Page 49 of Pucking Billionaire

“Well, I’m first-generation Estonian,” I say. “I can tell you all about the fatherland.” And by all about it, I mean the little bit my parents told me, not much of it flattering.

“Fine,” Sophia says to me before addressing the waitress. “I’ll have the Vidalia onion tart as a starter, the surf and turf for the main course, and dessert.”

“Which dessert?” Helena asks.

“Can I try all of them?” Sophia meets my gaze challengingly, but I’m not about to lose my advantage by wincing, even if the temptation is strong.

“Of course,” Helena says. “There just might be a small surcharge.”

“Put that on my room,” I say—even if that makes me an accomplice to the resulting harm to Sophia’s health.

“Any drinks?” Helena asks.

“No,” Sophia and I say in unison.

“At least no alcohol,” I clarify. “I’ll have some tomato juice if you’ve got that.”

“And a soda for me,” Sophia says, and this time, I must cringe enough for her to notice because she huffs and adds, “Make that an ice cream float.”

Does she think she’s punishing me instead of her pancreas?

“I’ll get right on it,” Helena says and hurries away.

“Go ahead.” Sophia pouts, bringing my cock’s attention to her lips. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“‘The food you ordered isn’t healthy,’” she says in what she must think is an imitation of my voice. To my ears, it sounds more like that of an ogre.

In response, I shrug. “You’re twenty-four. You could probably eat deep-fried chips of lead paint, and your body would survive it… for a while, anyway.”

She rolls her eyes. “You sound like you’re ninety.”

Fuck. She’s right, and I was trying to avoid this very thing. “I’m thirty-seven,” I admit. “Which means I need to be more careful, especially if I want to play… or not have a heart attack.”

Sophia studies me with a peculiar expression. “You don’t look thirty-seven.”

“Thank you.” I raise my water to her.

“Who said it was a compliment?” she grumbles. “I could mean you look like a grandpa, to match the lectures.”

Helena comes back with our drinks, sparing me from having to reply.

When we’re alone again, Sophia licks the ice cream on her float in a way that makes my already-overzealous cock go into overdrive. “At thirty-seven, aren’t you too old for hockey?”

“Showing claws?” I drop a napkin into my lap to hide the bulge, but the napkin tents, so I just move closer to the table.

“Just curious,” she says.

“In that case, you have a point. Usually, the retirement age in hockey depends on your position. For goalies, age isn’t so relevant, and they actually get better later in their careers. For forwards and defensemen, our performance does tend to decline in our late twenties to early thirties… but I’m fighting against that with all the means at my disposal.” And if I live longer as a result, all the better.

“So, when do you think you’ll retire?” she asks.

“This is getting too close to the topic I promised to avoid.”

“How so?”

I pick up my tomato juice. “The reason I want to own the team is so that they’re in my life after I retire.”

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