The Sweet Talker (Boston Hawks Hockey #1) - Gina Azzi Page 0,19
a patriarchal society while also exposing my students to conducting field research.
A strange sense of excitement rolls through me as I fill a spreadsheet with logistical information. It feels like my entire outlook has shifted in the past twenty-four hours. Somewhere in between watching Claire get ready for the night and now, I’ve decided that I’m tired of just being Indiana “checks-all-the-boxes, does-all-the-right-things-in-the-right-order” Merrick.
I don’t want to hide behind my laptop and inside my cozy apartment when my cousins are out in the city, meeting people and mingling.
Flirting with Noah, noting the way his lips turned up as if they were grinning of their own accord when I spoke, and the way his eyes shone as they peered into mine was intoxicating. Joking around with Torsten and Panda smudged the lines around my insecurities until I felt accepted, a part of the group sitting around the bar last night, taking shots. Going home with Noah and waking up this morning, sore from delicious sex, and hungover from a night filled with fun, was eye-opening. Exhilarating. Exciting with a ton of possible outcomes I don’t know the answers to.
Chewing the corner of my lip, I take a sip of my tea and lean back in my chair. Why can’t I be an impactful professor and have a full social calendar? Why can’t I conduct research, write articles, publish, and do drinks in the city followed by hot sex?
As the realization that I’m an adult, capable of making choices and decisions about my life, sinks in, I grin. For the first time ever, I have a salary. I have my dream job. I have a full, blank canvas ahead of me, waiting to be painted. Don’t I want to decorate it with as much color, as many experiences, as possible?
Hell yeah, I do.
I open a new tab on my browser. The cursor blinks in the search engine as I type the name Noah Scotch.
When the page populates, a thrill rushes down my spine. Sure, there are photos of Noah with Courtney and other gorgeous women. But in all of them, his smile is the same. He’s still the nice guy from my teenage years. He’s still someone I can trust and have some fun with.
So, what’s stopping us from having a little fun while we both focus on our dream careers?
By the time I crawl into bed, it’s after midnight but I’m not tired.
For the first time in years, my future looks like a question mark.
And I’ve never been so excited for the unknown that awaits.
8
Noah
The team isn’t gelling the way we should, especially not before our season opener. With East in rehab, a new guy, Sims, is filling in for him.
Austin, Easton, and I have played hockey together for so many years that our performance on the ice is natural. It’s so effortless that sometimes, I don’t have to think about it. I know that when I hit the puck to the right, my brother will be there. I know, without looking, that Austin has my back. Our rhythm has been honed from years of practice and hundreds of games working out kinks and improving.
With Sims, our grace is nonexistent, messing up our entire offensive line.
“Come on!” Austin hollers, aggravated when Sims misses the puck and gets slammed into the boards.
Sims shakes his head, skating away to pull himself together.
We’ve been at it all week, grueling practices that end with the entire team pissed off. Part of me feels for Sims. It isn’t easy filling Easton’s skates and being on the receiving end of Austin’s frustration. But another part of me can’t worry too much. It’s messed up but I don’t want Sims to settle in too easily. In ten weeks, my brother will be back and I want his position to still be his when he’s out of rehab.
“Again!” Austin shouts and the team resumes our positions.
We run through the drill three more times until Coach Phillips calls practice. The energy in the locker room is depleted, team morale at an all-time low. I take a shower and dress quickly, just wanting to get out of the arena and put this shitty practice behind me.
“Hey.” Torsten appears at my side as I close my locker door.
“What’s up?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Want to grab lunch?”
“Yeah, sure,” I agree, my stomach growling. As much as I want to get out of the arena, I don’t really want to go home to my empty space and dwell on the season.