by Gina Azzi
I smile, feigning politeness when I really want to reach across the table, grab him by his collar, and demand to know every inappropriate time he touched, spoke to, or thought about my wife. The thought leaves me reeling because yes, Rielle is my wife. But God, she’s so much more than that. Over the past few weeks, she’s become my…everything. My sounding board, my advice-giver, my shoulder to lean on, my ride or freaking die. The little prick scared to make eye contact with me deserves a hell of a lot more than my fist to his face and it pains me that today, I can’t even do that. Because, playoffs.
But I can clap my hands when Josh is finished speaking, sit straighter in my seat, and chuckle. “It sounds like a great product. Really, it’s definitely something I would order at the bar. I like the direction you’re going in too. The athletic component, the moody, gritty, masculine vibe. I wish I could say yes to the endorsement opportunity.”
Josh’s mouth opens and closes twice before he sputters, “What do you mean? Why can’t you sign on? Your agent and lawyer didn’t see any type of conflict of interest.”
“It’s personal.” I glare at Stu Sanders, narrowing my eyes. “I believe my wife used to work for you, under Stu over here.”
Stu visibly pales, his eyes nearly falling out of his head.
I lean closer, my voice quiet, laced with all the threats I’m not at liberty to openly throw at him. “Name Rielle Carter ring a bell?”
He drops his head and moves to stand from his chair.
“Sit back down,” I bellow, my restraint snapping.
“Now, now,” Josh mutters, stepping toward the conference table with his hands raised. “I’m sure there’s some kind of misunderstanding—”
“Why don’t you tell your boss, all the men in this room, how there wasn’t a misunderstanding. How you took advantage of my wife’s work ethic for months before sexually assaulting her.” I keep my eyes trained on Stu for a long moment. The atmosphere in the room drops to freezing, everyone around the conference table shifting uncomfortably in their chairs. Good. They should be uncomfortable. I glance around the table. “Unless you all knew about it and—”
“No, no. God, no. Of course not.” Josh shakes his head, looking truly disturbed at my words. “Stu?”
Stu’s hands are shaking and he looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest, waiting.
He licks his cracked lips nervously, his beady eyes almost tearing up.
I lift my eyebrows. We’re fucking waiting, Stu.
“I didn’t mean—” he starts.
I frown.
“I thought Rielle—”
“Try again,” I snap.
“I’m sorry for putting my hands on Rielle,” he mumbles.
“My wife.”
“Your wife,” he repeats, his eyes drawn to the carpet.
“And...?” I prompt.
“I never should have said the things I said to her or done the things I did.” His shoulders slump and I want to kick him in the balls so hard, they’ll come up out of his mouth.
My hands clench into fists as I try to control my accelerated breathing. Just hearing him say those words, imagining the things he said and did to Rielle, has me seeing red.
I glare at Josh who, thankfully, can read a room a hell of a lot better than Stu.
“We’ll be launching an investigation into Stu Sanders’ relationship—”
I clear my throat harshly.
Josh amends his statement, “treatment of Ms. Carter.”
“Mrs. Hansen,” I correct. “Immediately.”
Josh nods as Stu shuffles around nervously, unsure whether to stay or go. What a dick.
I stand from my chair. “Well, gentlemen, it was nice to meet all of you today. Too bad it couldn’t be under more pleasant circumstances. As a result of that man’s”—I point to Stu—“disgusting, revolting, not to mention illegal actions, I take great pleasure in letting you know that no members of the Hawks franchise will be signing any endorsement deal with your marketing firm, to represent Saint or any other product you have. What happens next, regarding the legal and professional actions taken against Stu, will determine just how much I share this story with other athletes, both in hockey and in other sports. Thank you for your time.” I stride to the conference room door, keeping my head straight ahead. Right before I reach the handle, I snap my fingers and turn back to the room. “Oh and since Rielle was fired for not sleeping with Stu, she needs a letter of recommendation. A glowing one that highlights her more than proficient qualities and high standards of professionalism while working here.”
