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My arrival in the parking lot occurs not only around the same time as Margot’s but at the same time as an alarming amount of charter buses.
I’m barely out of the SUV before I’m calling out, “Hey, Man’s Best Friend!”
Her narrowed stare immediately swings to me.
“Why the fuck are there so many busses?”
She lowers the matching to go cup away from her lips to answer. “I don’t know, Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood. Could it be because there are so many fucking hockey players?”
“There’s only like twenty of ‘em!”
“Twenty-three for the Dalvegan Dragons, twenty-three for the Texas Dragons, and twenty for The Valley Drakes.” Margot tosses me a taunting smirk. “I know you’re still covering addition and subtraction, but I can pull up a Sesame Street Count video on YouTube if you need further assistance.”
Sidestepping her verbal jabbing is much easier than her best friend’s. “Why are all three teams here?”
“For the trip.”
“But-”
“Blanc will explain it when you get to your location, so just be patient until then.” Her gaze finds mine again. “And do not board the same bus as Page. In fact, refrain from talking anywhere near him whenever possible. We haven’t proven it yet, but I’m about ninety seven percent certain he was the one working with that shop girl to leak the story about you two a month ago.”
Wouldn’t surprise me.
At first, I just thought that asshole had it out for me specifically, and then when I saw how hard he tried to comfort Harlow during the media shitshow, I realized it isn’t about me.
It’s her.
Every move he makes is about getting her attention.
Even his tantrums.
That whole negative attention is better than no attention bullshit.
I’m also pretty sure the reason he’s an extra dick to her is because he’s doing that childish bully shit where you’re mean to the chick because you don’t know how to just nut up and say it.
I don’t approve of his fucking methods.
And I damn sure don’t approve of him lusting after my fucking wife.
The little media stunt put Harlow through an unwanted season of showcasing our marriage and her pregnancy to every sports outlet that gave a fuck. She strategically answered questions regarding the secrecy, did damage control in reference to her mother’s paid for ramblings prior to hitting her with a cease and do not talk to the press order—and cleverly put the light back on the team’s improvements she’s been working on all summer. Every interview was glorious to watch. I mean yeah, I loved hearing her talk fondly about us and our situation—including why she doesn’t want a diamond on her hand—but it was the confidence in which she talked about hockey that was fucking mesmerizing. The woman knows her shit. And she never lets anyone treat her like she doesn’t. Watching her go toe to toe with some ex-pros regarding the future of her franchise was some of the sexiest shit I’ve ever seen. Plus, when they get her all fired up like that, she comes homes and lets me fuck her calm, which I also love.
However, I don’t love that I don’t get to travel with her.
I hate sleeping in our bed alone.
Also hate that I’m not allowed on camera with her—despite the fact we could be a hockey power couple like The Beckhams are for soccer.
Double hate the amount of paperwork I’ve had to sign over the past few weeks to acknowledge in the case of our divorce I don’t get half of anything, especially not the team—which I wouldn’t try to take from her anyway.
The only thing I would want is custody rights to see our kids.
But I’m not trying to think about those types of gameplans.
I’m focused on the ones meant to strengthen our expanding family.
Like convincing Harlow not to paint fucking scary ass dragons all around their nursey.
“Is that why you’re here?” I ask during our slow approach to the crowd of waiting players. “To babysit me?”
“Not just you,” she corrects, keys being tucked in her small handbag, “but everyone involved in today’s outing. I’m here to make sure in-house media captures enough footage, security keeps unwanted visitors away, and that the coaches remember that while this is all fun and games, they’re responsible for making sure that the multimillion dollars walking around doesn’t get hurt or injured during the festivities.” A heavy, almost defeated sigh passes her lips. “Basically, I’m supposed to be Hennington without being Hennington.”
“Sounds accurate.” After stealing a small sip of my coffee, I ask, “And why can’t she just be here again?”
“This is about bonding without the boss breathing down your neck. She wants the team to learn to be there for each other whether or not the woman who signs their paychecks is present.”
My hum of comprehension is cut short courtesy of our arrival which happens just as Blanc is giving out seating arrangements. More or less we’re all divided by last name—non player team members included—and instructed to start loading up immediately. Each bus has a couple members of security on it as well as other employees there to do whatever job it is they’re there to do.
