Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Her small squeak of irritation receives another sardonic smile.
“Blame high fashion.”
“I blame you for finding a loophole around wearing a pantsuit.”
“Still a pantsuit,” I insist prior to chomping on the cracker and waving the hand wielding it down the front of my high waisted, wide leg pants. “Still wearing it.” Another bite is taken of the tasty object. “Still following the rules.”
And fuck me, are there so many damn rules to follow when you’re the owner.
If I didn’t love hockey like it’s the best fuck I’ve ever known, I don’t know that I could do this shit.
It’s been six weeks of interviews—most of which I flounder through—and media blitzes and contract negotiations and meeting lawyers from every walk of life it seems. Corporate, Estate, Real-Estate, Entertainment, Tax, and Divorce, although the latter is a direct result of my own fuckup. Between that bullshit and gracing the porcelain princess with every bit of bile my body has ever been able to conjure I’ve barely slept.
Or ate.
Or done anything other than clean out Dad’s house in tears and cuddle Cookies and Cream on the back patio while listening to Think Rink, Talk Clink podcasts in hopes of maybe learning something useful that I don’t already fucking know.
Life as the daughter of an owner/GM was a lot to manage.
Life as the actual fucking owner/GM is border lining impossible to handle.
I definitely understand some of Dad’s bad habits a bit better.
Maybe I’ll take up cheesecake eating instead of eating fried cheese.
Afterall, it is what I ate on my wedding night.
You know.
According to the album of photos I have no recollection of taking.
Strangely, Winslow never said or asked me anything regarding the very real marrying of his employee. In fact, the most we discussed about those couple of days is the charge I was billed for them deciding to take home pillows like they were goodie bags at an award’s ceremony.
I’ve got no clue if Brendan “Bricks” Brickley even remembers who I am.
Or what we did.
Which is another reason I cannot be fucking pregnant.
It’s one thing to stupidly marry a stranger in Vegas.
It’s visit the wizard for the other half of your brain stupid to get married and knocked up by one.
Margot’s mumbles of objection fall on deaf ears during the transition over to my disorganized desk. Flopping into my dark leather seat occurs at the same a new cracker is shoved into my mouth, yet before I can ask about the promised bubbly aid, it magically appears in the small, cleared space in front of me alongside a tablet that reveals something almost too horrendous to even look at.
“What. The. Fuck. Are. Those?” I growl, around a mouth full of mush.
“The new sweaters.”
“For who?!”
“The team.”
“Tell me you mean our youth team.”
My assistant pops the lid on my soda for me and defends the monstrosity I’m sneering at. “They’re not that bad, Hennington.”
“They’re fucking terrible.”
“They’re…a loose fit.”
“They’re fucking tents.”
“They’re…simple.”
“They look like Kermit the frog was harmed in the making of them.”
“They’re-”
“Not. Fucking. Happening.” Shoving the device away from me precedes a demand. “Take that shit back to whoever the fuck brought it to you and tell them to do better.”
“Hennington-”
“Look, I know there’s only so much say we can personally get in the design room since 3P is contracted to do everything for the entire goddamn league, but we do get some sort of say. And I say, I don’t want our boys looking like they’re gearing up to be in an orgy, wet dream for Miss Piggy.”
“Fine.” Margot poorly hides her amusement, snatches up the device, and replaces it with my cell. “Your latest head coach interview is already in the waiting room.”
“Excellent.”
Her head tilts to one side causing her dirty blonde hair to brush her powder pink blazer covered shoulder. “Is it?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it…really?”
“Yeah.” Uncertain of what she’s trying to imply, I curl my fingers around the beverage while cautiously inquiring, “Why would it not be?”
“Maybe because excellent would be if this was the last position you had to fill instead of one of many?”
Sensing I’m in for another round of unraveling—this is like the tenth in three days—I simply indulge in a sip of the cold beverage.
“Maybe because excellent would be only needing a head coach rather than that and a goalie coach, assistant coach, an AHL head coach, and like half of three teams?!”
I don’t retort.
I merely have a second sip.
Let it soothe my raw, achy throat in the best ways.
“Hennington,” she huffs, shoulders plummeting to her pumps, “how are you this damn calm? Shouldn’t you be at least a little more, I don’t know, concerned with these issues?! If things don’t get in order, you won’t have any teams. Ohmygod, your first season as owner and you might not even fucking play?! This can’t be happening. This can’t happen. This-”
“Won’t. Happen. Margot.”