by Gina Azzi
“I’ll make sure you get home okay,” I tell her.
“This is becoming a habit,” she says, opting for her wine glass.
“I don’t mind it.” I lean back in my seat. Even though I shouldn’t be drinking heavily right at the start of the playoffs, there’s no way I’m leaving Rielle to drink on her own. Not tonight, not when she needs someone to step up and be there for her. When Pete passes, I order another beer and tell him to keep the shots coming.
“I’m sure you have better things to do.”
“Can’t think of one at the moment,” I reassure her. “So…” I drop my eyes to her arm again. As long as Rielle is beside me, I can remain calm. But there’s no way in hell I’m leaving her on her own without knowing the story behind the asshole who bruised her.
“So…” Worry washes over her face. She doesn’t want to talk and she most certainly doesn’t want to overshare. She doesn’t want to tell me things. Damn, I get it, I want to tell her. I get you.
Instead, I decide to confide in her about my predicament. “Let me get your opinion on something. If you had a friend, let’s call him Stan—”
“Stan?” she asks skeptically.
“Stan’s a nice name.”
She snorts. “Keep going.”
“Say Stan was in a bit of a pickle.”
“Where did you learn English?”
I laugh. “I excel at idiomatic expressions.”
She grins and relaxes a little. “Why is Stan in a pickle?”
I scrub my hand over my jawline. “Stan is caught between something he wants, something for his future, and his family and their expectations.”
Her expression slips and her eyes narrow. I pause for a second, thrown by her intensity. I clear my throat.
“Anyway, Stan needs to make an important decision. It’s one that will affect his career, his legacy so to speak. If he does it, it may hurt the only person in his family he truly cares about.”
“And he doesn’t know if he can live with that,” she says, the softest slur wrapping around her words. Understanding dawns in her expression and she purses her lips thoughtfully. Her mouth is like a rosebud and I wonder what her lips would taste like.
I take a sip of my beer instead. “What do you think he should do?”
“What are his options? His career and livelihood or his word and his heart?”
I nod, drawn to her. Her expression, filled with understanding and compassion, soothes me. She gets it. Without even knowing the whole story, my truth, she understands the anguish I’m battling. A calmness fills me and I lean back in my seat. “And, there’s one other option but it’s a little bit shady.”
She narrows her eyes. “How shady?”
“It would allow Stan to do both things, safeguard his future and fulfill a promise to his family member.”
“But?”
“He would have to enter into a deal, an arrangement, that’s complicated.”
“Complicated,” she murmurs. She tips her wine glass back and her eyes, dark and deep and burning, find mine over the rim.
“Illegal,” I amend.
She drains the glass and sets it back on the bar. “I see.”
“Do you?” I ask, hoping more than I should for her to really see.
She nods slowly.
“What should Stan do?” I press her for a response. I need an answer. One that comes from someone who isn’t me.
“Stan should do whatever it takes to survive. To physically make it but also to preserve his integrity. His word. He shouldn’t sacrifice everything he’s done nor should he compromise his name by reneging on a promise.”
“So”—I lick my lips, my ears suddenly ringing—“Stan may need to bend some rules?”
She picks up a shot glass. “I would.”
I grin, adoring her in this moment. “Me too.”
She throws back the tequila and wipes the back of her hand over her mouth. I don’t want to tell her to slow down but I also know she’s going to feel like shit in the morning. I gesture to Pete that we’re good for a bit.
“I’m starting to feel these,” Rielle says.
“I would imagine so.”
The corner of her mouth lifts. “And because I am, I’m going to tell you the truth. The reason I’m so torn up about my job isn’t just because of the job. I need this paycheck.”
Hope swells in my chest that she’s confiding in me, but I know I have to play it cool or she’ll clam back up. I force myself not to look at the bruises on her arm. “I get it. You have bills.”
She scoffs. “I have more than bills.”
“This is just a bump in the road, Ri. You’re going to find another job. In the meantime, I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, but I can help you out until you get back on your feet.” Hell, I can move her into one of my units if her rent is causing her so much stress.
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 un
inhibited, 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 just how much I let my guard down steamrolling me. “I’m really embarrassed. I swear, I don’t usually make a spectacle of myself like that.”
“Maybe you should do it more often,” he challenges.
I narrow my eyes at him. “What? You’re plastered all over social media singing back up to my Whitney. Claire sent me a video.” I gesture to my phone.
He smiles. “Did you see how hard we were laughing?”
I nod, unable to stop myself from smiling back.
“Maybe we both needed that last night. The goofiness and the forgetting.”
I swipe my tongue over my chapped lips. “Maybe.”
Torsten walks closer and takes a seat at the foot of my bed. He shifts his weight so he’s facing me. His expression is neutral but his eyes burn, curious and worried and devoid of judgement. “We need to talk, Ri.”
I frown and feign ignorance. “About what?”
He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and shows it to me.
I wince. The stupid eviction notice I never pulled off my door yesterday.
“This is the same type of notice as six weeks ago, isn’t it? The one you ripped off the door and said was a delivery?”
I work a swallow and nod slowly, my embarrassment hiking up to new levels of pure mortification.
“You got another one?”
I clear my throat and nod again, unable to meet his eyes.
