The hustler, p.1
The Hustler, page 1
The Hustler
Boston Hawks Hockey
Gina Azzi
Three Cities Publishing LLC
The Hustler
Copyright © 2021 by Gina Azzi
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All rights reserved.
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Contents
Prologue
1. Theo
2. Sofia
3. Theo
4. Sofia
5. Theo
6. Sofia
7. Theo
8. Sofia
9. Theo
10. Sofia
11. Theo
12. Sofia
13. Theo
14. Sofia
15. Theo
16. Sofia
17. Theo
18. Sofia
19. Theo
20. Sofia
21. Theo
22. Sofia
23. Theo
24. Sofia
25. Theo
26. Sofia
Epilogue
Hey Reader!
Also by Gina Azzi
Prologue
One Month Earlier
Sofia
“It’s not you, it’s me,” Don says, gripping my hand with the pressure of a limp noodle. I don’t know why that stands out to me, but it does. It’s silly really because he’s not looking me in the eye and he just delivered one of the most cliché breakup excuses of all time and still…I’m annoyed that he’s not gripping my fingers when he says it. It’s as if his hold, or lack thereof, is telling of the kind of non-relationship we now have.
“Don, we’re supposed to get married in five months,” I remind him, my voice much too calm for the blow he’s delivering. My body has locked down, a cold drip of disbelief trickling down my spine. My stomach is looped in weaver’s knots, the kind my mom would knit while sitting at my hospital bedside, hours on end. My heart rattles painfully, a sudden stop followed by a dramatic lurch that makes me nauseous.
I take stock of my physical reactions to the news and yet, my mind clearly hasn’t caught up. Because when I open my mouth again, the most ridiculous thing pops out. “I have a dress fitting in six weeks.”
Don’s expression twists, his eyes filled with a pity I’m familiar with. I haven’t seen it in years, having beaten my childhood cancer at the age of twelve, but I’d recognize it anywhere. Seeing it now, on his face, somehow hurts more than his calling off our wedding.
He pities me. Me. The survivor, the believer in magic and miracles, the woman without a day to waste. Me, the woman he was planning to marry until…when? What happened?
His response causes a swell of anger to spout in the pit of my stomach. Am I really going to let another person dictate my future happiness? Erase the dream of a family I was mentally painting in my mind? How dare he?
Ooh, that’s good. Anger is something I understand. It’s something I know how to channel. It’s not something I like leaning into, but in this moment, anger feels safer than numbness. Healthier.
“Don, are you fucking kidding me? I don’t understand.” My voice rises several octaves, a shake at the end of my words. “What, what happened between yesterday and today? I thought we were planning for a future. A family!”
“A family? Like…kids?” He looks confused, which makes my anger soar into fury.
“Of course, kids! We were planning to get married. Why are you ending us?”
Don shakes his head, dropping my hand completely to wipe it down his face. “Sofia,” he sighs, “when we met, well, we rushed into things. We barely know each other.”
“We’ve been engaged for eight months!” I holler. While several of my sorority sisters took longer than that just to plan their weddings, this has been my longest romantic relationship to date. After two months, I was ready to marry Don. “Almost a year, Don. I moved to Maui to be with you. I left college, I left my volunteer work, I left my life behind to support your career here, with the understanding that we were starting a life together. A fa-family.” I stutter on the last word, feeling my heart snap as I say it. I want to grow a family.
For one blink, Don has the decency to look ashamed. But then he locks his expression down and a detachment I didn’t think he was capable of washes over his face. “Family, Sofia? You want to talk about family? When were you going to tell me your father is an ex-con, huh?”
I rear back in shock, as if Don’s hand just darted out and slapped me. In a way, his words are a knockout blow because… “How do you know that?”
He tosses a hand dismissively. “My parents hired a PI.”
“Your parents? A PI? Why?”
“Well, now that we learned the truth about you, your family, don’t you think it was a smart idea?” he rationalizes.
The truth about you. Your family.
My heart squeezes painfully, a lack of oxygen pumping through my body at Don’s insinuation. No one knows the truth. No one except me, Mom, Dad, and maybe, maybe, my stepfather Mitch. But certainly not Don.
And what the hell does that say that I never confided the truth in my fiancé? I swallow back some of my spite because that realization stings too. Deep down, did I know that Don wasn’t the one? Other examples zip through my mind. Don taking calls late at night, that one time he came home smelling like Chanel Chance even though I’m a Viktor&Rolf Flowerbomb loyalist, the way his mother has been dragging her feet on our wedding menu.
Wouldn’t a normal fiancée question him on those issues? Wouldn’t a loving, committed fiancée be able to tell him the whole truth of her past? All the sordid details and painful memories?
Don sighs again, as if breaking our engagement is taking too much of his precious time. “Look, you know how my family is. We’re a pillar of the community here, of the country. I can’t—we can’t afford the type of negative press this type of acquaintance would cause.”
