The Faker: A Marriage of Convenience Hockey Romance (Boston Hawks Hockey) Gina Azzi (series like harry potter TXT) 📖

and stand from his lap, popping open my jeans and shimmying out of them. I pulled off his jersey when we first came through the door. Now, clad in just a black camisole and lace panties, I grin. “I promise, you’re not. I wanted to do this, to make you feel good. Come on, let’s shower.”

His eyes widen further.

“You won’t be able to manage on your own and if you play nice, I’ll let you soap me up.” I waggle my eyebrows and he chuckles.

I lead him to the bathroom and flip on the shower. As we wait for the water to warm, I slowly undress him, careful not to rattle his shoulder or knee. He watches me, his gaze intense, his eyes dark like sapphires. It’s intoxicating, the feel of his gaze on my heated skin. Even now, injured and hurting, he makes me feel worshipped with just a glance.

Once the shower water is hot, we step inside. The water beats down on us and my hair sticks to my back and shoulders in thick clumps. Torsten moves his injured arm awkwardly, trying to brush my hair away from my face, his other hand braced against the shower tiles. “You’re so goddamn beautiful, Rielle.”

“So are you, Torst.”

He snorts and closes his eyes. When he opens them, I see all the hopes and fears he keeps buried beneath his good-time charm, his easygoing vibe, his desire to be well-liked. I step into his frame and kiss him hard.

We make out like teenagers, fumbling around his injuries, quelling our own insecurities that rise to the surface, shifting our normal into new territory. The next level, a new layer, of our deepening relationship.

When I help Torsten into bed, I climb on top of him. Our bodies, naked and still damp from our shower, glisten in the light from the bathroom. I can make out Torsten’s features, the shadows that play over our skin.

I lace our fingers together and bring our joined hands up, over his head. I line him up at my entrance before sinking down. He throws his head back and groans. I whimper as he stretches me, filling me completely. My hands slip from his and my palms find his chest. With careful movements, I ride him, slow and deep. Our eyes connect and the vulnerability, the trust, that sparks in Torsten’s gaze is my undoing. We both break apart, filling the dark with our mutual desires. Once we’re cleaned up, Torsten reaches for me, wraps his arm around my waist, and hauls me next to him. Curled up against him, the rise and fall of his chest, the steady drum of his heartbeat, lulls me to sleep.

I dream of our future. Together.

16

Torsten

The shrill ringing of my cell phone wakes us both up at a quarter past three in the morning. I fumble for my phone, swearing as pain shoots through my shoulder.

Rielle moves quickly, swiping my phone from the end table. She flips on the lamp as she passes it to me. The moment I read Farmor’s name on the screen, the pain in my arm dissipates and dread weighs heavily in my chest.

I swipe right. “Farmor?”

“It’s me,” my father’s voice comes through the line and I freeze. I haven’t heard it in more than five years and still, just two words, bring me back to my childhood. To the nights his eyes would bore into mine with disappointment bordering on hatred. To the day he told me he was done with me, that the family was done with me, since I never showed any of them my respect or loyalty.

Since I chose a game, hockey, over them.

“Where’s Farmor?” I whisper, clutching the phone so tightly, my hand aches and I briefly wonder if the phone will snap.

Rielle’s wide awake now, watching me with curious eyes.

My father clears his throat. “She’s in the hospital. I’m only calling because she asked me to. If you want to say goodbye, you better get on a plane.” He rattles off the details of the hospital and disconnects the call before I have a chance to respond.

I sit in shock, a million questions ricocheting in my mind. Is she stable? Is she conscious? Are they taking good care of her? Will I make it in time? What about the playoffs?

“Torsten?” Rielle touches my hand. “What is it?”

I look at her, my mouth opening and closing several times but no sound comes out. My chest tightens and my head pounds. A barrage of memories, a flood of moments, an entire lifetime of being loved by a good woman race through me, shocking my system further. Farmor is dying.

“Torst?” Rielle grips my fingers now, concern blazing in her black eyes.

“It’s my,” my voice cracks and I clear my throat. “My farmor. Rielle, I need to go home.”

“To Norway?” she whispers, understanding dawning in her expression.

I nod.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “Okay.” Her gaze scans my room, as if looking for answers to unasked questions.

“I need to be on the next plane. I need to say goodbye.” I try to shift from my bed, my knee groaning in protest, my shoulder burning. I swear and sit at the edge of my mattress, trying to muster the physical strength, the mental clarity, to make the next series of decisions.

Rielle hands me my phone. “Call Austin. I’ll take care of everything else.”

I glance up at her, my brow furrowing. Who is this woman? Who is this beautiful woman brimming with wild passion and deep understanding? How did I end up with a heart like hers?

“Call him,” she murmurs, wrapping my fingers around the phone.

I glance down at the screen. My fingers feel thick, uncoordinated, as I find Austin’s name and press send.

While I wait for him to answer, Rielle springs into action. She darts to the kitchen and I hear her fingers flying across the keyboard of her laptop just as Austin says, “Hello?”

“Aus, it’s me.”

“Torst? Fuck, dude, it’s after three.” I hear him murmur something, a