Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 79850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
I have to assume he got that in the plane crash, but fuck if I’d ever point-blank ask him something so personal. Our friendship is on the shakiest of ground, so new at this point I’m not even sure we’re really friends.
I want to tell him how sorry I am for his loss, but the words seem trite to me. And I’m pretty sure if I were to mention his dead fiancée or the crash, it would absolutely kill any potential friendship at all. I think Tacker’s going to have to decide when he wants to talk about it. My guess is that will be sometime around never.
Chapter 30
Brooke
I pause for a moment as I’m typing an email to Charity—unsure of how to word something—when a soft knock on my door startles me. I look up and see Hannah, the receptionist from the management suite standing there. She and I have chatted a few times in the break room and she’s a really sweet girl.
“Hey, Brooke,” she says, her voice shaking a bit. I notice she’s wringing her hands.
“What’s up?” I ask casually, but an icy feeling of dread starts to seep through my veins.
“Um…Mr. Carlson is here, and he’s in Mr. Rutherford’s office. He’s asked to see you. There’s an attorney with him.”
I actually go dizzy for a moment. Christian Rutherford, the general manager, is with the team in Pittsburgh. They will be playing the Titans tonight at 7 P.M., 4 P.M. our time. I plan on putting the live stream on my computer screen so I can watch it while I work.
Or, at least that was the plan. I’m not sure what the hell is going on right now, but I don’t feel good about it based on Hannah’s demeanor. The fact that the owner of the Vengeance—who I know normally resides in Los Angeles—is here in Phoenix with an attorney to see me is cause for pretty big alarm.
“Do you know why he wants to see me?” I ask her hesitantly, wanting to know, and yet, not wanting to know.
She shakes her head but leans inside my office a bit more to whisper, “I heard them talking about a lawsuit, but I’m not sure what it’s about.”
A lawsuit? What in the hell?
I stand from my chair, dismayed that my legs are shaky. I follow Hannah from the administrative suite over to the management suite, rubbing my sweaty hands on my skirt to dry them off. I’m assuming it’s proper etiquette to shake the owner’s hand and not kiss his ring when I walk in, and well, I don’t want to have gross hands.
Hannah stops at her receptionist desk and gives me an encouraging smile. “Good luck.”
My brain spins as I walk toward Christian’s office, trying to figure out what this could be about. The only thing I have to be guilty about is perpetrating a fake relationship to the people in this organization, but that’s not criminal, nor do I think it’s suit worthy. The person we’ve offended the most is my father, and he would never do anything to take it out on me.
I wish I could just slip into one of the empty offices I pass and call Bishop. He would calm me down. He’d tell me to hold my head high. But I can’t disturb him with this. Not on a game day when his head needs to be in the game and not worried about me. I miss him so much, and it’s telling that he’s the one I want to turn to for security.
Instead, I put one foot in front of the other and walk like I’m on a very short plank to the general manager’s office.
As I approach, I can see Mr. Carlson pacing back and forth behind Christian’s desk with a cell phone to his ear. He’s one of those men who talk with their hands, so while one hand holds the phone, the other is gesticulating wildly.
He’s an insanely attractive man, and I find it odd that my brain would even go there. I’ve only ever seen pictures of him, but they don’t do him justice. He’s the cliché of tall, dark, and handsome with raven black hair and what appear to be even darker eyes. He looks mysterious and dangerous and I think I’m going to puke.
There’s another man sitting at a small round table near the bank of windows. His head is bent over some documents. He’s short, squat, and bald with the beady eyes of a shark. His head lifts as if he senses my approach and he waves his hand to get Mr. Carlson’s attention. He points at me through the open doorway and Mr. Carlson’s lips tighten into a thin line when he spots me.
By the time I make it inside, I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a heart attack the way my heart is racing. I give one last swipe of my hands on my skirt and enter.