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

by Gina Azzi

  He leads me to the back room and everyone stands and claps. Even though Torsten didn’t play in the Finals, everyone knows this is his last season. Tonight was his last game as a Hawk. If anyone has helped the team progress over the past two decades, it’s been Torsten, and I love seeing him receive the recognition he’s earned. I love the blush that works over his cheeks and the gratitude in his voice when he thanks the group even more.

  I sidle up to the bar as Torsten is pulled into congratulatory hugs and photographs with his teammates and their families. East takes the barstool next to mine and orders a club soda.

  “Big night for you.” I bump my hip against his. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, Ri. Glad you decided to come out for the game.”

  “Me too.”

  “You talk to him yet?” He tips his head toward Torsten.

  “It’s not the night for that.”

  “Oh, please.” Claire appears at my other side, sandwiching me between her and Easton. “As if he’s going to let you walk out of Taps tonight without knowing exactly where you guys stand.”

  “I need to know where we stand too.” My voice wavers and I clear my throat. “Either we’re married for real or we’re done for good.”

  East snorts and takes a gulp of his club soda.

  Claire straight up laughs.

  I glare at her.

  She shrugs. “Ri-Ri, I fucking adore you. But sometimes you can be so thick.”

  “What?” I swat at her arm but she catches my hand and holds on to it.

  “Torsten is a man of means. I mean, come on, look at him.”

  We both turn toward him and I drink him in greedily, memorizing the breadth of his shoulders, the slant of his cheekbones, the shape of his mouth.

  “If he wanted to divorce you, you would have been divorced weeks ago,” Claire mutters beside me. “The truth is staring you straight in the face. That man is head over heels in love with you. He just thinks you don’t love him back.”

  I whip my head toward her and frown. “That’s ridiculous. I—”

  “Have you told him, point blank, how you feel?” East asks from my other side.

  “What?” I face him, my head spinning.

  “We don’t always get it,” East cuts me off. “Sometimes, it takes us guys longer to catch up to what’s really happening. But Torsten isn’t like most guys. He’s more caring, more empathetic. If you didn’t spell it out for him, then he’ll keep believing that he trapped you into something you agreed to for a fresh start.”

  My mouth opens and closes several times.

  East shoots me an apologetic grin. “Take another sip of your wine, Ri.”

  “Yeah, you’re gonna need it,” Claire advises.

  I look up and see the confusion streak across Torsten’s face as his eyes scan mine. Then, he’s striding toward me. His expression is fierce, his body strong. A Norse Viking with the soul of an Ancient Greek philosopher. Until I met him, I didn’t think men like him existed. How could they?

  He stops in front of me and East and Claire make themselves scarce.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks me.

  I gaze up into his pale blue eyes. “What’s right?”

  A flicker of recognition ripples over his expression. “Ri—”

  “I’m in love with you, Torsten Hansen,” I blurt out. “I know this isn’t the time to say it. I know tonight is your night. But before you hand me divorce papers and before I fly back to New York, I want you to know the truth that I am terrified to admit to you. I am in love with you. I have been for weeks. This past month was the best and worst of my life. I missed you so fucking much it hurt to breathe. But I learned a lot.”

  He licks his bottom lip. His eyes bore into mine and his hands wrap around my upper arms. “What did you learn?”

  I take a deep inhale. “I learned that your eyes are the same pale, sky blue as the sunrise in Manhattan in springtime. I learned that my default is to push people away, and it’s never too late to go home. You taught me that and after Oslo, I went to my brother’s house and met my niece. I learned that as much as I love caramel macchiato coffee drinks, I actually prefer tea parties in tutus. I learned that I’m a city girl through and through. I can get drunk off a pretty skyline and some gritty hustle. Photography is more than an interest, it’s my passion. And I learned that I don’t want to live my life without you in it. I want to be your wife, for real. Because what I feel for you…” I shrug, tears brushing the tops of my cheeks. “It’s not going away and I can’t make it. I know because I’ve tried.”

  His hands squeeze my arms and his eyes blaze and swim and burn with thoughts and feelings and things. He shuffles closer until I’m inhaling his exhales, my heart racing in anticipation of whatever he’s going to say.

