Page 12 of Pucking Billionaire

The words “pessimist” and “cynical” have been thrown around a lot in my vicinity.

The beard twitches in a way that suggests that Coach might be pursing his never-visible lips. “In that case, try again with the new owner. Maybe be cordial next time.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Great advice. Why didn’t I think of that?”

His eyes narrow. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”

“Puns are lower. And fart jokes.” Along with the other things that come out of Jason’s mouth.

“Be that as it may, my advice stands,” Coach huffs. “Keep your temper in check. It’s a good idea on the ice, if you become a coach, and really, as a human being in general.”

Great. He’s in one of those moods. “I’ll be nicer to her next time. I promise.” It will be a huge challenge, but the team is worth it.

“Great.” He scratches where his chin might be hiding. “Now, I have to go. Wife wants a foot rub.”

“TMI,” I say and hang up, but with a reluctant smile.

Coach has found himself a unicorn: a happy marriage.

Pretty sure in all of New York, that’s him and one other guy.

I pace around my place while Spike, channeling a circus cat, glides between my feet. The thing I’m pondering is: how do I take another stab at talking to Ladybug?

Step one: I need to find her. I doubt Cohen will help me again, so I’m on my own this time.

Speaking of Cohen, thanks to him, I know her last name now, even if I wouldn’t dare try to say it out loud: Papachristodoulopoulou. Her first name—Sophia—I know from Theodore.

I head over to my laptop and google that combo.

Nope. There’s an alpine skier named Sophia Papamichalopoulou, but that’s not Ladybug. Something else I learn is that her last name means “descendant of the priest and servant of Christ.” Huh. Another search later, I discover that unlike their Roman Catholic counterparts, Greek Orthodox priests are allowed to marry, which can lead to pretty long last names for their descendants.

Put another way, I find out nothing.

Hmm. She looked to be in her early twenties, so it’s a good bet that she’ll be on TikTok.

Nothing comes up. Weird.

Snapchat?

Still no. Same goes for Facebook.

Not into social media? I guess that’s one thing we have in common.

Fine. Plan B—which will make me even more of a stalker.

I dial Landon and make a point to not use video so that I don’t have to see his smug “I told you so” expression when he learns how much of a mess I’ve made.

“Let me guess,” he says instead of a hello. “Was it her who said, ‘How dare you?’”

“It was. You were right. Can we move on?”

“Hell fucking no,” he says. “Tell me what happened.”

I do so, feeling sick of the story already.

“Is she hot?” he asks.

“What?” I’m squeezing my phone too hard again.

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