Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
“They’re signed!” she hisses, yanking the Patrick one clean out of my hand to stare at it in awe. “Riggs Patrick doesn’t sign stuff. Like as a rule, he will refuse fans who approach him requesting signatures.”
“That’s rude,” I say. Angeline is tracing the marker lines of Riggs’s name on the jersey and a wave of possessiveness washes through me, making me want to snatch it back from her for myself.
She shakes her head. “There’s a backstory there. He used to sign stuff in the early days, but somewhere along the way, someone started forging his signature and selling stuff for big bucks online.” Her brow furrows like she’s thinking. “It was whispered that his ex-wife was the one doing it, trading on his name and pocketing the money for herself, but nobody knows for sure.”
The Wikipedia on Riggs mentioned his marriage and divorce dates, so I know there’s an ex, but it did not mention an autograph scandal. Hoping I didn’t hear her right, I repeat, “His ex-wife was selling him out for profit?” The irony that I accused him of extortion doesn’t escape my notice and regret sits hollowly in my gut.
“Pretty awful, right?” she agrees, nodding earnestly. I look at the jersey again, seeing it in a new light. “Kayla,” Angeline whispers, and when I glance back up, her eyes are wide and her mouth is dropped open. She’s staring into the envelope like there might be a winning lottery ticket inside.
“What is it?”
“Season tickets for the Devils. Box seat, season tickets. These are impossible to get and ridiculously expensive. What did they say?” She boldly reaches for the note in my hand, and if it were anyone else, I’d give them a withering look that’d have them instantly cowering and rethinking their life choices.
But I let Angeline take the note and read it. She’s trustworthy, or else she wouldn’t work for me, and she’s obviously more well-versed in Riggs and Maddox’s world, so I value her insight, both hockey-wise and personally.
“Holy shit,” she mouths silently when she finishes reading it, falling into the chair across from me. “This is… wow. They got it bad for you, girl.” Then, like she only just remembered who she’s speaking to, she sits upright, her tone going crisp and professional to the point of robotic. “Sorry. I meant, this will be a great offering at the auction.”
“Don’t bother,” I tell her, waving a hand to excuse her blatant overstep into friend territory. “Instead, give me your take on Riggs and Maddox.”
She swallows thickly. “Permission to speak freely?”
“We’re not in the Army, Angeline. Go for it.”
She takes a big inhale like she’s preparing to give a long speech. “They’re hot, first and foremost, and they’re great on the ice. That combination together? Dynamite. So they’ve always been popular, the stars of the Devils. But since Riggs’s ugly divorce? They’ve gotten a reputation as the bad boys of hockey… for obvious reasons.” Her cheeks are turning a faint shade of pink, but she soldiers on. “They’re like unicorns, mythical and magical and ahem… horned, but absolutely real. And did I mention hot?” She grins, sounding more like a schoolgirl with a crush than her thirty-five years of age. “They might be the primary and secondary reasons I don’t mind Jerry’s obsession with the Devils and happily attend games anytime he wants to splurge on tickets.” She glances longingly at the tickets still in her hand. “These are a sign, Kayla.”
“Of what? That they can give me tickets to the games they’re playing?” I know I sound bitchy, but they’re getting to me, and I can’t let that happen. Like Samantha said, I’m Kayla Fucking Harrington, and while she meant it to be an encouragement that I can do and have the life I want, it also means I have an image to uphold, one that doesn’t involve jocks who chase around after a little black disc for a job and chase my pussy for fun. Because that’s what this is.
I’ve admitted to myself that I jumped to the wrong conclusion when they appeared in my office. It wasn’t blackmail or anything of the sort. They wanted me, like they said. But realistically, they’re men who are accustomed to getting what they want, probably with very little effort, given what I saw online and what Angeline is saying. And I’ve become a challenge by saying no, so they’re pursuing me harder. It doesn’t mean they want me. It more likely means they don’t like to lose. It’s a game, only to them, I’m the puck.
However, I’m the prize. The Cup, if you will, which I’ve only recently learned is the big trophy in hockey.
Angeline tilts her head, eyeing me harshly. “Can I give you a little advice, as a woman who’s been married for ten years?” She doesn’t wait for me to agree but keeps talking. “Everyone receives love differently. Jerry wants time with me, just us, which is hard to manage when you’ve got two kids, but we make it work. Thankfully, his mom lives close by and loves taking the kids for the night so we can go out to dinner, or to a hockey game, or just stay home alone.” She arches a brow, making sure I understand what she means as though it’s not clear as day, and my lips lift into a tiny smile. “Me? I need to know I’m the first thing that man thinks about every morning, that I’m on his mind all day, and that I’m the reason he comes home every night. If he doesn’t tell me how pretty I am every morning even before I’ve run a brush through my hair and put his hand on my ass as we go to sleep every night, I will pout like a child. I want hugs and kisses, sweet words, and thinking-of-you texts all day. That’s how we flirt, connect, and love each other—by doing what the other one needs. So my question is, what do you need? Because they’re trying to figure it out, that’s for damn sure.” She holds up the note, not the envelope.