by Gina Azzi
I enjoyed it more than I ever admitted. I liked being on the other side of the lens, the person capturing the emotions instead of having them ripple across my face, for all to see. There was a secrecy to it, a safety I reveled in. I took photography courses all through university and as I scroll through the folder, I note where my skill level improved, where I began experimenting more, where my passion just started to peak through.
But then I graduated, landed a role at Hendrix, and lost myself for nearly a year.
I click on a search engine and check out some photography studios in Boston, my eyes nearly falling out of my head at the price of courses, not to mention the cost of a camera. A quick flash of Torsten’s credit card whips through my mind but I shut that idea down.
Marrying Torsten is a fresh start. It’s a chance to get back on my feet, to move forward with my life. It’s not an opportunity to find myself at his expense. It’s not an invitation to take advantage of his generosity. Or twist his friendship into a relationship that will never last, that will leave us both hurting.
I just need to remember that.
12
Torsten
“Hey Bill,” I answer the phone, pressing my finger into my ear so I can hear him better. “We’re just about to take off.” The team’s already on the plane and we’re all a little desperate to head back to Boston with another win under our belts. Our second game was a tough loss but we’re still leading the series 3-2.
“Hi, Torsten. Oh, okay. This will only take a second then. I know where you stand regarding next season but since you haven’t formally put out a public statement yet, you’re still getting endorsement offers. Autumn just called me”—he mentions my agent who I really need to check in with—“about a vodka deal. The marketing company is making a big push for athletic endorsements, and you’re at the top of their list.”
“What’s the brand?” I ask, grinning my thanks to the stewardess who places a tea in my hand.
“Saint.”
“Never heard of it.” I blow on the hot tea.
“They’re relatively new. They’re working with Hendrix Marketing and since it’s a Boston-based—”
“Hendrix?” I clarify. It can’t be the same Hendrix that Rielle used to work for, could it?
“Yep. Hendrix Marketing, located downtown.”
“Get me their info.”
“You’re serious?” Bill sounds surprised. “I didn’t expect you to be interested in a vodka endorsement but I guess with the season coming to an end, it is a good time to diversify your portfolio.”
“I’m not taking the deal. No matter what they offer, the answer is no. But I want to be the one to tell them that. Get me the heads of the company and a guy named Stu’s contact info.”
“This sounds personal, Torst.”
I take another sip of my tea, relaxing back into my seat. “It’s about as personal as it could get, Bill. We’re about to take-off. Call you this week?”
“Sure thing. I’ll send you the contact information as soon as I have it.”
“Great. Thanks.” I hang up the phone and close my eyes.
Hendrix Marketing and specifically Stu, Rielle’s ex-boss, are going to learn firsthand why the vodka company and any other brand they’re promoting won’t have a Hawks player endorsing shit. They messed with the wrong woman, and by extension, the wrong man.
I close my eyes and sleep soundly until we touch down in Boston.
It’s sunny, cold, and early when I step through the door of my apartment, balancing a tray of Starbucks on my palm.
I place the tray on the kitchen island, drop my things in the living room, and grin at Rielle’s random belongings scattered throughout the room. A pair of boots next to the living room couch. Sunglasses on the console table. An earmarked paperback of Little Women next to the sink. She’s settling into her new life. I rub my hands together and check the time. It’s before 6 a.m. and I know Rielle won’t be up for a while. Even though I should be exhausted after playing two tough games in three days, I’m too restless to go back to sleep. Instead, I decide to cook Rielle breakfast.
Isn’t that something good husbands do? Cook?
Besides, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a woman in my apartment that I genuinely want to cook for. Grinning to myself, I pull out some ingredients, grateful Missy, my housekeeper, is still ordering the groceries. I doubt Rielle would know how much I like smoked salmon. I whip up scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, piling the combination on top of thick slices of toast. Farmor used to make this for me after my early morning hockey practices. Today, I add my own twist: sliced avocado.
Rielle stumbles into the kitchen fifteen minutes later, her eyes still bleary with sleep and her hair snaking down her back in wild waves. She’s so clearly not a morning person and yet, seeing her propped up against the refrigerator, tugging on the hem of the T-shirt that hits her mid-thigh, makes me smile.
“Morning, sunshine.” I raise a Starbucks cup to my mouth and nudge the second one closer to her.
“Morning, Torst,” she replies, picking up the cup. Her eyes widen, the sleep clearing, when she reads the label. “A caramel macchiato? How’d you know?”
I chuckle, not willing to divulge my sources, aka Claire. “You hungry?”
She takes in the two plates and a little line forms between her eyebrows. “You didn’t have to cook breakfast.”
“I wanted to. We can go out for lunch or dinner or something,” I tack on, knowing I promised we’d actually leave the penthouse and do something together.
Rielle shakes her head. “This is perfect.” She slips onto a barstool and I push the plate closer to her.
“Hope you like smoked salmon.” I take the seat next to hers.
She nods and takes a bite, moaning as she chews. “This is delicious. Thank you. What time did you get in? I didn’t even hear you.”
