Dakota
“So. Dakota.” Sal Capuano sat at the head of the massive dining room table, his intense gaze fixed on me, while his servants or butlers or whatever the hell they were stood at the ready. The billionaire was built like a bulldog, and he ate like one, too, snapping a hunk of steak into his merciless jaw. “I’m curious how much you know about the underlying financials of a pro hockey team.”
I couldn’t believe we were already eating—but Mr. Capuano, apparently, had planned everything out for us, and the night was moving along at a brisk clip. It felt like only a minute ago I was alone, anxiously pacing the Capuano’s vast living room—or maybe the mega-rich would call it an “anteroom,” sorry, I’m not exactly up to date on my mansion terminology—still trying to process the fact that the actress I found on friggin’Craigslistwas actually the billionaire casino hotel heiress and daughter of my team owner. The sheer absurdity of the situation I found myself in was utterly mind-boggling—and I hadsomany questions. Questions I couldn’t wait to ask her, once we were alone.
Y’know … if I actually made it home tonight in one piece.
A nagging part of me couldn’t shake the suspicion Ottavia might be a pawn in Mr. Capuano’s grand scheme, tasked with keeping tabs on me. However, as they returned from their private talk, Ottavia flashed her radiant smile, and whatever fears I might’ve had dissolved. It was as if she were silently telling me,Relax, I’m still on your side.
There she sat, across the dinner table, still offering her smile, telling me to stay calm, and just answer her father’s questions.
“The financials?” I cleared my throat. “Not a whole lot, sir. Math and business were never my best subjects in school.”
“I’m curious: whatwasyour best subject in school?”
I hesitated. “Honestly, sir, I wasn’t the best student because I always knew I wanted to be a hockey player—”
“Okay.” He cut me off, swirling his glass of red wine, unimpressed. “Do you know how much I paid to start the Vegas Sin franchise?”
“No, sir. I do not.”
“Half a billion dollars.”
I nearly choked on my bite of steak. “Wow.”
“Yeah. Guess you don’t need to be good at math to understand that’s a lot of money, huh?” He chuckled. “Here’s another question for you, Dakota: where do you think a sports owner like me makes his money?”
I hesitated. Why did I feel like he was walking me into a trap? I could feel the weight of the moment pressing upon my shoulders.
“From … merchandise?” I asked, my voice tinged with uncertainty.
“Eh.” His hand fluttered as if to say,so-so.
“Advertising?”
He gestured to keep going.
“TV rights?”
He chuckled. “All valuable revenue sources, yes. But come on, Dakota. You’re missing the obvious one.”
“Tickets?”
“Yes! Tickets! Bingo.” Mr. Capuano clapped his hands, a satisfied smile crossing his face. “Butts in seats means money in my wallet.”
Ottavia and I exchanged a quick glance, smiling at each other as I finally stumbled into the right answer. But the relief was short, because a sense of unease still lingered, and I knew Mr. Caupano had more in store for me.
“One point five million,” Mr. Capuano said.
I blinked, not understanding the figure. “Excuse me, sir?”
“That’s how much I make at the gate for every home game during the regular season. One point five million dollars.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Any idea what that number is in the playoffs?” he asked.
Crap.I was starting to see what Mr. Capuano was really getting at …
