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)
“Where’s your phone?”
Tossing my left hand in the air accompanies the uncertain response. “Probably wherever my clothes are?”
Her stoic expression—to no surprise whatsoever—remains unchanged. “Why are you wearing a mood ring?”
“No fucking idea.”
The flicker of irritation in her hazel glare would be missed by someone who has not been as groomed as I have to read her nonverbal cues. “Who put the ‘do not disturb lock’ in place?”
I prepare to repeat myself when her pointed finger lifts to stop me.
“You know what? It doesn’t matter. That shit was probably for the best. Being forced to get my own room allowed me to finally get the sleep you think I don’t need.”
Her teasing tone receives an equally playful smirk. “You don’t need sleep. You run on caffeine and Lysol.”
“You should really thank me for the amount of cold and flu seasons I’ve saved you from.”
Not to mention the amount of other bullshit she’s actually had my back for. She may be paid to do most of that shit; however, over the past five years she’s undeniably become more than just my assistant.
She’s one of my best friends.
Who…just so happens to hate one of my other best friends.
And not in the “when will they bone and get it over with” sort of way, but the “there can only be one Highlander” type.
Shit got so ugly between them three years ago that there had to be a literal clause written into her contract about professionalism in his presence. I mean she fucking ignores it, but like, it’s still there.
Margot shoves the coffee cup in her possession my direction at the same time she announces, “We’re leaving.”
One hand accepts the hot offering while the other tugs the comforter into a more secure position. “Was I that out-of-control last night?”
“Yes,” my best friend effortlessly replies as she enters the suite, door shutting behind her, “or I assume yes because anytime you’re left to your own devices with that Doctor Who could never be, you naturally end up wasted, naked, or in need of legal assistance.” Her frame spins my direction to hand me the clothes I didn’t realize she was holding. “And since you’re wearing a comforter like a prom dress, the assumption stands.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Retreating backwards a few steps allows me to put down the cup to properly receive the folded items waiting for me. “I didn’t go to prom.”
“Or homecomings. Or your winter formals. Or the sweet sixteen party your mom threw in your honor at some uppity gallery in Doctenn.” She releases custody of the sweats into my possession. “I know.” Once they’re in my hands, she adds, “But what I don’t know is exactly what you were up to last night because I declined my invitation to Drunkageddon to review the paperwork regarding player contracts and negotiations per the event of the general manager’s death. You wanted to know how much power you have and where, and you know I am more than happy to read mountains of legal documents while drinking my Tulsi peppermint chai and listening to Enya.”
“Every word of that sentence makes my stomach churn.”
“It’s a good thing I did since your first media coverage as the acting GM was moved to today at two.”
“What?!”
“There’s some dead air they’re looking to fill-”
“How fucking sweet.”
“-and with the death of your dad and The Cup on the horizon they wanna know not only who your personal predictions for the season taker will be, but how you plan to deliver differently for next season, so that maybe your team has a chance to get somewhere they haven’t been since Sid the Kid was drafted.”
“You’re fucking quoting the cunt correspondent Florence Ramirez from STN, aren’t you?”
“Verbatim.”
“I. Hate. Her.”
“The feeling is mutual.” Margot nonchalantly reminds. “And I imagine now that you’re the owner and acting GM of the Dragons, she’s going to capitalize on every opportunity given to embarrass you and/or the team whether that be about matters regarding career choices or personal ones.”
God, you Kristi Yamaguchi some twat one time in front of the fuck boy you’re both interested in and that warrants a life-long hatred both behind the camera as well as in front of it?
Seriously?
Like is it my fault I can skate better than you?
Okay, probably.
I mean I spent almost every waking moment I could underneath my dad and being “uncled” by some of the greatest players the league has ever seen—even once they were transferred to better teams.
But that was my choice.
Sort of.
And hers was to talk a bunch of shit in her cotton candy onesie to try to impress the redhead bender that I was personally only interested in because he had an amazing hockey ass.
I never thought I’d still be paying for that seemingly innocent stunt twenty. Years. Later.
I also never thought she’d still be putting the “ho” in hockey.