Josh clears his throat, glaring directly at Stu. “I’ll take care of it personally. I’ll email it today.”
“Glad to hear it.” I nod once and push out of the office.
I wave to the receptionist as I pass by her desk, smile politely to a man I pass on the way to the elevators, and head to my SUV.
Once I’m behind the wheel, I let out a deep breath and pull my ride to the front of the building where I can get a clear view on who’s coming and going.
Not twenty minutes later, a red-faced Stu Sanders pushes out into the daylight, carrying a box with a potted plant and some binders.
Then, I laugh. I laugh until I cry because it feels so fucking good.
“You look sexy rocking my number, sweetheart,” I tell Ri as I get ready to head to the arena.
She laughs, shakes her ass, and waves her phone in the air. “You’re never going to believe what happened!” Her black eyes are glittering and her smile is wide. She’s practically glowing with delight.
“What?”
“Stu was fired! Torsten, Hendrix fired him. The CEO, Josh, called me personally to apologize and sent me over an amazing letter of recommendation.” She whoops, throwing her arms out wide. “Can you believe it?”
I stand from zipping up my bag and walk to her, wrapping my arms around her waist and threading them at the base of her spine. “That’s incredible, Ri. That piece of shit deserves more than just being fired.”
“I know. I’m still trying to figure out how the hell Hendrix even learned about it. Maybe other women came forward? I should have come forward… I didn’t even think to press charges.” She worries her bottom lip between her teeth and I tug her closer, wrapping my arms around her shoulders in a hug.
“You had a lot going on, babe. Trying to survive the way you were isn’t easy. At least you know he’s out of a job. I can check around and see what legal action is being taken against him. If you want, you can file something now. We can go to the station together.” I glance down at her.
She’s chewing her lip raw. I grasp her chin until she releases her lip, her big eyes coming up to meet mine. She hesitates and I press a kiss to her forehead. Slowly, she nods. “You’ll really come with me?”
Her worry guts me and I pull her closer. “Of course I will, baby. I’m one hundred percent behind whatever you want to do. But I should tell you that Hendrix offered me an endorsement deal.”
She jerks back, stepping away from me. “They did?”
“I met with Josh and his team today.”
“Was Stu there?”
I growl at hearing his name on her lips. My hands clench into fists and my molars grind together, recalling his beady eyes and the fear that flared in them when he realized who the hell I am and my connection to Rielle.
Realization dawns in her expression and she gasps. “It was you. You got him fired.”
I reach for her again, some of the fury racing through me quieting once my skin connects with hers.
She shakes her head in disbelief. “You turned down an endorsement deal? For me? Now, when you’re about to retire and should be diversifying your portfolio?”
“Sweetheart, when are you going to realize I’d do anything for you? Turning down a deal is nothing when it comes to your safety. Your well-being. Of any woman’s well-being.”
Her hands find my shoulders and she presses u
p onto her tippy toes to brush her lips against mine. Immediately, I’m dragged under her spell. My hands settle on her hips as I deepen our connection. Will I ever get enough of this woman? God, I hope not.
When she pulls back, she looks at me in awe, like I did something worth a damn. Her reverence fills me with pride and a possessiveness; a desire to always protect her streaks through me.
“Thank you, Torsten.”
I brush my thumb along her cheekbone. “Don’t thank me, sweetheart. Just know that you’re safe, he’s gone, and you have a letter of recommendation. I feel better that you’re here, with me, where I can keep an eye on things.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Keep an eye on things?”
I chuckle. “On you, Ri. Keep an eye on you. Now, I’ve gotta get to the arena. See you at the game?”
She rolls her eyes. “As if I’d miss it.”
I grin, press a light kiss to the corner of her mouth, and shoulder my bag.
When I arrive at the arena, I spend an extra minute in the car, watching other people walk toward the place that’s been home to me for nearly two decades. I’ve spent more hours in this place than I have in my own home.
