Page 91 of Pucking Billionaire

Nope.

I don’t care how rude they’re about to think I am. Channeling my high school self, I slide down the stair railing to get past the gawking strangers. At the bottom, I run smack into a crowd of passengers waiting to disembark.

Okay. All isn’t lost. I’m on the ground level of the ship, and we haven’t docked yet. Maybe we can delay docking until I catch her? I take out my phone and dial the captain to call in one last favor.

He doesn’t answer.

Fuck.

I call Sophia.

She doesn’t answer either. She’s either ignoring me on purpose or is still on her “digital detox.”

Fine. I start pushing through the crowd.

The ship comes to a halt, and the captain’s voice cheerfully slurs about our arrival.

“Let me through,” I growl at the people in front of me.

Something in my voice must make them realize that it’s best to comply because many people move out of my way, and then I push through the ones who don’t.

When I enter the terminal, I spot what could be Sophia’s curvy figure hurrying toward the cabs.

I gauge the distance between us.

If this were ice and I had skates on, I’d make it for sure, but as is, I’ll have to rely on sprinting.

So, I sprint… and crash into a wall of defensemen that seems to have sprouted from nowhere to block my way.

“What the fuck?”

This seems eerily like a nightmare I sometimes have—though, granted, I’m on the ice naked in that one.

“And hello to you too, Yeti scum,” says one of the burly dudes in my way.

I scan them all, and only when I spot a familiar—and unwelcome—face, do I understand.

These are the Florida Bears, a hockey team that isn’t our rival but wishes they were.

And, of course, with them is Misha, or rather Michael Medvedev as I’ll call him to his face today because I’d rather deescalate the situation than waste valuable seconds kicking everyone’s ass.

Is this ambush his idea?

Apart from the usual Soviet-bred discontent on his hawkish face, his expression is unreadable. I’ve never told him this—as it might sound like a compliment—but he has always reminded me of a bogatyr from Russian folk tales. They are a type of Slavic knights errant and are always depicted as big men fierce enough to slay three-headed dragons.

Oh, and they aren’t really team players either.

“Michael,” I say, addressing Medvedev directly. “I’m in a big rush. If you care about your teammates’ wellbeing, tell them to get out of my fucking way.”

Then again, since when does he give two shits about his teammates?

“My wellbeing?” says one of the defensemen, whom I’m going to eviscerate first. “You and what army?”

“Listen,” I say in Russian, eyes still only on Medvedev. “I didn’t have anything to do with you losing your job. It was Coach’s decision, I swear.” Not that I didn’t agree with said decision, but I didn’t help him make it, which is why this isn’t a lie.

“Did he just say something about my mama?” grits out the same not-long-for-this-world defenseman. “I’m going to?—”

“Shut your mouth,” Misha says in perfect, unaccented English, his growly voice carrying so much threat that his teammate swallows the rest of his words. He then turns his attention to me and asks in Russian, “What’s in it for me?”

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