  He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he pulls me close and kisses me. It’s one of those all-consuming, reckless, intense, passionate kisses I used to dream of when I still believed in fairy tales. Torsten’s kiss eradicates my insecurities and fills me up with hope. He breaks our connection and smiles down at me. The room is too quiet but neither of us turns to look at the reactions at the free entertainment we’re providing.

  It seems that Taps is our place and I need to rethink my stance on fairy tales because Torsten gets down on his knee for the third time in my presence and says, “Rielle Carter Hansen, I couldn’t let you go if I tried. I know, because I tried. Don’t hate me, sweetheart, but I’ve had eyes on you since you landed in New York. I spent every day we were apart thinking of you, missing you. I love you and I want you any way I can have you. I don’t care if we live in Boston or New York or Oslo. I don’t care if you wear pencil skirts and head to a downtown office or hang in ripped jeans with a camera around your neck. I just want you to be happy. I want all your dreams to come true. But you’re my dream. You are my home and we both know, there’s nothing like a homecoming.” He tugs something from his pocket and a gasp falls from my mouth when I recognize Farmor’s ring. He grins sheepishly. “I’ve been carrying it around in my pocket, as a reminder, hoping I’d find my way back to my love. To you.” He slips it on my finger and stands beside me. “Don’t take it off again, sweetheart. It’s yours and you’re mine.”

  I laugh as Torsten’s fingers dry the tears on my cheeks and he brushes his lips over mine.

  “A toast,” James calls out, raising a beer in the air. Everyone in the room follows suit. They watch us with interest and excitement, with goofy grins and knowing eyes. “To Torsten Hansen, a Hawks legend, a phenomenal teammate, a solid friend, a man we affectionately call Big Daddy.” A few titters sound out but James’s eyes are serious when they settle on mine. “To Rielle Hansen, the woman who made our guy whole. May your future be filled with love and happiness.”

  The team and their loved ones drink to our happily-ever-after and I dip my head, in gratitude and a little embarrassed by all the attention. But Torsten wraps his arm around my waist, his hand splayed over my hip. “Enjoy it, baby. I never gave you a proper wedding.”

  I glance up at him, incredulous. “You gave me a magical wedding.”

  “That so?” He winks. “Then you’re not going to believe what’s in store for the honeymoon.”

  I tip my head back and laugh. Torsten smiles. Our eyes latch and the world falls away, the way it always does when it’s us.

  “Ours is my favorite story,” he murmurs, reading my thoughts.

  Then, he kisses me and I fall even deeper in love with my husband.

  Epilogue

  Two Months Later

  Torsten

  August in New York City is sweltering. But since it means Rielle walks around our apartment in tiny shorts that show off her legs and barely-there slips of shirts that leave nothing to the imagination, I’m not in a hurry to get back to Oslo.

  “What do you think of these?” she asks, clicking away at her laptop. Over the summer, Rielle has opened her own photography business. She reached out to her old college professor. Between his
connections and Rielle’s brother’s and father’s networks, she’s drummed up a considerable amount of business in a short amount of time.

  “I like this one.” I point to a black and white photo of the groom when he gets his first look at his bride. She was walking down the aisle toward him but in the picture, we only see his reaction. His emotion is raw and real and beautiful. And my girl captured it all, making the happy couple’s precious moment timeless.

  “It’s one of my favorites too,” she agrees, scrolling through more photos.

  Settling back into life with Rielle is as natural as breathing. Since we both know what we want, are already married, and have no intention of being apart again, the logistics of our lives weren’t too hard to figure out either. For now, as Rielle builds her photography business, a profession that allows location mobility, we’ve decided to split our time between New York and Oslo.

  I’ve realigned my family’s business so that Anders, Johan, Daniel, and myself all control a quarter of the company. We’ve drawn up some pretty clear policies on how to handle future disputes and disagreements but I’m all for Magnus making any final decisions. Especially since he turns five next month and already shows more promise than the rest of us Hansens combined. Rielle says it shows my emotional maturity that I’m ready to pass the title of the best Hansen on. And Magnus, he’s really something else.

  “Sweetheart.” I set an iced caramel macchiato I whipped up with my fancy espresso machine that I recently learned how to navigate by Rielle’s elbow. “We need to leave in an hour if we’re going to be on time for dinner at your dad’s.”