“Are you referring to our marriage as a mere acquaintance? Who the hell wrote your breakup speech? Your mother?”
Don grips the back of his neck and I roll my eyes.
“Whatever, Don. Fine. You found out my big, bad secret. My father used to be in prison.”
“For fraud!” He points at me, as if that proves everything.
“Right,” I agree, not expanding on it. “And instead of asking me about it, about anything, you and your family decided that our engagement is finished. Is that it?”
Again, he averts his gaze. He nods. He’s a fucking coward. Who lets their parents decide who they marry anyway?
“Okay,” I say, standing. “Well, then—”
“They’re not firing you or anything. I mean, they’re happy to settle, give you a package and a recommendation, but after the Felton-Lawrence wedding okay? They really want you to stay on until after the wedding. Heather Felton requested you personally.”
Wow. I’m going to take my shoe off and hit him with it. How did I ever think I could marry Don? Worse, belong to and build a family with him?
I squint, as if seeing him for the first time.
Right now, after this conversation, I don’t see the handsome, charismatic, charming man I fell for. I don’t recall the way his eyes glistened when he proposed or how his arms caught me when I leapt into them.
Instead, I see a smarmy, indulgent, spoiled man-child who still looks to his parents to run his life. To make his decisions. To inform him of his choices.
For someone who almost missed out on the ability to make choices, that seems like the ultimate waste. A life poorly, unintentionally lived.
Disgust rolls over my tongue and even though I’m hurt, a part of me is also relieved. I don’t examine that too closely either. Instead, I roll back my shoulders and stare directly at my ex-fiancé.
“You’re right; maybe we did rush into this.”
Surprise causes his eyes to widen but then he narrows them, hurt. Welcome to the club, buddy.
I clear my throat. “But that won’t be necessary. Consider this my notice. I will stay on for one more month, until the wedding. But not for you or your parents. I’m staying for Heather and Preston. Because I like them. Because they have something real and meaningful, which we clearly did not. The day after their wedding, I’ll be gone and the pristine reputation of the Servinos and Lely Prive Resort will remain untarnished by any acquaintance with Sofia Carpenter.”
Don huffs out a breath, as if I’m being dramatic. Meh, maybe I am. But I’m hurt. Disappointed. In him and in myself. In us.
“I’d like to be moved into my own villa for the next month.”
He gapes.
“And don’t contact me unless it’s work related. We are officially finished. Done. I wish you the best. Well, not really, but I’m trying to be civil,” I snap.
Don’s eyes widen.
“I’m going to pack my stuff now. Send me a message when my villa is ready.” I move to leave his parents’ private suite, one similar to the space they were gifting us as a wedding pr
“Wait.” Don jumps up. “That’s it? Aren’t you going to, I don’t know, cry?”
I arch an eyebrow. “Over you? No, Don. I have survived the lowest of the low. You breaking up with me without even knowing the truth has demonstrated that I dodged a freaking bullet. Yes, I am hurt. Yeah, I’m a little pissed. But I’m not broken.” I flash him a bitter smirk and swipe up my purse. “Men like you can’t break women like me.”
I make my way back down to the suite I share with Don at the most beautiful, enchanting, private resort on Maui. Eight months ago, I moved here to support Don’s career when his parents named him the General Manager of the resort. They gave me a job on the event planning team. It’s a fast-paced world, being in operations, but as someone who regularly volunteers to plan galas and charity events at the hospital, or the prison, I adapted quickly.
And I loved having the chance to experience the true beauty of Hawaii.
I enjoyed the magical sunsets, the ones that painted the sky vibrant hues of fiery orange and gold. I was mesmerized by the rich aquatic life. I lived a dream life and I still have the opportunity to do so for another month. Sans Don.
I enter the suite and beeline to my closet. I pull down a bunch of clothes, haphazardly stuffing them into a suitcase. I drop my shoes on top. I’m packing up my bikinis when the first wave of sadness sweeps through me. It intensifies tenfold when I spot the white garment bag at the back of my closet.
My wedding dress. It’s the first one I tried on and the moment the soft chiffon whooshed against the tops of my feet, I knew. This was the dress. I bought it on the spot and have had it hanging in my closet since that day, almost eight months ago. Pulling out the garment bag, I unzip it to gaze at the dress that made me feel beautiful. Whole.
I blow out a sigh. Whole for the wrong man. I zip up the bag and fold it neatly on top of my suitcase. I feel like a fool. On some level, I believed Don was the one. I brought him to Mom and Mitch’s retirement party before they left for a cruise around the world. I took him to a handful of my stepbrother Jesse’s hockey games in San Antonio. And perhaps most painfully, I told my Dad about him. I welcomed him into my life and really believed he’d stay there, forever, as a permanent fixture.