It’s a bittersweet feeling, knowing that in a handful of weeks, I’ll no longer enter it as a Hawks player. I climb from my SUV and head inside. For the second round, we’re facing off against the New York Sharks. Despite their fierce competition, a few of the Sharks used to play for the Hawks, including Austin’s brother-in-law, Mike. It must make things a little awkward around the Merrick family dining table, but right now, I need to get my head on straight and prepare for the game.
I run through all of my usual pre-game traditions but add a new one. I take an extra moment to rattle the cuff links Rielle bought me in my palm before placing them on the top shelf of my locker.
When I glide onto the ice, I glance to the WAGs box until my eyes find Rielle’s. She’s staring straight at me, a goofy grin on her face. She blows me a kiss and I smile, winking at her. A few of the women sitting near her practically swoon and Claire rolls her eyes.
But I know Ri didn’t do it for show. She’s rooting for me, for the team, for us.
A sense of pride and a swell of peace washes over me as I line up for the face-off. I vow to make each second on the ice count. But my play is cut short. We’re only four minutes into the game when I collide with the Shark’s center and hear my shoulder pop. Pain rips through my arm. The cool air rushes past my visor as I go down. My knee connects with the ice and it’s like landing on a grenade. I feel the vibrations ricochet throughout my body. My torso twists as I throw my good arm out in an attempt to slow my fall. But it’s too late. My head bounces off the ice, my body goes slack, and pain sears through me.
A flash of color. A cool breeze. A loud yell.
Then, darkness.
15
Rielle
“Don’t move it. Here, I got you,” I chatter on and on, gently guiding Torsten as we maneuver into the penthouse.
My heart is still galloping and I can’t stop the adrenaline that pumps in my temples. Seeing him go down tonight was the most horrible thing I’ve ever witnessed. Helplessness gripped me as I leapt to my feet, my heart in my throat, my knees weak, my legs shaking. A buzzing sound rung in my ears and if it wasn’t for Claire and Indy pulling me out of the box, I may have passed out right there.
Fortunately, the fall looked a lot worse than it was. Torsten came to only seconds after blacking out. He had a dislocated shoulder, which the doctor was able to pop back in, a beat-up knee which is causing him some pain, and a mild concussion. But the doctor cleared him to come home, so here we are. Me, propping Torsten up and chatting a million miles a minute to eat up the silence that has ensued since the moment I walked into the trainer’s room and saw Torsten laid out on the table.
His eyes are stormy, his mouth twisted in pain and anger, his mind somewhere else entirely. For the first time since we’ve entered into our arrangement, I can’t get a word out of him. He’s looking through me instead of at me. Of course, the logical part of my brain recognizes that he’s in physical pain. Not to mention, the emotional distress of knowing that tonight was most likely his last game as an NHL player. But the emotional side of me can’t help but worry that something just fundamentally shifted.
“Here we are.” I ease him down onto the couch. Bending to pick up his leg so I can prop it on the coffee table, he swats at me.
“Leave it. I’m not an invalid.”
“I know that. I’m just trying to help you,” I say in the most even voice I can manage. Images of him going down replay in my mind and with every blink, I recall more details. The unnatural twist of his body, the shocked faces of the crowd, the deafening silence of thousands of people holding their breaths in unison. The arena felt suffocating and I couldn’t wait to come home with Torsten but now that we’re here, my nerves are scattered.
I watch him struggle to lift his leg on his own and back away slowly to gather ice packs from the kitchen. When I return, Torsten gives me a smirk and glances at his leg, which is neatly stacked on the coffee table.
“Here’s some ice.”
“Thanks,” he mutters, taking the wrapped packs and bag from me and placing them where he needs to.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He lifts an eyebrow at me, his expression carefully neutral. But his eyes swirl and churn, angry and hurting and glinting with something I’ve never seen before. “What do you think?”
I bite my lip and shake my head.
