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

  The Faker

  Boston Hawks Hockey

  Gina Azzi

  The Faker

  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

  Prologue

  1. Rielle

  2. Torsten

  3. Rielle

  4. Torsten

  5. Rielle

  6. Torsten

  7. Torsten

  8. Rielle

  9. Rielle

  10. Torsten

  11. Rielle

  12. Torsten

  13. Rielle

  14. Torsten

  15. Rielle

  16. Torsten

  17. Rielle

  18. Rielle

  19. Torsten

  20. Rielle

  21. Rielle

  22. Torsten

  23. Torsten

  24. Rielle

  Epilogue

  The Rule Maker

  Hey Reader

  Also by Gina Azzi

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Torsten

  “What are my options?” I ask my lawyer, a stand-up guy I’ve been working with since I first came to the United States. I was nineteen years old with dreams of being the next Bobby Orr. Bill Cantrell took me under his wing and kept an eye on me as I struggled in a new country, with no family, and too much money to carefully manage.

  Bill blows out a sigh. I can tell he’s weighing his words carefully and his hesitancy causes me to grip the phone tighter. “You really don’t think you’re going to re-sign, Torsten? The Hawks haven’t given you any indication that they’re cutting you loose, have they?”

  I lean back against the couch cushion and squeeze my right knee. Twinges of pain spark and my kneecap pops when I straighten my leg. I let my hand fall back to my side. The tough conversation I had with Scott Reland, the Hawks owner; Coach Phillips; and senior management just this morning, flickers in my mind. I clear my throat. “I spoke to Reland. I’m not re-signing, Bill.”

  “What?” Surprise is heavy in Bill’s tone. “When? What did Reland say?”

  The gnawing ache that has taken up residence in my stomach since the start of this season swells upward into my chest. I had my doubts about my ability to keep playing hockey since September. Now that we’re in April, I’ve had to swallow some difficult truths that I still haven’t admitted to anyone save for the small group of people in Scott’s office this morning. Now, Bill knows the truth too. “My knee is giving me issues again, Bill. Ever since I cracked my kneecap in that game against St. Louis, it hasn’t been right.”

  “That was over three years ago.”

  “Exactly. I’ve had too many surgeries, too much scar tissue. My shoulder, my rotator cuff, is fucked. It’s time…” I sigh. I never thought I’d see the day I’d hang up my skates. I guess none of us do but then suddenly, it’s here and God, it hurts. “I’m finishing this season. Reland and Coach agreed to give me as much playing time as possible during the playoffs. Of course, I’m gunning for a Cup win. Afterwards, I’ll break the news to the team. My contract isn’t officially up until the end of June anyway.”

  “Jesus,” Bill breathes out. “Damn. I’m sorry, kid. Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

  I snort. “Wasn’t ready to admit it.” I tell him the truth. “I’ve spent the past seven months thinking through every goddamn scenario that would let me keep playing. But, after the last few games, the hits I’ve taken, the recovery that just isn’t coming, I know it’s time.”

  “You had one hell of a career, Torsten. You should be proud.”

  The corners of my mouth turn up at Bill’s praise. In many ways, he’s the closest male I have to a father figure since my father couldn’t give a shit about my career in the NHL. Still, his words fan the ache in my chest until it’s crawling up my throat and forming into a lump I have to swallow against. I had a hell of a career.

  Except now that’s nearly over, it doesn’t seem like I have enough to show for it. I’m still alone in the United States with my entire family in Norway. I’m still single, no kids, no real legacy to leave behind. With the exception of a promise I made to my grandmother, my farmor, when I was eighteen, I don’t even have any commitments.

  “You really don’t want to go back to Oslo?” Bill asks, cutting through my thoughts.

  I think of Farmor. I think of Oslo and my childhood home. The last three visits I’ve made, Farmor was the only family member to see me, to speak to me. As much as I hate to consider a world without her in it, she’s nearly ninety. After she passes, there will be nothing left for me in Norway, save for hurtful memories and broken promises. “Nope. I want to stay here. So, please, what are my legal options?”

  “Are you looking into coaching? We can try to file for a green card through Employment-Based Immigration. Your best bet would be to prove your ‘extraordinary ability’ through hockey. But it’s six to eight months processing time during which, you can’t travel internationally.”

  I lean back in my chair and brush my fingers over my mouth.

  “The last two times we went down this path…” Bill trails off.

  “I had to get back to Norway.”

  “Yeah.” Bill’s quiet for a long moment. “Honestly, Torsten, your best plan is to wait it out. Commit to the process. Unless you’re planning on getting married, there aren’t many viable options.”

  Get married? I know Bill meant it as a joke but the words sting. My reputation as a well-versed flirt and perpetual bachelor do a spectacular job at concealing the truth. That I’d love to find the right woman, settle down, and build a home, a family, a future. Why else would someone date as much as I do, if not in search of a life partner?

