Page 22 of Pucking Billionaire

They may have won this period—and I mean in the hockey sense—but I will win the match.

Chapter 9

Sophia

“And for an extra heavy flow,” I say, keeping a poker face. “You know, the type that’s like a scene from Texas Chainsaw Massacre, I use Tampax Pearl?—”

Abigail chuckles. “He’s gone.”

“Finally.” I grin like an evil villain. “Typical man.”

Rupert, my ex-whom-I-do-my-best-not-to-think-about, would gag at any hint of “that time of the month,” even if it was something innocuous, like a discussion of punctuation marks or a trip to Tampa.

“To Mason’s credit, he lasted longer than I would have expected.” Abigail waggles her eyebrows. “Speaking of, you should also check his stamina… in bed.”

“What?”

She rolls her eyes as she snatches the last piece of sushi with her chopsticks. “You should let him take you out—to discuss business, of course, and afterward, invite him over for some… Netflix.”

“We don’t own a TV.”

“Exactly,” she says. “Though given the vibes between the two of you, maybe you should be less coy and invite him over for a hate fuck.”

Yeah, no. I’m not the type who can invite someone over just like that, but even if I were, that someone would not be that man. Thanks in large part to Rupert, I want nothing to do with men, be it a relationship, hate fucking, or even asking them to screw in a lightbulb.

“I can see you’re overthinking this,” Abigail says with a sigh.

I counter with a sigh of my own. “Can we talk about something else? For example, how is your job search going? Did you apply at Octothorpe?”

The anxious expression on Abigail’s face makes me regret asking. “I applied but didn’t hear back from them. I do, however, have a few interviews with other companies lined up after finals. What about you?”

“No jobs on the horizon,” I say. “But as it turns out, I don’t need the money so urgently anymore.”

I feel a pang of guilt as soon as the words leave my mouth. It’s almost like my father had to die in time for me not to worry about replacing Abigail as my roommate. Shit. Speaking of. “Want to have a sleepover at my new mansion?”

Abigail jumps excitedly to her feet. “I thought you’d never ask.”

As Richard gives us a ride, Abigail tells me what she’s learned about managing a hockey team.

Turns out, the cost of the team includes the arena, the players, and the staff.

“I own an arena?”

She nods. “Yeah. In Brooklyn. You also own Mason… in a way.”

“How does any of this make money?” I ask, ignoring the bit about Mason.

“Ticket and merchandise sales, sponsorships and TV contracts,” Abigail says. “There may be more that I haven’t yet delved into.”

The sushi in my stomach becomes cold and clammy fish once again. “I already feel overwhelmed with my newfound wealth. This team sounds like a major extra headache.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” she says. “You’ll need to increase revenues and/or cut costs. The media outlets and fans will have a lot of questions for you. The?—”

“Maybe I should sell?” I wonder out loud. “Not to that asshole, but to someone?”

“Whatever you want to do,” Abigail says. “Like I told him, I can help you figure all of this out.”

I open my mouth to reply but notice the awestruck expression on my friend’s face.

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