Page 11 of Pucking Billionaire

“When are you going to talk to her again?” Jason asks, bringing me back to the matter at hand.

“No idea,” I say. “First, I need a game plan.”

As soon as I step into my apartment, my cat, Spike, runs over and greets me with an enthusiasm you’d expect from a golden retriever puppy.

“I’m happy to see you too,” I say gruffly before heading into the kitchen to feed him a few slices of sashimi-grade tuna.

Next, I grab a bottle of my favorite vodka and videocall Evan, my buddy from Florida. We have a mutually beneficial arrangement to not let the other drink alone.

“Hey,” Evan says, then frowns at the bottle in my hands. “I’m sorry, I quit drinking.”

“You did?”

“I have a kid around now,” Evan says. “Don’t want to set a bad example.”

Ah. Right. “Makes sense.”

“You should quit, too,” Evan suggests. “It doesn’t fit your healthy eating schtick.”

“Actually, back in Estonia, vodka is believed to cure all sorts of ailments.” When I was a kid, whenever I was sick, my mom would dip my socks in vodka and have me put them on, so I’d smell like an alcoholic when I got to school.

Fuck. Now I need that drink all the more. This happens whenever I think back to my family and how they’ve cut all ties with me.

“Weren’t you born in the US?” Evan asks.

I shrug. “My Estonian-born parents still managed to pass on their vodka beliefs to me.” And their obsession with saunas, which I got the whole team into.

“Well, I’m pretty sure the science on it isn’t great,” Evan says. “So if you’re avoiding doughnuts, you might want to avoid vodka too.”

“You know what? Next time I don’t want to drink by myself, I’ll head over to a bar instead of calling you and getting a lecture.”

“Perfect,” he says. “That way, maybe you’ll finally meet a woman who?—”

I end the call.

Why does everyone who starts dating want me to join their cult? Similarly with people who have children: they turn into walking PR campaigns for spawning.

I eye the vodka and debate breaking the drink-by-myself taboo.

No. I guess some things I learned from my parents are too difficult to ignore.

Fine.

I put the vodka away and videocall Coach, the person in my life who simultaneously serves as a therapist, priest, and probation officer.

“Hey, kid.” Coach strokes his record-breaking beard. “Or should I call you Boss?”

“I’m not your boss… yet.”

“What happened?” Coach mindlessly tugs on his beard—or as Jason would say, “looks for a snack in it.”

I tell Coach what happened, and when I get to the CPR part of the story, he compliments me on my life-saving skills, and he might as well be patting himself on the back since he’s the one who suggested that I learn first aid.

He tosses his beard over his shoulder. “Maybe you should consider my other suggestion?”

“No.” I can’t believe he’s bringing it up again. Despite the beard making him look practically ancient, Coach is only ten years older than I am, yet he’s got it into his head that he should retire—provided he finds a suitable replacement first. Why on earth he thinks I’m capable of filling his sasquatch-sized shoes is beyond me.

Our team is one of the few in the league that doesn’t have a captain, but if we did, I wouldn’t even be that. I don’t have it in me to be all rah-rah inspirational. In fact, I’ve been accused of the opposite.

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