by Gina Azzi
It isn’t until I’m in my car with the doors locked, that reality sinks in. Oh, God. Bile crawls up my throat and my hands shake. I feel jittery, off-balanced, and nauseous. What am I going to do? I need this job. I need the money.
My second—or maybe third?—eviction notice, a flimsy pink slip of paper I ripped off my apartment door and clenched in my fist just six weeks ago when hockey heartthrob Torsten Hansen escorted me home blinks in my mind. I was drunk. And rambling. I was starting to crack.
But now, I’m shattered. Because there was another slip on my door this morning. This time, I left it. I’m going to default on my loan payment. I’m going to miss rent again.
I’m going to be evicted, with nowhere to live but an alleyway.
Tears collect in my eyes. The urge to cry, to sob and wail and hit something, rises in my throat but at the last second, I swallow it down. I may have left the Carter household but at my core, I’m still a Carter. And Carters keep things close to the chest. We figure out our own problems and never air anything in public. Not our thoughts, not our feelings, and most certainly not our shortcomings.
Deep breath. I’ll be okay. I’ll sort this out.
The shrill ringing of my cell causes me to jump and I answer it. “Claire.”
“Ri-Ri! I’m so sorry to be the one to bail but Indy’s got heartburn and East just got home from an AA meeting and seems overwhelmed so—”
A trickle of relief rolls through me. The last thing I want to do is sit in a noisy bar and shout to Claire and Indy that I was fired, assaulted, and will soon be homeless. God, I wish I could tell them the truth. About my family, my finances, my lack of options. But if I did, they’d help me, no questions asked. I’d ruin the only true friendships I have by altering the dynamic beyond repair. I’ve witnessed firsthand how money ruins families, friendships, and it’s not something I’m willing to risk with Claire or Indy. I clear my throat. “No worries, babe. Honestly, I’m exhausted anyway.”
“Well, I’ll still make it up to you.”
“We’ll reschedule soon.” I don’t mention that my calendar is now wide open. “Go be with your man.”
Claire giggles and I can’t help the pang that hits me in the chest. Of course I’m happy for her and Easton. They’ve worked hard at their relationship and have overcome a lot of obstacles. I understand that Claire needs to be there for him. I want her to be there for East.
But sometimes, in moments like this, when I realize how soul-crushingly alone I am, I wish that she would notice I’m starting to drown. I wish someone would realize that I’m about to be pulled under entirely.
“Call you tomorrow, Ri.”
“Good night, Claire.” I disconnect and take a shaky breath. Then, I ease out of the parking lot.
Part of me is desperate to go home, shower, and crawl into bed. The other part of me hates the thought of being on my own right now, with all the silence, all the mistakes, closing in on me.
I drive past the turn to my apartment. What the hell am I doing? I can’t just drive aimlessly and waste Sally’s gas. I stop at a red light and grip the steering wheel. I bang my head back against the headrest. Tears pool in the corners of my eyes. What am I going to do? Jerry Jensen is expecting a loan payment on Monday and I’m still over $200 short.
I could always sell Sally. My stomach twists at the thought. But then what? It will only buy me a few months. I need a plan. For the first time in my life, I come up blank.
You want to study marketing? Dad’s laughter rings in my head. What useless life are you going to have with that? You’ll make no money. The contempt in his gaze was obvious.
But I was rebellious. So certain that I could carve my own path and blaze my own trail. I was taking my future in my hands and doing it my way. My choice of university, my choice of degree, my choice of who I lived with.
A sob escapes my throat as I recall those four magical years. Living with Claire. Feeling inspired and passionate about my courses. Interning in Paris. Dabbling in photography. It was like another life.
The one that came before reality crashed around me and I realized I owed nearly half a million dollars to one of my childhood friend’s families for bankrolling my educational pursuits against my father’s wishes.
Was Dad right?
The thought cuts deep because if so, I’ve made a hell of a lot more mistakes than just staying in a thankless position under Stu Sanders for ten months.