It’s laughable really. I grew too trusting. Hasn’t my past taught me anything? Nothing lasts forever. All we get are moments, some last longer than others, and this one just came to a sudden end.
I zip up my suitcase and open my laptop. Pulling up the search engine, I type in the information for a flight to San Antonio the day after the Felton-Lawrence wedding. While I wait for the page to load, I pour myself a shot of vodka and toss it back, letting the burn blaze a path of heat to my stomach. Relief quickly follows when I note a flight for that afternoon.
I book it and pick up my cell phone, relocating to the window. I glance out at the sea, my gaze lingering on the curling waves. The ocean is restorative for me, a place that mirrors my moods. Serene and calm, strong-willed and fierce. It can be either a playground or a tempest but both versions comfort me. It’s a kinship I formed a long time ago, when I was a bald little girl seeking treatment at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in LA. We were there for a handful of months and one day, my dad whisked me away from the beeping monitors and IV lines to Venice Beach. That day, the ocean was playful, spraying us with white foam and receding to leave an expanse of seashell treasures behind. Mom and I collected them while Dad took our photos. That day, I wasn’t a sick kid, and my parents weren’t separated. We were just a family, and it was perfect. For an entire afternoon, it was perfect.
The following month, my symptoms worsened and Mom and Dad legally divorced but my love for that day, for the ocean, remained. I turn away from the window as pressure blooms in my lower back. I press my palm against it, massaging the skin. Ugh, I’m already having physical manifestations of Don’s betrayal.
My phone buzzes and I jump.
Don: Villa 34.
The pressure subsides and I grin. The villa feels like a small victory. Of course, I don’t really need a villa, any small room would do. But Don’s dismissal of me, his speaking about my father the way he did when he doesn’t know anything, not a goddamn thing, hurt. My requesting a villa is some petty form of revenge, but now that it’s secured, it sure does taste sweet.
In one month, two of America’s most prominent families are melding together with the union of Preston Lawrence and Heather Felton.
The resort has hosted many weddings in the eight months I’ve worked here but this is by far the biggest, the most lavish, and in some ways, the most sincere. While their families are certainly influential and throwing down serious coin on the wedding of the social season, Preston and Heather have been incredibly warm and genuine since I first met them in March when they came to visit the venue. Heather even sent me a bouquet of flowers last week for my birthday.
They’re the only reason why I agreed to stay.
I’ve learned firsthand how cruel, lonely, and empty the world can be. Mostly through my illness but also through Dad’s time in prison. On the other side, ironically, both the hospital and the prison offered glimpses of genuine love, sincerity, and commitment. The type that Preston and Heather embody.
I don’t care about how this wedding will provide fantastic publicity for the Servino family. It doesn’t matter that the Lawrence and Felton names will pull in other high-profile clients. All that matters is that Heather requested me, and I don’t want to disappoint her. While Don’s dismissal and his parents’ disregard stings, Heather’s support eases some of my hurt.
Many months ago, we bonded over my volunteer work at the hospital. She even flew in to one of the events in Michigan and, yes, she donated a hefty sum of money, but more than that, she took time chatting and listening to the patients and survivors present. She’s one of the shining examples of good I can cling to during this new transition that makes my future feel uncertain.
A prudent woman in my shoes would pray for guidance. Or clarity.
I gather up the rest of my belongings and stack them by the front door.
I’ve never been prudent. So I’ll bank on cold champagne and an ocean view in Villa 34 instead.
One
Theo
I’m in paradise. The sunshine, the ocean pooling around my legs, the feel of the board beneath my body, it’s calming. Relaxing.
It’s more than I deserve after the past year but right now, I’m grateful my brother and Heather decided to marry here, in Maui. I know they wanted to have something private, something that wouldn’t cause a big media spectacle, which is a relief.
For my career, a hockey player for the NHL team, Boston Hawks, I’m known as Eddie Sims. But here, this week, with my family, I’m back to being Theo, the charming, often aloof, second son of American power couple Lance and Margaret Lawrence. Media attention wouldn’t just overshadow Preston’s wedding, it would also push me into a spotlight I’ve shied away from for years. I learned early on that my surname draws attention, the kind of attention that comes with ulterior motives. That’s why, professionally I go by Eddie, from my middle name Edward, Sims, from my mother’s maiden name. It’s partly to protect my parents and their work and partly because of my own ego. I’d like to be judged by my performance on the ice and measured by my own merits, without the help of belonging to a well-known American family.
I catch a wave, effortlessly riding it. When I near the beach, I intentionally fall into the beckoning sea and let it roll over me. It’s therapeutic, having a week at this lush resort, spending quality time with Mom and Dad, and celebrating Preston and Heather. While my family doesn’t fully understand why I’ve professionally distanced myself from them, they’re still supportive enough to root for me in secret and respect my wishes to not call me out publicly.
