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

Rielle stiffens beside me. “Do you not want me to wear it? It’s just, while we’re here, after everything your farmor and I shared…” She shrugs and uses her other hand to twist the ring off her finger. She holds it out to me. “Forget it. Here.”

I back away from the ring as if it will burn me. In many ways, taking it from Rielle would. “No. Wear it. I want you to.”

She studies me for a long moment before sighing. Then, she jams the ring on her finger and walks toward the door. When her hand touches the knob, she turns and looks at me over her shoulder. Her eyes swim with hurt and shine with sincerity. “Good luck today, Torsten. I’m rooting for you.”

Then, she’s gone and with her, the resolve I’ve been clinging to, to keep it all together, slips.

I lower myself to the edge of the mattress and try to get my head on straight. The room spins, making me nauseous.

Farmor is dying. Rielle is wearing her ring. Magnus called me uncle. I still have to fulfill my promise.

Exhaustion sweeps through me, making my limbs heavy, my movements sluggish. My shoulder feels less sore today but my knee throbs from not resting it. Lingering effects of my concussion float on the periphery of my vision. The playoffs, the game, the hit all seem like they happened eons ago. Has it really only been two days?

I rub sleep from my eyes as a sharp knock sounds on my door.

“Come in,” I say in Norwegian.

Lars pops his head around the door. “It’s time. They’re waiting for you, Master Torsten.”

I sigh and pull myself up. It’s time to face the music. It’s time to come and do the thing I promised I’d do.

In many ways, my time is up and simultaneously, just starting.

I pull a sweater on over my button-up shirt and give myself a quick glance in the mirror. No matter how I look, Father will have a derisive comment tucked away. Blowing out a breath, I step toward the door.

As I pass Lars, I remind him for the umpteenth time, “It’s just Torsten.”

As always, he doesn’t respond.

I walk through the dark mahogany hallways of my father’s house and a million memories of my childhood ripple over my skin. Like skipping stones, some skirt the surface of my consciousness, not requiring additional consideration. Others cause ripples in my mind, stirring up past mistakes and scabbed-over wounds. And still others sink deep, piercing my soul.

Father’s disappointment in me is well-known and well-documented. Anyone who worked in the Hansen employ over the past twenty-something years can recall the tension between us, even an ocean apart. But Father is Farmor’s son and I love Farmor so here I am. I take a deep inhale and force myself to stand as straight as my sore shoulder and bum knee will allow. Right before I push inside Father’s office, where we’re meeting, Anders enters the hallway. He lets out a low whistle and I can’t stop the grin that splits my face.

It’s a thing we did as kids, when on the lookout for Father. After our mother left us, Father spent the following year in a fog, oscillating between periods of darkness and depression and anger and rage. On the nights we knew better than to cross his path, Anders and I would whistle a low, three-note melody, similar to the Common Rosefinch which could be found in these parts.

I glance up at him as he strides toward me, his hands in his pockets, a boyish expression on his face.

“My son is enamored with your wife,” he says, with more warmth in his tone than yesterday.

“She’s pretty easy to fall for,” I agree.

He looks me over and nods. Lifting a hand to his face, he scrapes it along his jawline the same way I do when I’m in uncharted territory, uncertain how to proceed. “Listen, brother,” he begins in our native tongue, “I love Farmor just as much as you.”

“I know that.”

He rocks back on his heels, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. “I’m tired of holding a grudge for reasons I no longer care about. It’s been too long.”

I frown. “What do you mean? The reasons are clear. I left the family fold, I turned my back on the Hansen name, I didn’t step up the way I was supposed to and instead, booked it to America.” I tick off the reasons on my fingers. What else have I done for my family to despise me so much?

Apparently something because surprise washes over my brother’s expression. “That’s what you think?” he asks in a low voice.

“What?” I narrow my eyes at him, trying to connect dots that aren’t lining up. “What else have I done?”

“You mean, you didn’t skim money from the business to pay for hockey? For the ice time and the uniforms and the travel?”

My blood turns cold as ice spreads through my veins. My chest nearly caves in on itself as I stare into my brother’s eyes and realize he truly believes the accusations he’s leveling me with.

“Skim money?” I hiss, the muscle in my jaw ticking frantically. “Steal from my own family? Steal when we all know there was enough money to pay for my hockey?”

“Shh,” Anders says, a warning in his eyes. He grabs me by the arm and pulls me around the corner, away from Father’s office door. “I thought that’s what, that’s what Father and Uncle Erik told me.”

I drop my head back and let out a chuckle that sounds more like a growl. “I can’t fucking believe it. All this time, I thought I, I thought you felt like I abandoned you guys, chose hockey over our family, over our stupidly privileged lives.”

When I meet Anders’ eyes again, he shakes his head. “No. Never. I was always proud of you for hockey. Why do you think my son knows all of your stats? Not that Father knows