Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
There was history there, but I didn’t know the extent of it. None of us really knew the extent of…well, anything when it came to Gareth. Honestly, for the purposes of the FBI ever showing up, the less I knew about Gareth’s mafia ties, the better. Same went for Doyle’s, too.
“You throw companies around like it’s no big deal,” Doyle continued.
“We trust each other well enough to know who needs a certain division for an upcoming project,” I said calmly, hoping to diffuse the situation. “And we’ve never—not once—made a bet that got someone fired, or resulted in a restructure that fucked with our employees.”
“We just don’t trust you,” Ethan grumbled.
“We’ve been playing together for years, Doyle,” Weston quickly added. “Sorry to say it, but you’re the new kid at the table.” He arched a brow at Ethan. “And Ethan’s never quick to trust.”
Ethan was an exceptionally good judge of character, even better than me, but I wasn’t about to throw fuel onto that fire.
“Or maybe Ethan just knows your history,” Gareth said, his voice low and pretty fucking menacing.
I glanced at Weston. This shit was getting out of hand.
“As opposed to yours?” Doyle sneered. “I know exactly who you are, Maxfield. Covering up the tats on your arms isn’t going to change who your family is.”
“And playing with us doesn’t mean we accept you into our circle,” Gareth snarled. “You bet your way into that seat fair and square because Weston is a reckless motherfucker, so we’ll let you sit there. But don’t for one second think that any of us are happy about it. And I know exactly who you are, too.” He shoved his sleeves up, revealing sleeves of tattoos.
Holy fucking tension.
“You guys want to call it?” I offered.
“Nope.” Gareth answered. “We’re playing.”
Cross and I threw in the blinds.
“So, not to change the subject.” Doyle cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders. “Silas, is there any chance of me stealing Miles Newsome away from you? Fair and square, that is, not in the game.”
“I doubt it.” I forced a smile. “His contract is pretty ironclad, and he knows I’ll beat out any other offer.”
Weston and Ethan threw in their cash.
“I would guess so, seeing as your Reapers took the Cup last year.” Doyle added his money, too.
“A new general manager might shake things up for you guys up there,” Cross added in as the bets continued.
It was no secret that the expansion team in Bangor was one of the worst decisions the NHL had ever made. The town was too small to support a major team like that, and Doyle hadn’t exactly dropped the kind of money into the program that I had when I’d built the Reapers.
Sterling, one of my goalies, hadn’t minded his time up there, but he’d said the atmosphere had changed once Doyle bought the team a few years ago.
“A new roster might shake things up,” Doyle muttered. “I swear, Patterson—the guy I have in the front office—is running the team into the fucking ground.”
“You handed him the shovel,” Gareth grunted. “That’s the thing about owning a team. Your players and staff deserve the credit, but when it’s time to place the blame, it’s all ours.”
“We’re where the buck stops,” I agreed.
“You guys are a tough fucking bunch to win over, you know that?” Doyle said, a smile curving his lips.
“We wouldn't have it any other way,” Ethan replied, his answering smile tight and his eyes cold.
I leaned over toward Weston. “No more Ducati races, asshole.”
He nodded.
* * *
“No,” I whispered into the phone, making my way to the front of the bookstore. “That’s not going to work. I already told you the price point is too high.”
“So what do you want me to tell Mr. Hammersmith?” Julie Gladstone, my newest personal assistant, asked, pure panic rising in her voice.
“You tell him that they’re going to have to get the price point down to the figure we discussed, and if they can’t do it, we’ll go with another manufacturer.” This is what I got for taking my lunch hour off to spend some time with Daisy.
“Shh!” One of the booksellers glared at me.
“Sorry,” I whispered, pushing my way out the door and into the mid-November air. “Look, Ms. Gladstone, I know it’s your first week. Why don’t you ask Alan Parker to catch you up to speed? Mrs. Donaldson has the proposed figures on her desk, and if it’s a phone call you don’t feel comfortable making, then I’ll be back in the office in about twenty minutes.”
She thanked me profusely and hung up.
The problem with having an amazing team of personal assistants was that they eventually outgrew their jobs and moved on, forcing me to train new ones, and the learning curve was a bitch.
My phone rang again, and I answered without looking. “Did you get the figures?”