“Not that long ago. How was your last few days here?” I take a bite of my sandwich, my eyes closing as I’m transported back to Farmor’s kitchen and my childhood. The closer we get to summer, to seeing Farmor, to saying goodbye, the more my childhood memories rush back.
“Everything’s good. I’ve applied for some jobs, reached out to some alumni at my university to check out positions. I should be able to line up a few interviews, even without a recommendation letter.”
“And you’re set on marketing?”
She glances up, her eyebrows pulling together. “What do you mean?”
I shrug. “You can do anything you want, Ri. I’ve heard you’re pretty much a marketing guru—”
She snorts and tucks her hair behind her ears.
“But just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean it’s your passion, you know?”
She nods slowly. “You think I should do something else?”
“I think you should explore any option you have interest in and see what you enjoy most. Part of this”—I gesture between us—“is you not having to stay in some unfulfilling job because you need the paycheck. Even though you’re being crazy stubborn about the paycheck part.”
She snickers and meets my eyes with a sheepish expression on her face. “A girl Claire and I went to school with is a cocktail waitress at Jolene’s. She’s having surgery and needs to take two weeks off and since they’re short-staffed, her boss agreed to let me pick up her shifts since she knows me too. So…” She grins.
I laugh. “You have a short-term cocktail waitressing gig?”
She nods.
“And you feel better, knowing you’re earning some money?” I surmise.
She nods again, twirling a strand of her hair around her fingers.
“Okay,” I say, not admitting I’d rather she just use the freaking credit card in her wallet. But I get that she wants to pay her own way, hell, I even admire it. I take another bite of my sandwich, turning thoughts over in my mind. “But Ri—don’t think, just answer—what’s your dream job?”
Her eyes flash, diamonds and coal. “Photog
raphy.”
I straighten, startled by her response. Not because I don’t see her behind a camera lens, but part of me didn’t expect her to respond so candidly. To be so forthcoming.
She chuckles at my expression. “I took a bunch of courses in college. All electives but I loved them. I loved the assignments and learning different techniques, especially with regards to lighting. My senior year, my class got to set up photoshoots for different ‘clients.’ It was an opportunity to blend everything I learned through marketing with photography. How to create a set or find a location that would give the desirous effect. We got to weigh in on wardrobe.” Her expression takes on a dreamy look, as if she’s recalling the assignment. “It was a lot of fun,” she says wistfully.
“Who were your clients?”
She laughs, swiping up her coffee cup. It dangles from her fingers like a prop as she moves her hands, becoming more animated. “A newly engaged couple, a little girl’s birthday photos, and a family of five wanted just normal, lifestyle photos. Everyone in the class submitted a proposal with their ideas for the shoots and the clients each chose two to three sessions to attend. It was a lot of fun.”
“Who did you shoot?” I cross my elbows on the island and lean closer, drawn to this version of Rielle. The uninhibited, honest, excited woman who often hides behind a sly grin and quick eyes.
“The family of five.” She grins. “The kids were adorable. We totally had a massive tantrum from the toddler, a little girl named Grace.” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “Anyway, they were so happy with how the photos turned out. Two months later, the woman, Chantelle, called me. Her sister was getting married that weekend in a small ceremony and the photographer had come down with mono.” She wrinkles her nose.
My mouth pops open, seeing where this is going. “They asked you to photograph the wedding?”
She nods and then laughter drops from her mouth. A delighted, playful laugh. Her eyes crinkle at the corners and right now, with no makeup on and in a threadbare T-shirt, she looks more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her. “God, Torst, it was the best. I mean, the bride and groom were so gracious of my inexperience, but I had the best day. It’s really something, you know, seeing people be so honest with their emotions. So naked and vulnerable.” She bites the corner of her mouth, her expression almost melancholy before she blinks and it clears. “Anyway, their pictures turned out better than I expected and I think we were all a little relieved.”
“You never considered exploring it further? Photography as a career? Having your own business?” I press, polishing off my sandwich.
Rielle shrugs. “The second I was offered the job at Hendrix, any thoughts about anything flew out the window. I just wanted to pay back Jerry Jensen. To not be drowning in debt.”
“And now, you’re not,” I remind her.
She laughs. “We’ll see. I checked out some courses this week—”
“You did?” A buzz zips through my chest. I love seeing Rielle excited about something, interested and eager. It’s a good look on anyone but on her, it’s mesmerizing.
“Yeah.” She shakes her head, trying to play it casual. But I see the spark in her eyes. “They’re expensive. Not to mention the cost of a camera.” She shrugs. “We’ll see how well the tips are at Jolene’s over the next two weeks.”
I snicker, knowing she meant it as a joke. But already, I’m turning over ideas of how to get a camera in her hands without her feeling weird about it. Knowing this conversation is coming to an end and I can’t press her anymore this morning, I change the topic.
“Hey, will you come to my game tomorrow?” I ask. “To advance to the next round, it’s best of seven. We’re up three to two.”
“I know.” She snorts, shooting me a strange look. “You’re my husband, Torsten. I’ve been following the playoffs.”
I dip my head, feeling lighter than I have since our wedding night. I wasn’t sure how Rielle and I would manage the intertwining of our lives but right now, it seems natural. “Will you come?”
