The Sweet Talker (Boston Hawks Hockey #1) - Gina Azzi Page 0,52

Second, Jace had it coming, he’s had it coming for years, and I’m just the first who decided to do something about his incessant chirping. For a player who rarely sees the ice, he should watch his words. Austin slaps me on the back and I don’t miss the wariness in his expression.

“He had it coming,” I say by way of explanation.

“Scotch!” Coach Phillips bellows, his look incredulous.

The ref tosses me in the penalty box for five minutes.

“Damn,” I mutter, skating to the box and jumping in. I’m an idiot. Even though I don’t regret, not for one second, punching Edwards, I do regret that my outburst let the team down.

I swear, running a hand over my face. My bad mood darkens the longer I sit out of play and watch my team carry on with one man down. The second my time is up, I throw myself back in the game and play hard. Adrenaline burns in my veins, my head throbs, and a thinly veiled coat of anger tinges everything in my vision.

We win the game, which marginally improves my mood.

“What the hell happened out there?” Austin asks as we file out of the visitors’ locker room and head for the team bus.

I shake my head. “He mouthed off.”

“So?”

“So.” I glare at my friend. “He said a bunch of shit about Indy and—”

“Indy,” Austin cuts me off, his eyes widening. “What the hell is going on with you and my little cousin, Scotch?”

I stride past him, not caring that I’m being a douche. “Absolutely nothing,” I holler over my shoulder.

That night, I don’t join the team for drinks. I’m not in the mood for conversation and noise and puck bunnies with skintight jeans and too much eyeliner.

Instead, I rinse off in the shower, order room service, and channel surf for a movie.

My phone buzzes and I pause, glancing at where it sits in the center of the bed. It’s Indy, I know it is. There’s no way she would have missed hearing about my scrape with Edwards. Hell, there’s a good chance she caught it on ESPN.

Sighing, I pick up the phone.

More messages populate my screen as I sit and contemplate what to tell her. What to do.

Indy: Hey, you okay?

Indy: What happened with Jace?

Indy: Congrats on the win. You looked great out there.

Indy: I’m still at this department dinner. Call you when I get home.

I throw down my phone and don’t bother to respond. Later, when my phone buzzes on my nightstand and the screen lights up with Indy’s name, I don’t answer.

Tonight, I put my feelings for Indy before the best interest of my team. Before my brother’s career. I need to make every second on the ice count. I can’t waste time fighting nobodies like Edwards. I can’t spend every second twisted up over Indiana Merrick. Not when we don’t even have a future. Not when she’ll always be out of my league.

I toss and turn all night.

My alarm sounds early and I ignore the two missed calls and messages from Indy asking if I’m okay. Instead, I get up, get dressed, and shoulder my bag. I single onto the team bus and stare out the window, tuning out the chatter of my teammates, as we make our way to the airport. I ignore Torsten’s hard looks, blow off Austin’s questions, and pop in my earbuds.

When we land in Boston, I head straight to my home and throw myself into my bed for a long sleep. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and while I know I have a lot to be thankful for, I’m not feeling much gratitude at the moment.

Because tomorrow, I need to let Indy go. I need to make sure she understands that we broke our own rules, that we’re making things between us more than what they should be. I need to cut her loose and wish her well and watch as she moves on, dating and flirting with men who aren’t me.

And I need to fucking smile and nod and act like I’m not bleeding out inside.

I close my eyes and am relieved when sleep claims me.

21

Indy

Thanksgiving is hands-down my favorite holiday. Most people choose Christmas but I love Thanksgiving. I like the gratitude underlining it, I like the gatherings, and I really love yams with marshmallows, pumpkin pie, and stuffing.

Plus, being in New England this time of year adds to the allure of the holiday. It’s beautiful. Really beautiful. The kind of beauty you see on postcards and wonder if it’s