  “Yep.” She nods. “I’m just going to finish editing this photo.”

  “Okay.” I leave her to her work and wander through our small, Lower East Side apartment. It’s in a trendy area, surrounded by fashion boutiques and wine bars. Even though we’re here, we’ve kept our investments in Boston as just that, investments.

  Slowly, Rielle and I are learning how to navigate our complicated families and our twisted histories with them. Rielle’s brother, Jesse, and his wife, Mira, have welcomed us into their lives wholeheartedly. Rielle adores spending time with her niece, Leah. Now, we’re working on repairing her relationship with her father which is slowly improving, facilitated by weekly family dinners and Leah’s irresistible charm. Her grandpa is wrapped around her little finger and her three-year-old presence has smoothed out a lot of could-be-awkward moments.

  I enter our bedroom, taking a moment to appreciate the framed photo Rielle hung up of our wedding day. We’re kissing and it’s brimming with passion. Anyone who glances at the photo would have no idea we weren’t in love. Because the truth is, pieces of us already were. We just didn’t know it yet. I dress for dinner. Once I’m ready, I call out a thirty-minute warning to Rielle.

  I love how happy she is. I love seeing her immersed in her photography, something that brings her immense joy. The photos she took of Oslo’s stunning nature and Magnus’s goofy face on their outing together are some of my favorites. But each week, she improves her skills, and I’m certain that she’s going to be a highly sought-after photographer in both New York and Norway in no time.

  Maybe even in Greece.

  I double-check that our passports are in my carry-on backpack.

  While Rielle is preoccupied with her work, I roll out our one shared suitcase and tell her I’ll be right back. She hums in approval, never bothering to turn around, as I run our suitcase down to the trunk of our SUV.

  She doesn’t know this but tonight, after our family dinner, we’re heading straight to the airport.

  I promised my wife a honeymoon and I am a man of my word. We’re going to Santorini, Greece for two weeks of sunrises and sunsets, seafood and swimming, and a chance to learn more about each other.

  Even though, right from day one, I’ve known all the parts of Rielle I needed to.

  All of this is just bonus.

  When I enter the apartment, she’s changing into a sundress. Her hair is wild and loose, just the way I like it. She turns around, scanning the floor.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I can’t find my shoes. You know, those strappy sandals with the crystals in them?”

  “Hm…” I shrug. I packed them.

  “I guess I’ll just wear these.” She slides into some simple flats.

  “Looks good to me.” I grin.

  She steps toward me and I wrap my arms around her waist, my fingers lacing together at the base of her spine. She tilts her head, her eyes studying me.

  “You okay, sweetheart?”

  “I am. Sometimes it still seems too good to be true.”

  “What does?”

  “Our happily-ever-after.”

  I nod, knowing exactly what she means. “But it’s ours, Ri. It’s our story.”

  “And our story is the best one.”

  “Damn straight.” I kiss her, wondering if I’ll ever get enough of this woman.

  Probably not but the good news is, I don’t have to.

  Because my happily-for-now truly grew into a happily-ever-after.

  Thank you so much for reading Torsten and Rielle’s marriage of convenience. I fell in love with their romance and I hope you did too!

  Are you wondering what’s in store for Austin Merrick? The Hawks Captain is in for a surprise when his childhood friend, Chloe Crawford, returns to Boston looking nothing like the girl-next-door from his teenage years.

  The Rule Maker releases June 23!

  In high school, Austin Merrick was a rule-breaking, hockey star. Now, he’s captain of the NHL Boston Hawks and my last-minute wedding date as I face my ex-fiancé.

  With a devilish smirk and wicked blue eyes, Austin is just as charismatic as I remember. But this version doesn’t break rules. He makes them. Even when I wish he wouldn’t…

  Preorder it now and turn the page for a sneak peek.

  The Rule Maker

  Chapter One - 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 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 apartment I decorated 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 flip-flops for my pedicure at home?

  The thought 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 corr
ect 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 hate that they’re 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 for 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 to 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. I hate that I’m missing the engagement party but I’ll see you at Marissa’s bachelorette next month and 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 mine and Brittney’s and Abbi’s friends, is marrying Adam Wright, one of Steve’s closest friends, at the end of the summer? “Shit, shit, shit.” I bang my heels again.