  Unfortunately for me, I still haven’t found her. After the sting of Bill’s words recede, I turn them over logically. In this case, marriage is a faster, more certain method to obtaining a green card than filing a bunch of paperwork that will most likely stall in the immigration process. Besides, I can’t agree to not leave the United States for eight months and Bill knows it. Farmor’s health has steadily declined over the past few years. Each time she calls, I jump on the first flight to Oslo. If she needs me, I’ll be by her side, immigration be damned.

  “Torst? That was a joke,” Bill reminds me.

  I force a chuckle. “Yeah, yeah I know. I was just thinking.”

  “About?”

  “My grandmother.”

  “Ah. How is Greta doing?”

  “Not that great,” I admit. It pains me to think about her. To accept that I’ve built a life so far from her. The last visit I made to Oslo, I could hardly believe the physical changes in her appearance. She looked nothing like the motherly figure from my childhood. Her hair is entirely white now, her body frail. But her blue eyes still sparkle with mischief and I hold on to that.

  “Still your biggest fan?” Bill asks.

  I snic
ker. “She’s still my only fan as far as the Hansens are concerned.” It’s not a secret that I’m not close with my family. Save for Farmor, I doubt they’d even remember I exist. Because the Hansens are practically nobility and I’m the black sheep who ran away to America and never looked back. Well, except for the handful of years I played hockey in Europe. It was at Farmor’s urging, an attempt to make things right with my father, to reestablish the close bond I had with my brother Anders as children. Clearly, it didn’t work and as soon as Farmor gave her blessing, I came back to the US.

  “Do you want to start the paperwork?”

  I sigh. This will be the third time I initiate this process. I wonder if my past two failures to stay put in the US will count against me. “What do you think?”

  “I think you need to be sure. If we start this, you can’t back out again. It doesn’t look good. Are you able to commit to staying in the US until it’s sorted?”

  I swear. “Let me think about it, okay?”

  Bill’s quiet for a second before he clears his throat. “Okay. For now, just focus on the playoffs. If this really is your last season…”

  “Then we need to win the Cup,” I agree with his unspoken words.

  I hang up with Bill and stand from the couch in my swanky living room. I live in one of the penthouses in a luxury condo building on the Waterfront. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the open concept of my kitchen and living room, offering spectacular views of downtown Boston and a bit of Boston Harbor.

  Almost three years ago, when I turned thirty-five, I gained access to my trust fund. The one Farmor safeguarded as other members of my family tried to dismantle it. Every time I speak to her, she reminds me, “You’re still a Hansen. You’re just the best one.”

  Being a Hansen typically means having unbelievable wealth thrust upon you.

  It’s adhering to a strict set of expectations. It entails attending the most prestigious universities, being a member of the elitist social circles, and marrying into the right kind of family.

  Unless you’re me. Apparently, being the best Hansen means being on your own.

  1

  Rielle

  “You’re seriously going to work now?” my best friend Claire asks.

  I shove my bag into the passenger seat and cradle the phone between my face and shoulder as I flip on the ignition.

  My old car, a POS I affectionally call Sally, sputters.

  “Come on! Don’t do this to me, Sal.” I bang my palm on the top of the steering wheel.

  “You still haven’t gotten your car checked out?” Claire’s voice is incredulous and I close my eyes.

  Take a deep breath. Everything is fine.

  I turn the ignition again, tears of relief springing to the corners of my eyes when ol’ Sally revs up.

  “Claire, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. It’s just that—”

  “Douchebag Stu called. Ri, why are you still working for this guy? He’s been promising you a promotion for months and still, nada nada enchilada. You’re running yourself ragged trying to meet all of his crazy deadlines and demands. It’s Friday night! I’ve seen you once in the past two weeks.”

  Misery clamps down on my heart. Claire’s right. For the past ten months, since I graduated college, I’ve busted my ass at Hendrix Marketing to prove that I’m worthy of my position. I’m in the office by 6 a.m. most mornings and always stay late.

  Stu keeps telling me to hang in there just a little longer and the rewards will come. The promotion that he’s been dangling under my nose for the past six months keeps me grinding even when the exhaustion settles in.

  I don’t need a reward in terms of recognition. I just need the fat paycheck for my student loans. But over the past few months, my patience has been waning and Stu’s hands have become grabbier.

  Last month, he rubbed the backs of his fingers over my ass and tried to pass it off as an accident. Twice. Three days ago, he referred to me as sexy.

  He’s repulsive but if I’m being honest, the person I’m most disappointed in is myself. I know I should quit. If I told Claire the truth about Stu, she would make me quit. But I need this job, in a way Claire doesn’t understand. Mainly, because I’ve never told her. I am drowning in debt.

