Page 14 of Pucking Billionaire

“Thanks.” Abigail climbs down from the bunk bed and walks over to the toilet—yes, the one in the middle of the room. “Don’t turn around,” she warns.

As per our usual protocol, I not only avoid turning but also sing “Let It Go” from Frozen loudly enough to drown out any unladylike sounds that might come out of my roommate.

“Done.” She punctuates the word with a flush. “Oh, and you need to update your repertoire.”

I ignore that. Whenever it’s my turn, she exclusively sings “Ring of Fire” by Johnny Cash, which makes me think of herpes, chlamydia, and Chipotle.

I move out of her way so she can use our kitchen/bathroom sink, one that serves as an impromptu shower on days when we don’t have time to swing by the locker rooms at our school’s gym.

By the time the micro-microwave beeps, Abigail deems herself presentable, and I agree. Even without makeup and after sleep deprivation, she’s gorgeous: blonde, tall, toned, naturally pouty-lipped, and with fierce blue eyes. Put another way, she strongly resembles Lagertha from Vikings.

“So.” She grabs the burrito and bites off a huge chunk of it. “How did it go?” Her question sounds muffled by half-chewed rice and beans.

I stick another burrito into the micro-microwave—a dessert version that I like, with chocolate, peanut butter, and jelly, that has about the amount of sugar it takes in treats to teach an elephant to ride a unicycle. “I think I’m rich.”

She nearly chokes on her food and then demands all the details. When I tell her all the events of today, she’s disturbingly more interested in the Viking than in my new wealth. Offhandedly, I mention his name. She audibly swallows her food and gasps. “Did you say Mason Tugev?”

“Yeah.” I didn’t realize assholes like him were household names.

“The hockey player?”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah. I just told you that.”

“You know he’s a billionaire, right?” she squeals. “And you told him ‘no deal.’”

He is? “I thought professional athletes made millions, not billions.”

“Ah, but this one used the money from his contract to invest in Octothorpe. Early.” She digs out her phone and taps at it a few times. “I just sent you an article from WSJ.”

WSJ? Does that stand for Whippersnapper Scallywag Jamboree? More importantly: “Isn’t Octothorpe the place you’re dying to work at?”

She nods with such enthusiasm she almost pecks the burrito with her nose. “Everything that company touches turns to gold. Oh, and they still give out stock options to their employees.”

“Everything turning to gold didn’t work out so well for King Midas,” I remind her.

She nods sagely. “You’re talking about his troubles jerking off?”

I snort. “Yeah. I think that’s also the backstory behind Goldmember from Austin Powers.”

The micro-microwave dings.

“Read the article,” she says as I fish out my burrito.

I pull out my phone, and as I chew, I find out that a) WSJ stands for The Wall Street Journal and b) Mason Tugev is the best player in the DHL—the Diamond Hockey League, which has zero connection to the shipping company with the same name. Mason first became famous when he refused to leave his team, even when a more famous team tried to poach him. Then his fame grew when he kept playing hockey even after making an obscene amount of money, which leads to the all-important point c) he is indeed a billionaire, thanks to “shrewd investing.”

Hmm.

I look up from my phone. “Do you think he wants the hockey team because he knows it’s about to go up in price?”

Abigail shakes her head. “Sports teams appreciate over the long term. He might want the prestige of owning a team. Or is looking for tax benefits.”

I chew the burrito and ponder the kinds of yummy foods I can now afford. Caviar? Truffles? Godiva chocolates?

“So,” Abigail says as my stomach rumbles. “The most important part: what did he look like?”

I have no idea why, but I blush like a medieval nun upon meeting a half-naked Viking.

She grins. “That hot, huh?”

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