Page 28 of Pucking Billionaire

Or tries to. With a grace of a figure-skating tiger, Mason dodges said punch and then lands another hit, right in the fucker’s eye. Everyone around us goes wild, with an explosion of cheers for Mason and obscenities for his opponent.

Wait. Why am I angry at Number Thirty all of a sudden? Why do I want to see him in pain? Is this what drove the Vikings—this kind of bloodthirst?

I blame groupthink. The fans clearly want Mason to win.

The stripey-clothed referees arrive on the scene, and I fully expect them to eject Mason and/or Number Thirty from the game, or at least give them a harsh penalty.

Nope. I clearly underestimated the levels of violence considered acceptable in hockey. The refs do nothing to either man and allow them to return to the game as if the recent blows were merely an exchange of salty words.

“Dude,” Abigail says, fanning herself. “If you don’t sleep with him, someone else might.”

She may have a point. To our right, a group of blondes are drooling and ovulating, their vulturous gazes on Mason.

Grr. Now I can relate not only to a regular Viking, but to a berserker as well. Something green is making me want to howl like a wild animal, foam at the mouth, and collect blonde scalps.

Wait, that last one might not be something the Vikings did.

Further stoking my ire, Mason looks in the direction of the blondes—or so I think at first.

Abigail elbows me in the kidney, proving that violence begets violence. “He’s looking for you.”

It’s unbelievable, but it’s true. Mason locks eyes with me and winks.

Winks!

Before I can even process the butterfly effect happening in my belly, a teammate passes Mason the puck.

Whoosh. Mason turns into a human torpedo, careening toward the goalie, sliding into the midst of enemy defense like a well-lubed cock into a?—

“Goal!” that same overeager fan screams nearby, just as the crowd goes wild again.

Okay. It’s official. If all hockey is like this, I just might like it, even if it goes against my pacifist nature.

A bit like Vikings.

The game continues in the same vein, with Mason a rockstar throughout.

By the end, the Yetis win, and the stadium roars in celebration.

“Do you want to go to the locker room?” Abigail shouts into my ear over the racket. “Talk to the team?”

I shake my head vehemently. “They might ask me questions like, ‘What are your plans?’ Not to mention, Mason will try to pressure me to sell again.”

Abigail sighs with resignation. “Can we at least get a drink?”

I nod, and we exit the stadium in search of a bar.

“Bailey’s cookies and cream milkshake, again?” Abigail asks disapprovingly as the bartender sets the mouthwatering concoction in front of me.

I shrug. “It’s the closest thing this bar has to dessert.”

She rolls her eyes. “It is dessert.”

In answer, I take a nice big sip of my drink/dessert and force myself not to wince—the bartender was heavy handed with the alcohol.

“So,” Abigail says after she gulps her low-carb beer or whatever she got. “Did you book the cruise yet?”

I nod. “It’s in a week. Right after finals.”

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