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)
My interjection is thoughtlessly and poorly timed given that it cuts off Margot mid-sentence, “Page is a veteran.”
Harlow shifts her attention to me as we exit from the elevator to head for the set of double glass doors that will lead to the attached building. “He is the oldest veteran on this team, which is why he’s so fucking expensive.”
“And complacent.”
The word choice receives the smallest grin of acknowledgement.
“That’s the real issue here, right? He’s setting a bad example for those coming in under his guidance. He’s not Captain, but he’s an older member of the team, so they’re gonna look to him for cues just like they will any of the other veterans that are still here. His…unchanged ways fuck up the whole entering a new era shit.”
“Precisely.”
“Cut him.”
“Can’t,” Margot huffs upon our entering the secured indoor area that bridges the gap between the offices and the arena. “His contract keeps us chained to him-”
“And his salary is fucking outrageous considering how little he played last season.”
“-unless he receives another blemish on his record. I.E. a DWI or a harassment charge or physical altercation.” Margot leans around Harlow during our speedy trek to give me a mirth-filled expression. “The guy’s a fuck up. He will fuck up again. It’s just about minimizing the damage until the inevitable.”
Huh.
Is that what she thinks of me?
Fuck, is that what Harlow thinks of me?
Inside the locker room where the standoff is occurring, I do my best not to get starstruck by the sight or feeling of where I am.
I mean…people typically have to fucking pay to be behind the scenes like this or be getting paid for this level of access to the space where professionals prep for the shit we see on TV, for the shit they’re contracted millions to fucking do. I should be fucking gawking and taking pictures of the mottos on their walls and bragging to everyone on Tok and Snap how amazing this shit is; however, I won’t.
Because that’s not why I’m here.
I’m here because Harlow needs me.
Er…she may need me.
For what, I don’t fucking know, but I do know I wanna be here for it.
Her.
Our child.
That realization hits me in the back of a head like a cheap vodka bottle.
Of course, I wanna fucking be here for my kid.
I grew up without a father.
I’ll be damned if my son or daughter—please let it be a son—does the same.
“Well, well, well, boys, looks like our Disney princess came down from her diamond studded tower to mingle with us simple peasants,” Page arrogantly chortles at the same time he folds his arms across his wide chest.
Harlow positions herself on the opposite side of the man I’m guessing is Blanc, tilts her head sarcastically at the problem player, and softly coos, “Aw, Page. Peasant is what you of all people should aspire to be.”
“That means to aim, in case that didn’t translate into your native Newfoundland tongue,” Margot adds from where she’s waiting at my side.
Oh good.
Someone she likes even less than me.
I’ll put that on the win tab.
“What’s the problem here?” Harlow inquires Blanc’s direction.
The short hair male opposite of her is robbed of his opportunity to answer by the older, paler, outraged scraggly bearded man who appears out of what feels like thin air, “He is the fucking problem here, Hennington! He’s been the problem here! He’ll always be the problem here! I’m just over having to be the one who fucking takes it! I quit!”
“You can’t quit, Hank,” she instantly denies.
“I have quit, Hennington.”
“Oh me nerves, ya got me drove, old man,” Page grunts the older, exhausted employee’s direction. “Plus, you’re too ancient for this shit.”
“So are you, but you’re still here,” I jab back without hesitation.
All eyes cut to me, yet it’s seeing the impressed smirk on Harlow’s expression that keeps me from apologizing.
Page kicks his rectangular chin my way. “Who the fuck are you?”
“What’s wrong, Page?” the woman who might very well be the one of my dreams intervenes, face swerving into the path to block his direct line of sight. “Can’t handle being chirped in your own barn?”
“He peed in the basket of towels,” Hank announces, recollecting everyone’s attention. “Again.”
“The fact that he has to add again, Hennington, is a problem in itself,” Blanc states to his boss.
She lifts a hand to hush the head coach and maintains her focus on the person it’s clear she wants to stay. “How do you know it was Page, Hank? We both know there are plenty of shit weasels on this team that don’t know the difference between a good-natured prank and bad natured harassment claim.”
“He stared at me while he did it.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty fucking guilty,” I quietly murmur.
Harlow shoots the player a deep glare. “Fucking seriously, Page?”
He simply tosses a smug hand in the air on a shoulder shrug.