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“Forfuckssake, really?!” Harlow screeches at the top of her lungs, redirecting everyone’s attention back to her. “Tell me you’re fucking with me right now, Page. Tell me that all this bullshit over these past few months isn’t because you couldn’t bag the fucking rocket!”
It’s difficult not to grumble in disapproval over the degrading way she references herself even if it’s fucking true.
“Tell me you’re really not that fucking stupid.”
He growls at the same time he straightens himself completely upward.
“Tell me you didn’t really believe that because you couldn’t have the sniper when her dad was alive that you decided you’d do whatever it took to get her when he was gone. Tell me…for Gretzky’s sake,” she folds her hands together and leans forward, slightly across her desk, “that you didn’t try to get Bricks thrown out of the game so that you could score a sloppy knee down half clapper.”
They wait for Page to refute what it is she’s saying despite the fact we all know he won’t.
Can’t.
“Forfuckssake, you fucking plug, that would never happen!”
I struggle to swallow the laugh her outburst conjures.
“Even if things don’t work out with me and Bricks…”
Fuck, I hate how she keeps calling me that. It’s probably being done out of spite.
Wait.
I know Harlow.
It’s definitely being done out of fucking spite.
“He’s not going anywhere.” Her expression grows firm. “Regardless, if he works for this franchise or not, he’s still the father of my fucking children. His ass will be in this barn. His ass will always be welcomed in this barn as long as this is my team and I’m in charge.”
As much as I hate the idea of us not together, I appreciate the statements she’s making.
I fucking love knowing that we’ll always be a team for the sake of our kids.
“And just to hit you with the highlights, Page. Bricks is basically the Ovi of fucking husbands. He leads. He supports. Isn’t afraid to be there for the apple and always appreciates the gino. He’s there for this team,” she points to her round stomach in the elegant, peach bodycon dress I don’t remember her leaving the house in, “and this team,” Harlow’s thumb gets kicked to the logo painted on the wall behind her, “unlike you who’s been known to fuck around on your girlfriend. Unlike you who points mouth pieces to the press. Unlike you who drove fucking drunk last night and nearly got his teammates as well as an innocent mother of fucking three killed!”
Pain pumps through his gaze at the same time he rushes towards the desk, “That’s not-”
“You have cost this team so fucking much, Page!”
“I-”
“Your ego has cost us almost everything!”
“But-”
“Your contract is void.”
He frantically shakes his head. “You can’t-”
“I didn’t. You. Did.”
A deep audible swallow reverberates around the room.
“You should also know your position has already been filled.”
“Henning-”
“Security will walk you to Richards in medical if you would like him to stitch you up before being escorted to remove your things from the premises.”
Desperation overwhelms his voice. “Hen-”
“McVie and Somerfield are both injured and will be out on LTIR, which is where they’ll stay until I can permanently end their contracts.”
“But-”
“You managed to kill three careers in one play, Page.” She flashes him a sardonic smirk. “Impressive.”
All of a sudden, his face begins to quiver, sending me into a new level of stunned.
“I hope you treat your next GM and team with more respect than you did this one.” My wife leans back in her seat, reaches for her sipped-on bottle of water, and motions her head for the closed door. “Legal will be in touch when necessary.”
An outcry of epic portions precedes him flinging his chair out of his way upon his storming out.
The door isn’t even completely shut when Harlow turns to Blanc to make an order. “I want Peck, and I want him now.”
There’s no reluctance out of the head coach to agree. “He’s the perfect fit. He just…as you already fucking know…comes with more heat.”
“I know.”
“And his family-”
“I know.”
“Which means the league and the press-”
“Blanc,” she savagely snips. “Make the fucking call.”
In spite of the fact, I know I shouldn’t interject myself into the conversation, I do. “What’s the deal with Peck? He seems like such a good dude.”
“He is an extraordinarily good kid,” Harlow informs, gaze shifting up to mine. “And amazing fucking player. It’s just…his name is all over the league.”
“Why? Dad play? Uncle?”
“Peck is the P in 3P.”
Bafflement momentarily hops onto my face.
“Your skates. Your sticks. Your bags. Your fucking honorary sweater bears the 3P logo.”
“That 3P?!”
“That 3P,” Blanc sighs in worry.
For cripes sake, if the league wasn’t already up her ass about everything, they damn sure will be when she literally moves that living, breathing, brand to her front lines.
I’ll do my part.
Whatever I can to help keep some of the pressure off her in that department.
