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

May, Claire’s been freelancing but the work hasn’t been steady. In fact, it’s been so unreliable that she moved back home with my aunt and uncle, which pains her on a cellular level.

She widens her baby blues at me and I groan, dragging myself to stand. But inside, a thrill shoots down my spine. It’s been ages since I’ve had a proper girls’ night with Claire. My cousin is fun, outgoing, and the life of the party. She’s also right. I do need to put myself out there and make some new friends, meet some new people, and socialize like a normal twenty-something.

For the past eight years, school was my entire life. Every semester, I stacked my course load. I spent my summers completing summer sessions on campus and my winter and spring breaks contributing to research projects abroad. Graduating with my PhD in political science in January was my greatest accomplishment until I secured an assistant professor position at Brighton and moved to Boston in April. Since then, I’ve been preparing for this next chapter and now, it’s here. As Claire kindly pointed out, I’m boring and predictable. My social life revolves around my family members and a trusty planner.

If it weren’t for weekly dinners with my family and Claire’s obligatory weekly retail therapy, I probably wouldn’t have gone out at all over the summer. A smile spreads across my face. I deserve a night out, don’t I? Besides, next week, I’ll be back in the classroom and focused on a research trip I’m planning for a handful of students over winter break. I can take this weekend to have a little fun. After all, didn’t I tell my freshman Intro to Political Theory the same thing? “Okay.”

Surprise flares in Claire’s eyes. She thrusts the hanger toward me, and when I take it, she lets out a loud whoop. Laughing, I drop the dress on the bed and duck into the bathroom. I study my limp, brown hair, dull green eyes, and plain face. While I’m not unfortunate-looking, I haven’t put much effort into my appearance for a long time and it shows. Jesus, are my eyebrows touching? Cringe. Flipping on the faucet, I scrub my face clean and help myself to Claire’s products, tweezers included. Then, I waltz into Claire’s room and plop down.

“Make me over,” I demand.

Her eyes widen and dazzle, deep blue like sapphires. “Indy, are you sure?”

I nod.

She squeals, “Oh my God. Tonight is going to be the best!”

Dad and Uncle Joe frown when Claire and I bound down the stairs, but Mom and Aunt Mary smile. The kitchen is already spotless from our weekly family dinner and our parents hold a drink in hand, talking and relaxing the way they have since Mom and Dad followed me to Boston over the summer.

“You look beautiful, Indy,” Mom compliments as Dad scowls at my dress.

Aunt Mary’s grin softens. “Absolutely gorgeous, girls. Where are you headed?”

“The Hawks are having a team kick-off at Firefly,” Claire answers, filling up a glass of water and taking a long sip. “Austin said we could come.”

“Oh, good.” Dad breathes a sigh of relief that Austin, Claire’s brother and the captain of the NHL team the Boston Hawks, will be present at the club tonight.

“Austin will keep an eye on them,” Uncle Joe says, although I think he’s trying to convince himself more than Dad.

I roll my eyes, stashing my driver’s license and a debit card into the small purse Claire lent me. “You realize we’re adults, right? I’m going to be twenty-eight in a few months.”

“And I’m moving out as soon as I can afford it,” Claire announces.

Dad chuckles. “But you’ll always be my little girl, Indy.”

Claire snickers.

“Besides, I know hockey players.” His tone turns hard, no doubt remembering all the wild escapades of his long career in the NHL. Dad, a hall of fame inductee and lead scorer for the Tampa Reds, can recount a staggering number of failed marriages and relationships gone wrong from his years in the league. His and Mom’s enduring thirty-plus-year marriage is somewhat of an anomaly.

“No worries there,” I scoff.

Aunt Mary stands, brushing her fingers through my hair. “Have fun tonight, Indy. You’ve been working so hard. You deserve a night out.”

Mom lifts her wine glass in agreement. “Be safe, girls. If you need a ride—”

“Our Lyft is here,” Claire interrupts, clutching my forearm and leading me toward the door. “If we need anything, we’ll call,” she reassures our parents, who still treat us like