Page 11 of The Puck Stops Here
‘In that case’ – Bella plucked an outfit off the bed and shoved it at her – ‘go get this on, becausethisis the one!’
Astrid frowned down at the sedate black skirt suit. ‘Really?’
‘Quit it with the doubts!’
‘Says you!’ But she grinned. ‘You know, I think wine turns you into a bossy devil.’
Mortified, Bella gawped at her glass. ‘Oh, God, do you think?’
‘Don’t oh God me, B. I love it. You’re aclassybossy devil.’
And she was going to have to channel some of that classiness if she was going to lure one brother in while writing an expo involving the extremely distracting and disturbing other…
‘And don’t forget Paige’s contribution to the outfit.’ Bella grabbed the black-rimmed specs that had arrived in the post that week and handed them to her. ‘I think she’s suggesting you go in for the whole Clark Kent vibe.’
‘You know glasses make a shit disguise, right?’
‘It’s not about a disguise, it’s about getting into character.’
She eyed them with a shrug. ‘Well, if it’s good enough for Superman…’
‘Andgood old Delia with some of those bedroom scenes.’ Bella tapped theveryracy book she had bought for Astrid on the bedside table – a copy of one Bella had been gifted by said Delia at the airport last month. ‘Though perhaps it’s best not to think of those while…’
She twirled a finger at the guy on the screen.
‘Hell, no!’ Astrid blurted. Blake and bedroom equalled bad bad bad. ‘Justice, here I come…right after I finish this wine!’
2
Blake was fucked.
Royally. Proverbially. Every which way, fucked.
The second he entered the general manager’s office and saw the trio stationed behind the desk – Coach, the GM and the pretty PR chick – he’d known.
No one smiled. No one spoke. He took a seat.
To his left, the big screen playing the NHL Network had been muted. To his right, the glass gave a bird’s-eye view of the practice rink, and to his rear was the door. The exit through which he wanted to bolt.
He’d never been great at taking a beating lying down – physically or verbally.
Even when he’d earned it.
‘You’re out of lives, Carter.’
Blake eyed the GM, his clean-shaven face, designer suit and perfect hair irritating the crap out of him. The guy was money through and through. Daddy’s money to be precise.
‘With respect, Walker…’
Coach winced. PR chick sucked in a breath. And the GM cocked an unimpressed brow. But Blake couldn’t care less. He wasn’t about to address the GM with some ass-kissing title. Not when the man had yet to earn it. He’d been gifted the role by his billionaire father, the Titans owner, a year ago. And so far he’d failed to demonstrate any passion for the sport; it was all about him and his appeal to the masses. Not the team.
‘With respect,’ Blake repeated through his teeth, ‘it wasn’t me being stretchered off the ice.’
Coach’s eyes shot daggers across the table, screaming at him to shut the hell up as Blake’s head advised the same. Problem was his mouth liked getting him into trouble and his fists were too quick to follow. But then he’d never been great with words. Doing was more his style.
Just like dear old Dad…
Though Blake didn’t prey on the innocent, the weak, the vulnerable, like the old man had.