“Hey.” He dips his head to catch my gaze. When I don’t move, he reaches out and hooks his finger under my chin, forcing me to look at him.
He’s calm and sincere. So damn thoughtful and genuine. His kindness makes my chest hurt and the feelings I’ve been burying for months begin to work their way to the surface. Over the past few months, Claire’s been wrapped up in Easton and his recovery. Indy’s been preoccupied with her pregnancy. Of course, I don’t blame my friends for focusing on the big changes in their own lives.
But how is Torsten recognizing all the pieces I’ve tried to hide? How is he, an acquaintance at best, more attuned to my personal struggles than my closest friends? The realization makes me shift uncomfortably. Am I slipping up that badly? Cracking deeply enough that anyone paying a little attention can see the ugliness? Or is it more than that? Is it Torsten?
“Talk to me, Rielle. Please. I know we don’t know each other that well but I swear to you, we’re more similar than you think. So tell me what’s going on because this”—he runs his fingertips over the bruises Stu made on my arm—“isn’t going to fucking happen again.”
I close my eyes, suddenly more overwhelmed than I was last night, rushing out of Stu’s office. “Torsten,” I say but my stomach interrupts the moment by grumbling loudly.
He drops his hand. “Come on. Let’s go get breakfast. You need a gallon of water, a carafe of coffee, greasy food, and carbs. I know a place not far from here that has killer pancakes. Then, we’ll talk. For real.” He fixes me with a hard look until I nod.
“For real,” I agree, swinging my legs to the side of my bed. The room spins and I take a moment for my vision to catch up to my movement. I groan as I force myself to stand.
Torsten snorts, grasping the underside of my arm and helping me to my feet. “I’m going to use your bathroom real quick. Take your time, Ri. We’re both battling brutal hangovers this morning.”
I shoot him a grateful look and try to pull myself together.
Since we’re carless, having taken an Uber to my place the night before, we walk to the restaurant. The cold air that whips around me wakes me up and helps ease the clanging in my head.
Torsten points to a little diner on the corner. “I know it doesn’t look like much but the pancakes are phenomenal.”
When he holds the door open for me, I slip inside the warm, cozy neighborhood diner.
“Nice game, Torsten.” The woman behind the counter waves.
“Thanks, Beth. Is here okay?” He points to a booth in the back.
“Wherever you want, hon. I’ll be right over with coffee.”
“Thanks.” Torsten hits her with his blinding smile and I swear, she swoons a little. Even though Beth looks old enough to be Torsten’s grandmother, I can tell she’s a little smitten with him.
Aren’t we all?
I slide into the booth across from him. Beth comes over moments later with mugs of hot coffee. Torsten and I order pancakes.
He leans back in his seat and studies me.
“What?” I ask, reaching my hand to my face. Do I have something in my teeth?
“What happened to you, Ri? No bullshit. I’m looking at you and while you’re as gorgeous as ever, I don’t really recognize the woman I’m staring at.”
Wow. No lead up there. “Are you always this blunt?”
“Call it like I see it.”
“You know we don’t really know each other that well, right?”
“I know it may seem that way. But, sweetheart, I know you a hell of a lot better than you think.”
I lean forward, the table cutting into my chest. Torsten’s eyes dip down to my cleavage before snapping back up to my eyes. “How do you figure that?”
He swallows and his thick fingers wrap around the handle of the coffee mug. “Because like recognizes like. I’ve been in a version of your shoes before.” He shakes his head, giving me a look I don’t under
stand. “Don’t forget I’m an old man compared to you.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not that old.”
“Almost thirty-eight,” he says it like he needs to remind me.
I shrug. I’ve dated two of my college professors who were well into their forties. Older guys don’t scare me off. “So, what do you think you know?”
“I know that you’re struggling, Ri. Financially, emotionally—you’re hurting.”
I take a gulp of my coffee, wincing when the hot brew burns my tongue.
“You’re going to find another job, Ri. But if you’re ripping eviction notices off your door two months in a row, that tells me you’re behind the eight ball.”
I bite my bottom lip as a line from our conversation last night floats through my mind. Idiomatic expressions.
“So, tell me about your bills. I know you don’t want help. I know you are a proud, fierce woman. And I admire it, Rielle. You’re independence is sexy as hell. But no one gets anywhere without a little help now and then. And it seems like you’re not reaching out for support in any aspect of your life. So now, I’m going to force you to take it. I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. Start talking.” He takes a swig of his coffee.
And I choke on mine because what. the. hell? Who does he think he is just ordering me to spill my guts? And why is my heart beating faster at the concern in his eyes? At the fact that he noticed and cares.
Torsten leans closer and presses a napkin into my hand as I continue to sputter. Beth drops off two water glasses and I chug mine. After a few moments, I get my breathing under control.
Then, I glare at Torsten. Partially in horror. Mostly in embarrassment. And maybe, just a teeny tiny bit, in gratitude. I consider lying but at the scowl on his face, I know he’ll see right through me. Clearly, hiding my secret isn’t doing me any good and there’s no dynamic to ruin with Torsten. It’s not like I can ruin a casual acquaintance with someone. So I clear my throat and challenge him. “Yeah? You’ve got an extra $470,000 lying around?”
