The Faker: A Marriage of Convenience Hockey Romance (Boston Hawks Hockey), Gina Azzi [pocket ebook reader .TXT] 📗

At the offer, her eyes shutter closed and the honesty in them disappears completely. Her back snaps straight and she dips her head. Shit, I pushed too hard. Rielle doesn’t want anyone’s help. For whatever reason, she needs to know she can sort this out on her own.

I swear softly, my mind scrambling. Don’t double down, Hansen. Find your chill. “Think about it, don’t think about it. Just know, if you ever really need a safety net, you have one,” I tell her. “Now, let’s drink and sing karaoke and forget all about Stan’s bullshit and bills.”

She glances up, a hesitant hope in her expression. “Sing karaoke?”

I grin, scraping a hand along my jaw. “I’ll battle you.”

She throws her head back and laughs. It’s the most genuine and uninhibited she’s been all night and a swell of pride ripples in my chest that I caused it. I made her laugh. “Battle me? Torsten, I can carry a tune.”

“So can I,” I challenge her. “Hey Pete,” I call out. “How do you feel about a little performance?”

Pete laughs and shrugs, tossing me the phone connected to the speakers. “Have at it, Torst. Just don’t be upset when you go viral on social media tomorrow.”

I grin. I’m definitely feeling the alcohol swimming in my veins. I chance a glance at Rielle. She’s a bit tipsy but hanging in there. Girl can hold her liquor. I hand her the phone. “Pick your playlist.”

She smiles and it makes my chest feel funny. Too tight.

Of course I shouldn’t be drinking and singing in a pub. Not when the Hawks are in the playoffs and we have a game the day after tomorrow. But I’ve put hockey first for the last two decades of my life. Right now, I’ve got a gorgeous girl who’s barely keeping her chin up, sitting in the chair next to me and battling demons.

I’ll deal with the team’s ire if it means making Rielle laugh. If it means learning who the hell hurt her tonight.

3

Rielle

Claire: Um, hi. Remember me? Your best friend? I feel like I don’t know you because the last time I saw Rielle Carter sing karaoke, she was in a wet T-shirt contest in Cancun on spring break. And we were freshman. WHO ARE YOU? Btw, you look hella hot in that pencil skirt. It’s very Librarian-esque. Indy may try to steal it.

I groan as the sunlight assaults my eyes. What the hell is Claire talking about?

I try to roll over in my bed but the movement hurts. Everything hurts. My head aches and my mouth is so dry I don’t want to swallow. When I do, my throat burns. And my skin feels like it’s been peeled back a few layers. I force myself to hit play on the video she sent and nearly fall out of bed when I see myself onscreen, shaking my ass and belting out the lyrics to Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody.”

What. The. Fuck?

I cringe but then Torsten enters the frame. He steps right onto the bar, amidst wild cheering and whistling from the handfuls of patrons at Taps. He sings backup to my performance and breaks it down with some dance moves that belong in the nineties.

I laugh despite the pang it causes in my temples.

Torsten and I are wasted. But we’re having fun, real fun. The uninhibited, genuine, carefree kind of fun I haven’t experienced since I tossed my college graduation cap in the air.

“Oh, good. You’re alive.”

I gasp and clutch my duvet to my chest. My eyes swing to the door where Torsten shadows the frame, looking way sexier than a man with a wicked hangover ought to.

“You’re here?”

He shakes his head. “Did you think I’d drop you off and bolt? You drank my body weight in tequila.”

I close my eyes and snippets of last night float through my mind.

Torsten ordering round after round of shots.

My skin crawling after what went down with Stu.

Losing my damn job.

Feeling lost and lonely.

Torsten cheering me up.

Stan. Who the hell is Stan?

Too many shots.

Dancing on the bar.

Cracking up. Inventing dance moves. Feeling like myself again.

I force my eyes open, even though it’s still too bright in here, and glance at Torsten.

He hasn’t moved from where he’s holding up the wall. His arms are crossed over his chest. His black button-down is wrinkled and a sexy scruff coats his cheeks and chin. His hair is a mess, flattened on one side and sticking up in wild spikes on the other. His eyes are concerned, his mouth is twisted in amusement, and he looks like he doesn’t know whether to turn on his heel and leave or crawl into bed next to me.

But he’s here.

“Thank you,” I say, pulling myself up to a seated position. “For last night. That was…you are the nicest Hawk.”

He chuckles and steps into my room.

My duvet pools around my hips and when I look down, I see I’m wearing a T-shirt. I look back up at Torsten. “Did anything—”

“No,” he cuts me off, horror washing over his face.

Well, it’s a good thing I’m already feeling so down in the dumps because if not, his reaction to the idea of hooking up with me would have obliterated my ego.

“You needed something clean to wear after you threw up,” he explains.

I wince. That explains the soreness in my throat. Shit, how wasted was I last night? Embarrassment floods through me, causing my cheeks to burn. I grip the duvet and force myself to meet Torsten’s curious gaze. “You’re a class act, Torsten. You shouldn’t have had to deal with me last night. Thank you for looking out and for making sure I got home okay. Thank you for sleeping on my couch which must have been the most uncomfortable night’s sleep of your life since it’s only a loveseat.”

He snorts. “I’ve slept on worse.”

I wrinkle my nose and shake my head, the magnitude of last night and