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)
He slips a loving kiss on my cheek prior to wrapping a hand around the fridge handle. “What’s going on?”
“A charity event.”
“The one where the proceeds go to a foundation that helps shelter homeless children around the country?”
“Correct.”
“Isn’t that also the one that the prince of Doctenn-”
“Second prince.”
“-runs and operates with his wife and the whiskey billionaire?”
“Wilcox. And yes, you’re still correct.”
“His comprehension skills have come such a long way during summer school,” I playfully poke, an action that prompts Brendan to deliver a swift swat to my ass.
“This is the same event where the best friend I haven’t met yet will be attending, right?”
“Right.” Margot’s face flashes the smallest cringe. “About that…avoid leaving them alone together for too long. Someone or something always ends up going missing or on fire.”
Brendan swings around with a cold bottle of water in his hands, concern caked on his complexion. “Fire?”
“That only happened three times!” I announce at the top of my lungs.
“Only?!” he croaks out, disbelief pumping deeper in his voice.
“The franchise donated a pair of season tickets to the auction and you and your wife,” my assistant tosses me an annoyed glare, “are expected to be there. Not only because you should be there supporting the woman who always supports you Harlow Emery Hennington-”
“Ohhhhh, I forgot your initials are basically a giggle,” Brendan chirps in an amused mumble.
“-but because this is good PR. Because this shows the league, the media, the fans, that you are a real couple. A couple that cares. A fucking franchise that gives a fuck about bettering the community versus only themselves.”
We do.
And we have for as long as I can remember.
Yeah, Dad had the few on the books that looked good for tax deductibles and press shots; however, we had quite a few he didn’t boast about that we donated to. That I went to visit as a spokesperson for the team. Giving back to anyone who isn’t my mother has always been something I enjoyed doing. Whether it’s donating my time—by showcasing the barn on a Sunday morning to junior hockey players while explaining what coaches and agents and pro teams look for—or my money—like when giving a large anonymous donation to a foundation that works to keep kids in sports related after school activities in higher crime statistics areas—I happily do so.
I just don’t wanna do this.
Which shouldn’t make me the Wicked Witch of the Rink.
Margot sucks in a sharp breath, “Plus-”
“Oh, you’re still talking?” I mutter not so quietly to myself.
“Plus,” she repeats louder, stare now plastered to mine, “it would give the media more positives to focus on at the start of training camp rather than the negatives such as what a terrible idea it is to have Blanc be given the opportunity to lead an NHL team with having no coaching experience under his feet.”
Forfuckssake, I didn’t need the reminder.
I’ve seen the coverage.
I’ve heard the whispers.
Almost nut checked another GM last week during a cocktail hour where he was purposely trying to get me rattled.
I know that people think I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.
And on one glove, maybe I don’t.
Maybe I should’ve just modeled my choices after the last couple of Cup holders and hoped for the best.
But on the other glove?
My gut says to trust it.
That Dad would want me to trust it.
So, I am.
Even if means being the laughingstock at the beginning of the season.
Brendan curls a comforting arm around my lower waist, offering me the wordless support regarding the line of bullshit he knows has been causing me to stress eat strawberry Pop-Tarts—which totally should count as a fruit serving. “Why don’t you wanna go the event, Harlow?”
“Ugh,” I grunt and thoughtlessly collapse into his hold, “it’s like a whole fucking thing! Hair and makeup and dress! And I like just did that shit less than a fucking week ago! I just played a game of kiss ass and punch no one! I’m not in the mood for another session!”
“We are in the fucking season of kiss ass and punch no one!” Margot fiercely points at me. “Deal. With. It.”
He has a large gulp prior to investigating, “Do I need a tux?”
“No, because we’re not going.”
My best friend ignores my proclamation to reply, “Yes. It’s already in the closet upstairs.”
“You know my measurements?”
“The important ones.”
“Not all the important ones,” he playfully inserts on a waggle of the eyebrows.
“I loathe you less than Winslow but not by much.”
Her statement gets me snickering and sends her glare back to me.
“How much time do we have?”
“We’re not going,” I repeat a little louder to indicate I’m serious. “We’re having grilled chicken and farro and roasted cauliflower and a few diced jalapenos to give all the blandness a kick and binging Baking It.”
“Stick tap for wanting a healthy meal,” Brendan lovingly states at the same time he drops his attention down to me. “But-”