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)
Harlow finally lifts her face to meet mine and nods in an agonizingly slow nature.
What?
What the…?
What the actual fuck?!
What the actual fuck is going on here?!
One minute I’m convincing my roommate and coworker, Zao, to cover my shift so I can come here and do something semi romantic—it would be hella romantic if I hadn’t been summoned here to begin with like fucking Harry Potter to Hogwarts—and the next I’m being told our little Vegas adventure was not so little after all?!
Holy. Hell.
What?
Just…what?!
Before I can responsibly respond—not that I was going to—a knock at the door breaks the tension.
“Ohthankfuck,” Harlow murmurs not so quietly.
We both redirect our attention to the door where Margot has entered despite not being told to do so. “Finished?”
No.
No, we’re fucking not!
We’re not anywhere close!
This is a huge fucking subject that just accidently crept into the conversation.
Wait.
Was she really gonna have me sign the papers and not tell me she’s carrying my child?
Fuck…
I’m gonna be father?
Ugh.
I knew I shouldn’t have had that screwdriver at breakfast this morning. I can feel that shit boiling back up now.
“Not…exactly,” Harlow poorly stumbles to say.
“Okay, well, then you may wanna send Tickle Me Elmo there to recesses for a bit. We’ve got an escalating crisis in the locker room.”
“Blanc needs an apple?”
“An apple?” I thoughtlessly toss her way.
“It’s an assist in hockey,” she offhandedly explains, attention still focused on the female at the door. “He’s the head fucking coach. He should not need my help managing players in there. That’s literally his fucking job.”
“It’s between a player and an employee.”
“Shit,” Harlow grumps and hastily rushes towards the door.
“Shoes,” Margot and I remind in tandem, exchanging curious gazes right after the word leaves our separate mouth.
“Forfuckssake I don’t need two of you,” the mother of my future child snips while retreating to jam her feet into the abandoned flats beside her desk.
Maybe she doesn’t.
But maybe having two of us around is something she could use?
Wants?
Hell, maybe it’s something I want?
Following Harlow out of the room is done without invitation.
And against her volition.
And against my better judgment.
Not that my judgment should be trusted anymore.
Again, I thought I was coming here to flex my top shelf Romeo skills and now I have to figure out if I leave on some Maury Povich shit.
Is there any chance this shit is staged?
Publicity stunt in the making?
Margot glares at me over her shoulder upon our arrival at the elevator.
Nah.
Something tells me she of all people would never let something like that fly.
“You are not needed in this process,” Margot snips, tablet cradled tightly to her chest.
“Do you really think it’s a good idea to leave a complete stranger unsupervised in the owner’s office?” I poke in return.
“You’d wait in the lobby.”
“You think I’d wait in the lobby but considering how easily distracted that front desk girl is, there’s no telling where I might stumble into.”
Margot viciously smirks. “Literally.”
Okay.
I did just pour myself that shot, but you know what?
Boss is right.
This woman is horror movie horrifying.
The elevator dings open to grant them access inside yet rather than bum rush the space, I stay on the outside and wait to be invited in like the soul sucking vampire I’m beginning to feel I might be considering Harlow paid for my flight, my driver, my hotel, and evidently my kid’s earliest needs—whatever those are.
Vitamins?
I think it’s vitamins.
This is definitely one of those times not being an only child probably would come in handy.
Margot prepares to hit the button, wordlessly declaring her stance, yet the instant Harlow’s bright brown eyes find mine, they stay planted there as though searching for the shit I’m not saying. Silently challenging me to back down. Retreat. To fuck off because I’m only pretending to give a shit versus actually giving one. And when I don’t, her hand swiftly slides into the space to stop the doors from shutting me out.
Maybe even to stop her from completely shutting me out.
“In,” she motions on a small head tilt to the empty space beside her.
I hastily step inside and open my mouth to express gratitude.
“Silent.”
Pressing my lips together is immediately done while nodding.
“Explain,” Harlow commands to her assistant as the elevator begins its descent.
“I don’t completely understand myself,” Margot grumbles during an annoyed headshake. “Partially because Page’s Canadian riddles don’t make any goddamn sense-”
“Ugh, fucking Page.”
“-and partially because every time Blanc tried to explain to me Page would chime in with some condescending shit that needlessly escalated the entire thing.”
Harlow grunts her displeasure over the situation or the player which prompts me into doing something more useful than standing around, eavesdropping like I’m stuck in an episode of fucking Vampire Diaries.
I pull out my phone and Google the current roster to get the information no one is going to just hand over. It doesn’t take long to discover the basics about Joel Page—height, weight, position and how long he’s been on the team—and to my surprise, finding his less appealing traits—fines, suspensions, court mandated community service—doesn’t require any additional effort.