Torsten mutters out a string of colorful language and opens his hand for mine. When I place my hand in his, he tugs until I’m seated next to him on the couch.
“I’m sorry, Ri. Look, I’m fucking pissed right now. It has nothing to do with you. I’m just—fuck!” He picks up the remote control and slings it across the room. It bounces twice on the floor before skittering to a stop near the step up to the kitchen. “I can’t believe that’s how my fucking career ends. That pathetic, garbage play. Dropping like that and blacking out like a fucking pussy. I’m angry. And I’m…I’m heartbroken.”
“I’m sorry, Torst.” I squeeze his hand to let him know I’m here, that I’m listening.
He heaves out a sigh. “I just want to sit here and watch shitty TV.”
“Are you hungry?”
He shakes his head.
“Do you want some company?” I ask pathetically, desperate for him to say yes. Even though he might want some time on his own, the thought of leaving him alone to hurt by himself aches.
He shifts his weight so he can wrap his arm around my shoulders.
I immediately curl into his side, my palm on his chest, my head on his good shoulder. I lean up and press a kiss to his cheek. “I’m just going to get the remote control. Don’t move.”
He groans and tosses his head back but a smirk glances off his mouth.
“Too soon?” I guess, hopping from the couch to grab the remote.
“Get your ass back here, Ri.” He takes the remote from my hand as I settle back beside him. He turns on the TV. “Schitt’s Creek?”
“Duh.” It’s pretty much become our nightly staple. After sex, I mean.
He snorts and pulls me closer. I go willingly, breathing in the scent of him, sweat and man and a hint of body wash. His fingers rake through my hair, grazing lazily against my back. I sink deeper into his side, my eyes glued to the television.
Each of his inhales draws me closer and I sit perfectly still, aware of every shift he makes. The air around us intensifies, layers of unspoken words, desperate thoughts, and needy desires, building like the pressure in a volcano. Torsten’s fingers stroke lower, his hand wrapping around the side of my body, splaying wide along my rib cage.
I suck my stomach in, feeling the boldness in his touch. Am I what he needs right now? Does he crave a distraction? A release?
Is it because of the devasting blows he took tonight? Both physically and mentally? Or is it more than tha
t? Is it because even though we never intended to, we’re becoming a “we,” and right now, I can soothe some of his hurt?
I turn more into him, my breasts skimming against his chest. He inhales sharply and turns his face to mine, his eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. The anguish lining his face, the bitterness in the clench of his jaw, has my hand sliding up his chest, around his neck, and to the side of his face. His eyes close and his nostrils flare.
He turns his face into my touch and drags his lips over my palm. “Rielle,” he murmurs. I love the way my name sounds when he says it, but right now, I can’t make out any of the emotions twisted in his tone.
All I know is he’s hurting and it’s making me ache.
He needs comfort and I want nothing more than to provide it.
He’s my husband and I’m his wife.
I turn and get my knees underneath me, gingerly swinging a leg over his torso until I’m straddling his hips. Careful to keep my weight off of his injuries, I grip his face in my hands and look into his eyes.
“Tell me what you want, Torst. Don’t think, just say it,” I throw one of his favorite lines back at him and a spark of recognition flares in his irises.
“You,” he murmurs. “Fuck, I need you, Ri.”
I slide my hands down until they’re flat against his pecs. His muscles ripple under my touch and the fact that this man is thirty-eight and has the body of a twenty-two-year-old, wisdom of a septuagenarian, and the overflowing, brimming heart of a child isn’t lost on me. He’s the best of every season of life, all rolled into one devastating man.
A spark gleams in his eyes as I lower my head to his and press our lips together. Torsten sighs, his one hand cupping my cheek, the other resting on my hip, holding me steady as I press against him and deepen our connection.
His tongue slips inside my mouth and I moan, all the delicious sensations from our nights together culminating in this moment. There’s an added layer of trust between us that makes every touch deeper, each kiss sweeter. His hand threads through my hair as he tries to sit up and take control of the kiss.