The sign for Taps, a neighborhood pub that has gained notoriety over the years since the Boston Hawks Hockey team usually grab drinks here, flickers in the distance. I’ve spent a lot of time at this pub with Claire since her brother Austin is the team captain and Easton is the left wing.
Sighing, I pull into the parking lot. Clearly, I shouldn’t spend any money on a glass of wine. And I shouldn’t stay out this late because my apartment is in a less than desirable area and the last thing I need is to fight off a second man with grabby hands tonight.
But the feel of Stu’s hands still ripples over my skin. I shiver, knowing I’ll go crazy if I’m alone right now.
I step out of the car, tie the sash on my coat, shoulder my bag, and scurry into Taps. The atmosphere is warm. The bartender, Pete, is a familiar face. And no one looks at me, a girl with tears in her eyes, twice.
I take a seat at the end of the bar and shrug out of my coat. Exhaling slowly, I tuck my hair behind my ears and wave to Pete. As soon as I have a glass of merlot in hand, my body relaxes slightly. I take a deep sip and let the bold taste roll down my throat.
I’m going to be okay. I’ll figure something out.
But what?
Not for the first time, I wish Mom were still alive. Although, if she were, there’s no way things would have fallen apart between Dad and me. Not like this, anyway. I close my eyes for a beat and envision her calm voice, the feel of her fingers running through my hair. Every time I ran to her, angry over some argument I had with Dad, she would laugh that we were too similar, both of us hardheaded and passionate. But I never agreed. I wanted to be my mother’s daughter through and through, even after she was taken from me when I was fourteen.
I bite the corner of my mouth and force my eyes open. I take another sip of my wine.
The adrenaline that’s been buzzing through my limbs since Stu touched me begins to recede. Exhaustion sweeps through me. The door to Taps opens and a few of the guys sitting near me whisper excitedly. When I turn my head, I realize why.
Torsten Hansen, a defenseman for the Hawks and sex on a stick, just walked in.
Jesus. My cheeks flame. Could this night get any worse?
Six weeks ago, I went out and got stupidly drunk with Claire. When Claire bounced early, I stayed behind, drinking my body weight in tequila and vodka shots. Torsten Hansen, chivalrous guy that he is, made sure I got home okay.
He didn’t even make a face when he flipped on the lights to my small apartment. I’m the girl who lives in Southie. He’s the guy who owns the apartment buildings a handful of streets over on the Waterfront. In that moment, the disparity between us, between me and my own family, was glaringly obvious. And it hurt. It scraped at my soul to know that my own pride was responsible for my current living conditions. For my lack of options.
And Torsten Hansen, with his broad shoulders and ridiculous six-pack, witnessed it firsthand. I dip my head and take another gulp of wine. I’ve got to get out of here. I need to go home, throw myself in the shower, sleep for a million years, and regroup.
But when I look back up, my eyes slam into two pools of icy blue. Surprise ripples across Torsten’s expression as recognition flares in his eyes. At the kindness in his face, a wave of emotion swells in my throat. Tears prick the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall. God, what is wrong with me?
I try to shake it off but I can’t. I feel unbalanced, like gravity is giving up on me along with the rest of the universe. Old inadequacies and insecurities wrap around me. My failures are on full display for anyone to pick apart.
>
It must show in my expression because Torsten’s mouth twists and he moves to slide off his barstool.
Oh, no. I shake my head and gesture I’ll come to him. There’s an empty seat beside him and even though he’s definitely not someone I’d want to see me unravel, at least he’s not Claire.
I take a deep breath, pick up my wine glass and coat, and hope I don’t make myself look like even more of a fool.
Although, at this point, is that even possible?
2
Torsten
The beer is cold and tangy. It goes down smooth, just the way I like it.
I grin at Pete, the bartender, and gesture that I’m ready for a shot. Last night, my hockey team, the Boston Hawks, won our first playoff game. Afterwards, we celebrated with a few beers, but tonight, everyone is with their families.
