Page 50 of A Million Times, Yes
“God, he’s perfect.”
I tucked the phone back into my pocket. “He does kinda seem that way, doesn’t he?”
“Did you tell him you’re at tonight’s game, becoming a pro on all things hockey?”
We moved ahead a spot so there were now only a few people in front of us. “Nope. I’m going to surprise him with some hockey lingo during our run tomorrow.” I wasn’t sure why, but my brain returned to the conversation I’d had with Bettie and Emily. “You know, Bettie asked if Jordan played for the Bears, and I told her that he didn’t play professionally, but I don’t actually know if that’s true. Of course, I don’t think he does, but he never really told me what he does for a living. He only said that it’s boring and a corporate position—but what does that even mean? And I don’t know if he played in college either. I just know that he played a lot.”
“You guys are still getting to know each other. Besides, whatever he does, I get the feeling it’s important.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because sexy, dominant men—like you’ve told me he is—have jobs where they’re required to take charge and be all alpha, and they don’t like listening to anyone.”
“He hates listening.”
“Exactly. Because he’s the boss.”
“But the boss of what?” I checked our placement in line.
She shrugged. “At the moment, your vag. He’s bossing it like it’s his employee.”
“Oh my God, Emily.”
“What? I’m wrong?”
I let out a long breath. “No. He definitely is, and he definitely gives off that alpha, dominant-boss vibe.”
“I need to find myself a Jordan.” She looped her arm through mine. “Someone who will take me under a bridge because he simply can’t wait to have me.”
I smiled as I remembered both memories. “Yes, you do.”
We reached the register and placed our beer orders, and Emily handed over the hundred-dollar bill only to find out that the arena was cashless and wouldn’t take the money. So she dug through her pocket until she found her credit card.
“Expensive and bougie as fuck,” she whispered to me.
“Amen.”
We grabbed our beers, and once we arrived at section 115, we walked through the short tunnel and were greeted by an usher who stood near the start of the seats.
“Can I please see your tickets?” he asked.
I loaded them onto the screen and showed him my phone.
“You’re directly in front of the glass,” he said.
I looked at Emily and back at him. “What does that mean?”
He laughed. “That’s the front row.”
“The front row?” Emily said. “Whoa, baby.”
“Follow the stairs to the bottom, and you’re the first two seats on the right,” he said.
“Bettie wasn’t kidding. This is center ice,” Emily replied. “Damn.” I had just reached the end of the stairs and was taking a seat when she added, “To have seats like this, Bettie must be a boss bitch.”
“She must be.”
“Do we know anything about her?”
