Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“Why not?”
“Because… well, because it’s weird. I’m your driver.”
“You’re more than that, and you know it. Should I kiss you to prove it?” I challenge.
She rolls her eyes at me. “You know what I mean. You’re the owner and you should be up in your owner’s suite doing owner things. It would be… uncomfortable for me.”
“And if I insist on it?” I ask, wondering how far I can push her.
“I’d probably insist on staying down here, where my job begins and ends,” she replies, eyes hardening slightly.
I stare at her before nodding. “I thought you might have a problem with it, but I’m asking you to trust me on this.”
She doesn’t move and I can see the indecision in her eyes. She needs to know that I’m not only the man who can bring her on dates to private dining rooms overlooking Central Park. I am also the man who built something, and who knows how to be here, among everyone else, not just up there, in the rarefied air of Manhattan’s elite.
“Put it on,” I tell her.
There’s hesitation but then she slips out of her coat and pulls the jersey over her head, smoothing it down as she looks at herself—first at the front, then down at the sleeves.
“It fits great,” she says, sounding surprised.
“I made sure it would.”
She looks up at me then, a smile beaming across her beautiful face.
“Come on,” I say, turning toward the entrance. “Follow me.”
Another hesitation but then she falls into step beside me. I have no clue if she’s coming along because she wants to or because I’m her boss and I told her to, but I’ll worry about that later. As we near the doors that lead to the private corridors, her instinct guides her elsewhere.
“But your box is this way,” she says, gesturing toward the familiar path to the owner’s suite.
I don’t break stride. “We’re not watching from there tonight.”
She stops for a half step, thrown. “We’re not?”
I take her hand in mine, and she jerks reflexively. I grip tighter so she won’t pull away. “Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable now, would we?”
She frowns at my cryptic statement. “Then where are we watching from?”
“With everyone else.”
We make our way to the uppermost bowl—the nosebleeds. These are the seats that don’t change hands often. The people here are fixtures, season ticket–holding diehards.
“This is us,” I say, stepping into the row.
A few heads turn, a couple of double takes, but before anything can register too clearly, a familiar voice cuts through.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
I look over and grin. “Evening, Al.”
Big Al is exactly as he’s always been—broad-shouldered, arms inked from wrist to collar, a Vipers beanie pulled over his head. He’s been sitting in this section longer than I’ve owned the team, inherited seats from his father, a retired fireman who used to bring Al to games when the building was a very different place.
“Didn’t think we’d see you here,” he says, standing to clap me on the shoulder.
“Figured I’d check in on the real fans,” I reply.
He snorts. “About time.”
His eyes turn to Harper, taking in the jersey, the name across the back, the fact that she’s with me.
“Who’s this?” he asks.
“This is my date… Harper Hawthorne.”
Al nods once, offering her a smile. “You picked a good night. We’ve been waiting for Philly all week.”
“And I’m here for all of it,” she says, fitting right in.
We settle into the seats. Harper leans forward, elbows on her knees, eyes already tracking the ice as players make their final adjustments before puck drop.
The lights dim slightly, the opening sequence beginning, and the excitement in the building shifts. It’s different here than it is in the suite. The energy here is palpable.
The puck drops, and the game starts fast.
Philadelphia presses early, trying to establish pace, but we match it cleanly. The passes are crisp, the spacing tight, the kind of execution that reflects what I’ve been seeing all week. All month, really.
We’re playing well. Really well.
Midway through the first period, we capitalize—Grizz drives the net, pulls the defense just enough out of position, and Tanner buries it top shelf. The section erupts, Al on his feet immediately, his shouting unintelligible but enthusiastic.
Harper laughs beside me, caught up in it, her reaction unfiltered.
“You see that?” she says, turning to me.
“I did.”
“That was—”
“Awesome,” I finish.
She high-fives Al and the rest of the people nearby.
During a TV timeout in the second, the Jumbotron sweeps across sections until it lands—predictably—on Al.
The crowd recognizes him before the camera even stops and focuses on him, a ripple of cheers building as he stands, already preparing.
“Here we go,” I mutter.
“What’s happening?” Harper asks, already smiling.
“Signature move.”
Al launches into it, some hybrid of a shuffle and a shoulder roll that makes absolutely no sense and yet somehow works perfectly. The section loses it, people on their feet, clapping, shouting his name.