Everyone except me. My family, if you can call them that, are all in Norway and at nearly thirty-eight years old, I still haven’t found the right woman to settle down with here in America.
I snort at myself. The right woman doesn’t exist. At least for me she doesn’t. I’ve been burned too many times to place my future happiness in one woman’s hands. I’m more of a happily-for-now than a happily-ever-after kind of guy and I’ve made peace with that.
“Thanks, Pete.” The bartender places down a shot glass, the necessary saltshaker, and a lime wedge.
“You got it, Hansen. Congrats on the playoffs.”
I dip my head in thanks and shift my weight, groaning at the soreness that ripples through my body. I guess that’s the silver lining of this being my last season; soon, I won’t be in physical pain all the time.
Although, a new slew of issues occupies my mind these days. How will I stay in the US after this season? Last night, right before my game, Farmor called and asked if I’ll come visit this summer. Her voice was quieter than usual, as if it took too much energy to fill it with the laughter and lightness I’m used to. I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake the thought away. Right now, I need to focus on the playoffs, on the Cup.
I raise the shot of tequila to my mouth and freeze, all my troubles flying right out of my mind. Because Rielle Carter is at the other end of the bar, looking like every fantasy I’ve had of her come to life. She must feel my stare because she looks up and her dark eyes, nearly black, pierce mine. Even with the space and people between us, I can tell something’s wrong.
Six weeks ago, I escorted her drunk ass home when she had too much to drink with her best friend and my captain’s little sister, Claire. But from years of casual encounters, I know that Rielle projects confidence. She’s a charming and carefree woman who gets under your skin the moment you meet her.
Tonight, she’s none of those things. Her shoulders curve inward and her arm wraps protectively around her torso, as if she wants to disappear into herself. For a woman who always stands tall and proud, I’m startled by this version of her. Tonight, she looks heartbreakingly sad. She offers me a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
My concern spikes and I lean forward, staring intently at her watery eyes, her puffy lips. Has she been crying?
The thought causes me to slide from my barstool but she shakes her head and indicates that she’ll come to me. I turn toward Pete and order more shots.
I watch Rielle as she moves closer, a coat thrown over her arm, a wine glass in hand. I take in the curves of her hips, sheathed in a sexy pencil skirt that ends just below her knees. She’s rocking a silk blouse that clings to her curves. Nude heels click against the beat-up wooden floor as she draws nearer. Black hair, black eyes, and a luscious mouth I’ve thought more than once about tasting, Rielle Carter is a bombshell.
But right now, she looks miserable and my worry for her overshadows my wayward thoughts.
“Hey Big Daddy,” she greets me, dropping the lame nickname started by Claire. Of course, it stuck and now the whole team uses it.
“What’re you drinking, Ri?” I ask, pulling the barstool next to mine closer.
She shrugs, placing down her wine glass. She hangs her coat on the back of the barstool and slips onto the seat. “Just a merlot.”
“What’s wrong?” I gentle my tone.
She stares at me. Her eyes are empty, her expression aloof. Pete delivers more shots and Rielle snorts. She picks one up, running the pad of her index finger around the rim. She shrugs, offering me a lopsided grin. “What’s right?”
I frown at her answer and watch as she throws back the shot and picks up another one. She downs it quickly, not bothering with the salt or the lime. Then she turns on her barstool, her knee brushing against my leg.
“Congrats on the playoffs.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you by yourself tonight?” she asks, looking around for my teammates. We frequent Taps a lot and since I hate being alone, I usually recruit some of the guys to come with me.
I nod.
“Me too.”
I lean back in my seat and study her. Her eyes swim with emotion. She looks lost and lonely. Pained. My mind travels back to six weeks ago. Rielle was tipsy as hell. And adorable. She was happy, her big eyes shining, as she danced in the middle of a crowded dance floor, unconcerned by all the men circling her, desperate for a morsel of her attention. She closed her eyes, waved her arms overhead, and rotated her hips until I couldn’t tear my gaze away. I remember how she dissolved into laughter when she caught my eye. She danced her way over to me, beckoning for me to join her. And at the envious glares of the other nearby men, I did so gladly. Her laughter from that night still interrupts my dreams, causing a strange sense of longing when I wake in the morning.
