The Sweet Talker (Boston Hawks Hockey #1) - Gina Azzi Page 0,2

kids, probably because Claire is a wild card and I’m an only child. “I’m sleeping at Indy’s tonight,” she hollers over her shoulder as we slip outside.

Once we’re settled in the Lyft and heading toward downtown Boston, Claire grins at me. “Wait ‘til you see some of the Hawks’ players.” She fans herself.

I roll my eyes. “You know I’m not into hockey players. Not anymore.” My first love, first heartbreak, first everything is now a defenseman on the Vancouver Eagles. After our very painful and public breakup two years ago, I swore off hockey players for good. Since then, I haven’t been tempted once and I doubt tonight will be any different. If there’s anything I’ve learned from being Dad’s daughter and then dating Jace, it’s that the stable and reliable lifestyle I crave doesn’t mix with the NHL.

“Jace was a dick. Not all hockey players are like him.”

I ignore her statement. “You can have your pick, Claire.”

Her eyes dim and she turns to look out the window.

Uh-oh. For years, Claire has secretly pined over Austin’s best friend and Hawks left winger Easton Scotch. Easton and his brother Noah have been fixtures at my aunt and uncle’s home since bunking with Austin at hockey camp when we were all teenagers. Every summer, during our family trip to Boston, the Scotch brothers were present. Crushing on your brother’s best friend is never easy, but with Easton’s trip to rehab last year, Claire’s complicated feelings became even messier.

I elbow her in the ribs until she turns toward me. “How’s he doing?”

She sighs, knowing I’m asking about Easton. Other than me, Rielle, and Savannah, no one knows that Claire has been hung up on East for all these years. “Fuck if I know. He’s barely spoken to me over the past year. Not since he came home from rehab.”

“Have you seen him since the season ended?”

She shakes her head, her expression guarded.

Sensing she doesn’t want to talk about Easton when we’re about to embark on a night out, I ask, “Are you sure Austin doesn’t mind that we’re coming tonight?”

Claire laughs. “Oh, he’s going to be pissed.”

“What? You said—”

“Yeah, so our dads wouldn’t worry. There’s no way Austin wants us at Firefly tonight. Not when the team is getting together for the first time since the off-season. They’re going to be partying hard and the puck bunnies are going to be swarming.” She grins mischievously, shrugging one shoulder. “But once we’re there, he’s not going to turn us away.”

I shake my head at my cousin, impressed. “You’re evil.”

“I’m resourceful. We’re out for the night, we’re going to have fun, and if we’re lucky, we’re going to get lucky.”

Tossing my head back, I laugh. Claire doesn’t join in.

“Wait, you’re serious?”

She smirks in response.

2

Noah

The club is dark and loud, a perfect backdrop for poor decisions.

The section I’m in, a private, roped-off space our team captain Austin arranged, is exclusive in a way that permits regrets while keeping them private. I tip back my gin and tonic, letting the alcohol burn through my veins. At the very worst, I’ll wake up with a hangover. Meanwhile, if my brother were here tonight instead of detoxing in rehab, a g and t would be the first domino in a destructive maze straight to rock bottom. Irony.

I drain the glass, rattling the ice as I set it down on a side table and gesture to a cocktail waitress milling about that I’ll take another.

Below the railing, puck bunnies clamor for attention, desperate for an invitation up to where the team is enjoying bottle service. Sweeping my gaze over the crowd, pulsing with the beat the DJ dropped, I search for tonight’s pick.

For three years, I was a saint. Sure, I’d notice if a girl was smoking hot the same way I’d notice if a guy was jacked. But I wasn’t interested in any of the women, and definitely not puck bunnies, because I had my perfect girl waiting at home. Six months ago, right after we lost the game to qualify for the play-offs, Courtney’s perfection cracked when I discovered her serious reservations about marrying me. Courtney called off our wedding two weeks before the big day, leaving me publicly humiliated and personally devastated.

No matter how many women I’ve slept with over the past six months, and I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve lost count, none of them have held my interest beyond a sloppy hook-up. Still, I keep searching, as if a random screw will somehow heal a