“I gotta show you something.” She scoots from the barstool and leaves the kitchen without answering.
I lean back in my seat and wait for her to return.
When she does, my breath catches and my throat dries. Rielle is rocking my jersey. She does a little twirl and seeing her in my number, with my name stamped across her shoulder blades, affects me on a level I wasn’t prepared for. I like seeing her rock my number, wearing my name. I grin. “You look good in my number, sweetheart.”
She does a little shimmy that causes us both to laugh.
“Of course I’m coming to your game,” she says.
We finish our breakfast and clear off the table together, chatting about regular, normal things. Mostly, our friends. Easton’s recovery and Claire’s new design business. Indy’s pregnancy and how Noah’s going to be a crazy helicopter dad.
It’s easygoing. Normal. It’s something most couples take for granted every day. But eating breakfast with someone whose company I enjoy is nothing to take for granted. It’s the best morning I’ve had in a long time. I smile at Rielle and she grins back and something between us shifts. We share a moment that’s so much larger than this instant because it’s as if we come to a silent understanding. We’re friends, we care about each other’s best interests, and right now, that’s more than enough.
“She looks good in that number,” East bangs his fist against my shoulder in the locker room.
I snicker. “She sitting with Claire?”
He nods. “Everyone is desperate for the details on your wedding, you know? It’s not every day everyone’s favorite flirt ties the knot.”
I shrug. Across the locker room, James watches me carefully. When I meet his eyes, he fixes me with a look. One that says don’t mess this up. But what no one knows is I have no desire to mess things up with Rielle. Even though a part of me hoped our relationship would evolve into something deeper, right now, I’ll take her any way I can get her. And if that’s just friendship, then I’m holding on to that with both hands.
We take the ice and I revel in the moment, now savoring every second of play since I know my time is just about up. It’s bittersweet and nostalgic and hopeful all at once. I’ve seen players hang up their skates with misery etched in the lines of their faces and I’ve watched players hang up their skates with their heads turned to the future, to creating what comes next. I’d rather be the latter and it’s definitely a conscious choice, one I have to strive for. Because when I pass the puck to Noah and he makes the first goal of the game, the crowd rushes to their feet. The cheers and noise that ring out is deafening. It’s hard to let all that notoriety go after so long. I scan the crowd and when I find Rielle, sitting with the wives and girlfriends, cheering my name and wearing my number, some of the pain eases.
I choose the future, even if it seems more uncertain than an NHL career.
13
Rielle
The following weeks pass quickly as Torsten and I settle into our new lives. The Hawks advance to the second round of playoffs and I show up to each of Torsten’s home games wearing his jersey with pride. When he’s out of town, I pick up extra shifts at Jolene’s, socking away any money I can for one of the photography courses I’ve been researching. My life looks entirely different than it did a handful of weeks ago but if I’m being honest, I’m so much happier.
It’s not the penthouse or the financial safety net either. It’s Torsten. The way he fills the space with warmth and energy. The way his eyes sometimes smolder when I catch him looking at me. The way he asks about my career plans with genuine interest. I’ve always known him to be friendly, easygoing, and engaging. But now, I crave the way his eyes find mine when he’s on the rink and I’m in the stands. I love the way he smiles at me when I enter the kitchen in the morning. I look forward to curling up next to him on the couch and watching Netflix before bed.
I’m a little enamored with my husband and after the line I drew in the sand, I have n
o idea how to cross it. I don’t want to rock the boat when things between Torsten and me are going so well. But I also don’t know how to control the feelings that wash over me when he enters a room, the fantasies of him crawling up my naked body that blare in my mind when he darts out of his bedroom with only a towel around his waist. I’ve always known marrying Torsten would be dangerous for my heart, but the more time I spend with the Hawks’ reformed bachelor, the more I wonder if I’m hurting us both by holding back from what could be a really incredible relationship. A real marriage.
“Hey Ri, you working tomorrow night?” he asks when I enter the kitchen, my purse already over my shoulder.
“Nope.” I grin at him. “Tonight is actually my last shift because my friend is coming back to work. But the manager added me to a list in case they ever need someone to cover a shift.”
“That’s pretty cool.” He leans back against the countertop. Sweatpants ride low on his hips and the ridges of his abs are visible through the thin material of the tank top he’s rocking. His biceps bulge as he crosses his arms over his chest and I think, not for the first time, how damn sexy he is.
“Huh?” I ask, bringing my eyes back to his.
He smirks at me, a knowing glint in his eyes. He shifts his weight to make his muscles pop even more and I feel the blush that works up my cheeks. He totally caught me checking him out. But, I mean, really, how could I not when all that delicious muscle and strength is just right there, on full display?
Torsten’s eyes twinkle. “I was asking if you wanted to grab drinks with the group tomorrow at Taps? It’s going to be very laidback but the team is insisting…”
“On?” I furrow my brow. What the hell are we even talking about?
Torsten’s grin widens. “My sweet wife, tomorrow this hunky specimen of pure male”—he rolls his hand down his body, which I drink in appreciatively—“turns thirty-eight.”
