking the easy way out, and using my body to exist.”

  He’s quiet for a long moment and I worry I’ve somehow offended him. But when he speaks, his voice is raw, as if he’s hurting for me more than himself. “Fuck, Ri. I never want to make you, make any woman, feel that way. I—shit, babe, you know it’s not like that, right? I’d do anything I can to make your life easier, better, regardless if you never even hug me again.”

  I snort, my emotions clogging my throat at the sincerity in his tone.

  “I know. It’s just that I don’t know how to trust it yet. Does that make sense? It’s not you, Torst, it’s—”

  “It’s not you either, sweetheart. It’s the situations you’ve been in.”

  “Maybe,” I say, even though it is me. I’m defective when it comes to relationships and love. If I wasn’t, wouldn’t Dad or my brother, Jesse, have reached out by now? Wouldn’t any of my childhood playmates, Jerry Jensen’s son Dennis, have contacted me?

  “So, you sold your car?” he prods.

  “I did. I settled up my rent.”

  He swears. “You’re not going to use the card, are you?”

  “No.”

  He snorts. “Do me a favor? Put it in your wallet anyway.”

  “I—”

  “I don’t care if you use it or not. Just keep it with you in case you ever need it, okay? Give me some peace of mind here, Ri. My God, you are stubborn.”

  I chuckle, relieved he’s not fighting me on this. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t really care. But deep down, I think it’s because he knows he won’t win.

  “You okay at the apartment by yourself?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I’m good. When do you come home?”

  “Why?” he asks slyly. “You planning on being gone or you missing me that much?”

  I grin at his teasing tone but if I listen carefully, I detect the uncertainty buried underneath his words. Knowing he’s holding back a lot of his thoughts to make me feel more comfortable, more in control of this situation, I tell him the truth. “I’m looking forward to spending time together.”

  He laughs again, louder this time. “Me too, sweetheart. I’m back in two days. Let me take you for brunch? Or dinner? Whatever you want. Just let me take you someplace nice.”

  “Show me off?” I guess, knowing we need to make some appearances together.

  “Be with you,” he amends and I grin in spite of myself. “I want to talk to you about this
summer. About Oslo.”

  “You really want me to meet your family?” I ask hesitantly, the knots in my stomach tugging tightly. Pulling off our sham of a marriage for practical purposes is one thing, lying to his family’s faces is another.

  “No,” he says and it pierces my chest. “I just want to fulfill my grandmother’s wishes. She wants you to come.”

  “Oh, okay.” I stammer, “Well, um, can I think about it?”

  “Of course. Listen, Ri, I’ve gotta meet the guys for a celebratory drink.”

  “Right. I’ll talk you later.”

  “I’m glad you messaged.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for calling.” I disconnect the call, feeling more out of sorts than before Torsten and I spoke.

  I can’t figure anything out with Torsten. I have no idea where I stand with him. I told him that sleeping together is too confusing and he readily agreed. He wants to bring me to Oslo but doesn’t really want me to meet his family. I thought that speaking with him would clear up some of the uncertainty I feel about how to proceed with our marriage.

  Instead, I’m left with more conflicting feelings. More questions I don’t have the answers to.

  Did he want to have sex with me because we agreed not to have sex with other people? Or did he really desire me? Is he fine having a chill, friendship type of marriage? But then, why bring me across the Atlantic Ocean and prop me up to his frail grandmother as so much more than that?

  I sigh and stand from the couch. I walk the perimeter of the penthouse, glancing down at Boston. The old and the new, the historical and the modern. It’s a beautiful city and I’m happy that out of all the places in the world I could have landed, I made it here.

  It’s still early so I brew a cup of tea and open my laptop. Feeling a little nostalgic, I open the files I’ve kept of my college work, my eye catching on the folder titled “photography.” When I open it, a myriad of images loads on my screen and I lean closer, studying the photos I shot for various assignments.