  “Let me just run to the office really quick and see what he needs. I’ll message you. There’s still a good chance I can make it to Jolene’s in time.”

  “Okay,” Claire agrees, drawing out the word. “I really hope you can come, Ri. And that’s not me trying to guilt you either. I just miss you. And Indy’s not as much fun to drink with since a ginger ale is as wild as she gets.”

  I snort. “She’s pregnant, Claire.”

  “I know, I know. But still…”

  “I’m going to try to make it,” I promise. “I’m going to the office right now.” I pull my seat belt across my chest. “I’ll message you as soon as I know what’s going on.”

  “All right. You know, you can always accidentally drop a coffee on Stu’s crotch...”

  I laugh. “You have no idea how many times I’ve considered it.”

  “See you soon.”

  I disconnect the call and point my car in the direction of my office.

  Stu Sanders has been running, and ruining, my life for nearly a year now. He better be summoning me for something good because my patience is on thin ice.

  I’m not going to drop this scalding hot coffee on Stu Sanders’ crotch because that would be immature.

  He’s my boss. I’m supposed to respect him. I’m supposed to learn from him.

  Even though right now he’s leering at me like a fucking perv.

  Deep breath. I need this job. I need the money. I have bills. Loans.

  Stu’s eyes drink in my hips and linger on my breasts in the most unprofessional and repulsive manner.

  I place down the mug near his elbow, which is casually resting on his desk. It makes a thud and a few droplets of coffee splatter his desk blotter.

  The noise catches his attention and he lifts his beady eyes to mine.

  My lips are pressed tightly together so I don’t actually say the thoughts screaming in my head. “What do we need to go over that is so urgent?”

  Stu licks his lips and lets his eyes linger on mine for a beat too long. “Why? You got plans tonight?”

  “Yeah, Stu. I do and I’m already late.” I shuffle back and cross my arms over my chest. I raise my eyebrows at him, waiting for him to get to the point where he explains why he summoned me here.

  He clears his throat and tilts his head. “A date?”

  I mash my lips together and don’t respond.

  “Have you ever been with an older, more mature man, Rielle? Someone who would know what to do with a woman like you in bed?”

  I gasp. Is he fucking kidding me? My skin crawls when I note the hunger in his eyes, as if he’s imagining me, right now, laid out beneath him. Vomit in my mouth. My flash of anger is quickly doused with a healthy dose of fear. I need to get the hell out of here.

  I begin to turn away, when Stu’s hand wraps around the back of my thigh. The moment his fleshy fingers hold my leg, I startle and stumble back, my heel catching on the carpet.

  He lunges for me, his other arm wrapping around my waist to keep me from falling.

  “No need to fall at my feet, honey.” His breath, stale cigarettes, washes over my face. He’s too close, practically panting, and panic rises in my chest.

  I step backwards, trying to put space between us but he tightens his hold.

  “Nowhere to go now, Rielle. We’re the only ones here and I know you want this.” His hand slides to my ass.

  What the fuck? I lay both hands on his chest and push. “Get away from me, Stu. I’m not interested.” My voice is clear but it wavers at the end, giving away just how nervous I am.

  His hands clamp down in retaliation. “Don’t be like this, Rielle. I know you need this job. Need me.”

  Fear snakes through my stomach as I struggle against his
grip. He’s holding my arms so tightly that his fingertips will leave bruises. “I don’t fucking need you. Get your hands off me.” I snarl, thrashing. My knee connects with his groin and he wheezes out, folding over.

  I slip from his hold and back away slowly. I know I should run. I need to get the hell out of here. But… “Stu, this isn’t going—”

  “You’re fired, Rielle,” Stu bellows, righting himself. “For ten fucking months, you teased me with those sexy skirts and high heels. And now, you don’t want to play?” He shakes his head. “I’m not paying for this shit when I can have an assistant who’s willing to do the work I need.”

  My mouth drops open. I’m more shocked than I’ve ever been before. Even more so than the night my father informed me I would major in pre-med or he was cutting me off financially. “Are you kidding me right now?” My anger flares and it feels good to release it. To let my resentment toward Stu seep out instead of keeping it bottled at the back of my throat, like a gag. “I’m not your assistant, Stu. I’m a marketing associate.”

  He waves a hand dismissively, his eyes narrowed into slits.

  “And I don’t need to put up with this shit.” I throw my hand out at him, feeling bolder now that the office space is between us. “I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on Earth and Homo sapiens were going extinct.” I turn sharply on my heel and stride from his office.

  The moment I clear the threshold, it dawns on me that we may be the only two people in the entire building. My hands begin to tremble and my anger recedes as fear skates down my spine. I swipe my coat and purse from my desk and book it to the elevators, jabbing at the down arrow.