Chapter 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.

“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.