The Faker: A Marriage of Convenience Hockey Romance (Boston Hawks Hockey) by Gina Azzi (ink ebook reader .TXT) 📗

A flash of color. A cool breeze. A loud yell.

Then, darkness.

15

Rielle

“Don’t move it. Here, I got you,” I chatter on and on, gently guiding Torsten as we maneuver into the penthouse.

My heart is still galloping and I can’t stop the adrenaline that pumps in my temples. Seeing him go down tonight was the most horrible thing I’ve ever witnessed. Helplessness gripped me as I leapt to my feet, my heart in my throat, my knees weak, my legs shaking. A buzzing sound rung in my ears and if it wasn’t for Claire and Indy pulling me out of the box, I may have passed out right there.

Fortunately, the fall looked a lot worse than it was. Torsten came to only seconds after blacking out. He had a dislocated shoulder, which the doctor was able to pop back in, a beat-up knee which is causing him some pain, and a mild concussion. But the doctor cleared him to come home, so here we are. Me, propping Torsten up and chatting a million miles a minute to eat up the silence that has ensued since the moment I walked into the trainer’s room and saw Torsten laid out on the table.

His eyes are stormy, his mouth twisted in pain and anger, his mind somewhere else entirely. For the first time since we’ve entered into our arrangement, I can’t get a word out of him. He’s looking through me instead of at me. Of course, the logical part of my brain recognizes that he’s in physical pain. Not to mention, the emotional distress of knowing that tonight was most likely his last game as an NHL player. But the emotional side of me can’t help but worry that something just fundamentally shifted.

“Here we are.” I ease him down onto the couch. Bending to pick up his leg so I can prop it on the coffee table, he swats at me.

“Leave it. I’m not an invalid.”

“I know that. I’m just trying to help you,” I say in the most even voice I can manage. Images of him going down replay in my mind and with every blink, I recall more details. The unnatural twist of his body, the shocked faces of the crowd, the deafening silence of thousands of people holding their breaths in unison. The arena felt suffocating and I couldn’t wait to come home with Torsten but now that we’re here, my nerves are scattered.

I watch him struggle to lift his leg on his own and back away slowly to gather ice packs from the kitchen. When I return, Torsten gives me a smirk and glances at his leg, which is neatly stacked on the coffee table.

“Here’s some ice.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, taking the wrapped packs and bag from me and placing them where he needs to.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He lifts an eyebrow at me, his expression carefully neutral. But his eyes swirl and churn, angry and hurting and glinting with something I’ve never seen before. “What do you think?”

I bite my lip and shake my head.

Torsten mutters out a string of colorful language and opens his hand for mine. When I place my hand in his, he tugs until I’m seated next to him on the couch.

“I’m sorry, Ri. Look, I’m fucking pissed right now. It has nothing to do with you. I’m just—fuck!” He picks up the remote control and slings it across the room. It bounces twice on the floor before skittering to a stop near the step up to the kitchen. “I can’t believe that’s how my fucking career ends. That pathetic, garbage play. Dropping like that and blacking out like a fucking pussy. I’m angry. And I’m…I’m heartbroken.”

“I’m sorry, Torst.” I squeeze his hand to let him know I’m here, that I’m listening.

He heaves out a sigh. “I just want to sit here and watch shitty TV.”

“Are you hungry?”

He shakes his head.

“Do you want some company?” I ask pathetically, desperate for him to say yes. Even though he might want some time on his own, the thought of leaving him alone to hurt by himself aches.

He shifts his weight so he can wrap his arm around my shoulders.

I immediately curl into his side, my palm on his chest, my head on his good shoulder. I lean up and press a kiss to his cheek. “I’m just going to get the remote control. Don’t move.”

He groans and tosses his head back but a smirk glances off his mouth.

“Too soon?” I guess, hopping from the couch to grab the remote.

“Get your ass back here, Ri.” He takes the remote from my hand as I settle back beside him. He turns on the TV. “Schitt’s Creek?”

“Duh.” It’s pretty much become our nightly staple. After sex, I mean.

He snorts and pulls me closer. I go willingly, breathing in the scent of him, sweat and man and a hint of body wash. His fingers rake through my hair, grazing lazily against my back. I sink deeper into his side, my eyes glued to the television.

Each of his inhales draws me closer and I sit perfectly still, aware of every shift he makes. The air around us intensifies, layers of unspoken words, desperate thoughts, and needy desires, building like the pressure in a volcano. Torsten’s fingers stroke lower, his hand wrapping around the side of my body, splaying wide along my rib cage.

I suck my stomach in, feeling the boldness in his touch. Am I what he needs right now? Does he crave a distraction? A release?

Is it because of the devasting blows he took tonight? Both physically and mentally? Or is it more than that? Is it because even though we never intended to, we’re becoming a “we,” and right now, I can soothe some of his hurt?

I turn more into him, my breasts skimming against his chest. He inhales sharply and turns his face to mine, his eyes darker than