But when I escorted her home, I witnessed a version of her I never considered. The larger-than-life, dazzling woman is living paycheck to paycheck. Just scraping by. Her small apartment in Southie tells a completely different story than the woman who always shows up with her head held high, rocking designer threads and an untouchable veneer.
Tonight, I’m catching a glimpse of that woman. The woman who is struggling and doing her best to keep it all together. I know this because for too damn long, I was her. The hockey player with the trust fund who “has it all,” but doesn’t have a damn thing that matters. No family, no relationship, no one to kiss hello when I walk in the door from a grueling practice or a brutal away game. Although the circumstances are different, I know what it feels like to be invisible in a crowd. Right now, Rielle is wearing that look. Dejection and hurt, sorrow and loneliness.
She shifts to reach for her wine glass and I narrow my eyes. Are those bruises on her arm? My heightening concern is swept away by a rush of anger. Who the fuck dared to put his hands on her?
“Who the fuck marked your arm?” I growl.
She gasps, tugging on the sleeve of her shirt. Her eyes widen and her mouth opens and closes. Her body stiffens and she eyes the door over my shoulder, looking like she wants to bolt.
Shit. I can’t let her rush out of here, not when she’s hurting. I swear and grip the armrest of her barstool. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”
“Don’t what?” she whispers.
“Don’t leave. Not on your own, not like this. Hang with me for a bit? Take another shot.”
She narrows her gaze and considers me. I stare straight back, trying to tell her with my eyes all the things I’m sure as fuck not going to say. I’m worried about you. I want to beat the shit out of the dick who put his hands on you. There’s no way in hell I’m letting you go home alone right now.
Finally, she nods and settles back in her seat. I place another shot glass in front of her and line two up in front of me.
She snorts and picks up her shot glass. She raises it in my direction, the black in her eyes swallowing the flecks of golden brown. “To Daddy issues.”
As much as I want her to confide in me about whatever the hell went down tonight, I dislike the blasé snark she’s protecting herself in. I narrow my eyes at her and consider handing out a truth for a truth. “I
can drink to that, Ri.” I tap my glass against hers and toss it back.
Her eyes widen in surprise but she quickly hides it by taking the shot.
“Rielle, what happened tonight?”
She glances at the ceiling, as if holding back tears. “I lost my job.”
I search my mind for everything I know about Rielle and the thing that I hold on to, the thing that Claire and her cousin Indy have said countless times is that she’s a workaholic. Why the hell would she lose her job? “Why? What happened?”
She shakes her head and her eyes well with fresh tears. Pure horror washes over her features.
“Ri.” I reach out and cup her cheek. “It’s okay to be upset. You know that right?”
She nods and clears her throat, blinking furiously. “Logically, yes. I know that. But I don’t, I’m not sure how…”
I swipe my thumb over her cheekbone. Her skin is soft and smooth and perfect. I drop my hand. “Tell me what you need. Right now, don’t even think about it.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she whispers.
I frown. “You must know I am the nicest guy on the Hawks.”
She snorts. “That’d be Noah. Or Austin.”
“Screw them,” I joke and she gives me an almost-smile. I chew the corner of my mouth, giving her another truth. One I rarely share. “Because I know what it’s like to be alone and hurting even when you’re surrounded by people.”
She draws in an inhale, understanding flaring in her irises. “I want to drink tequila until my head spins. And I want to sleep in late just one day, just tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I agree. I pick up my next shot glass just as Pete delivers a new batch. “To sleeping in.”
She rolls her eyes but her expression clears the tiniest bit. She picks up another shooter and clinks it against mine.
We down them and I’ve got to give her credit, she doesn’t flinch. After four shots in quick succession, she doesn’t even look tipsy. But I know they’ll kick in soon, soften some of the spiky edges that are jabbing at her.
