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I can’t imagine what she wants with me. Unless it’s about the threesome? But surely she wouldn’t want to bitch about that to me, even if she heard. It was consensual, obviously.
Our team owner can be volatile. She had an ongoing feud with my friend Ford’s girlfriend, Elle, over Elle’s opposition to our new arena. Now that ground has been broken on the new arena, the tension between the two of them seems to have cooled.
Mila’s true to her Russian roots, though. I don’t know her well, but from everything I’ve been told, nothing means more to her than loyalty. After the explosion at the arena, she made sure the families of those that had died were taken care of financially. Her generousness is only matched by her shrewdness. My agent says no one picks apart every line of a contract the way she does, fighting things both big and small to get the most bang for her buck out of players.
There’s a gray placard that says “Archives” on the wall just outside the door to the office Quentin and Mila share. On the floor, there’s a clear plastic sign that has “Mila Pavlova, Team Owner” carved into it. I pick it up and walk inside the door that’s slightly cracked open.
“Hey,” Quentin says brightly, his expression turning to a scowl when he sees the sign in my hands. “That damn thing won’t stay on the door no matter what I put on it.”
“Try licking it first,” I suggest. “Then put some Gorilla Glue on it.”
“Really?” He gives me a puzzled look. “Okay. Can I get you some coffee, tea, or water?”
“Nah, I’m good, thanks.”
“She’s ready for you. You can go on in.”
There’s a door inside Quentin’s office that leads to Mila’s. I head toward it, , turning back to Quentin halfway. “Hey, I was just busting your balls about licking it. Gorilla Glue is great, though.”
He smiles widely, looking pleased. “Did you just chirp at me? Was that chirping? I’ve always wanted to get chirped at the way you guys do to each other on the ice.”
That wasn’t chirping. Chirping often involves an opponent talking about either your mom or the size of your dick. But I don’t want to ruin Quentin’s good mood, so I just grin at him and head back for the boss’s office.
“Colby, hi!” Mila’s voice is unusually high as she jumps up from behind her desk. “Come on in.”
Her smile reminds me of the Joker. It’s too big for her face and it doesn’t look real.
“Everything okay?” I ask, sitting down across from her desk.
“Everything’s great!” she says, her voice still unnaturally high. “Yeah, it’s great. Can I get you a drink?”
She opens the refrigerator in her office, scanning the contents. “I have water, iced tea, energy drinks, and Diet Dr. Pepper.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
She takes out a can of Diet Dr. Pepper and cracks it open, returning to her seat behind the desk.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“No problem.”
Something’s off. Mila is the team owner; she doesn’t thank me for coming to her office when she wants to talk to me. I arch my brows and smile, waiting to find out what’s up.
“So.” She taps her bright red, perfectly manicured nails on her desk and takes a deep breath, looking…nervous? I’ve never seen Mila look nervous. “I have a bit of a situation I’m hoping you can help with.”
“Sure.”
Another deep breath. What the hell is going on here? Mila is known as the Ice Queen, not just because she owns a hockey team but because she’s so unemotional. I’ve seen her stare people down until they break out in a sweat. Right now, though, she looks like she needs a shot of the Stoli vodka she loves so much.
“Did you hear we got the last $25 million for the arena?” she asks.
“No, I hadn’t heard. That’s great.”
I don’t pay attention to numbers outside of our team’s stats, my own stats, and my own contract, but I pretend to be interested. There was never any doubt Mila was going to make the new arena a reality.
She clears her throat. “The arena is fully funded, but I made a political enemy out of the governor, and…well, I found out I may be deported back to Russia.”
“Deported?” I just stare at her, in shock, wondering how someone as powerful as Mila could be shipped out of the country like that. Surely she has friends in high enough places to stop that from happening.
“I know our team is on the verge of greatness,” she says, her voice steady now. This is the dialed-in Mila I’m used to. The one who kicks ass and takes names.
“I agree,” I say.
“I want to continue being part of it,” she says. “The day to day of owning this team means everything to me. I’ve never wanted to own the team and pay other people to run it. I’m a hands-on owner.”
