Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Even if she’s going to neutralize him with her badass approach, even if she has a brilliant plan, and even if she’s one thousand times smarter than that prick, I need to be ready.
I swear, if I see him…
I breathe past the anger then plug my own name into Google. The first result is the brief interview from the shutout the other night. Then something about the documentary from today. Next are photos and social posts and articles from the charitable events Everly shepherded.
Fine.
That’s all fine.
There’s nothing to worry about, and Erin’s piece hasn’t aired yet. It will in a couple more minutes. I hunt around a little more when something catches my eye on the second page of results. Something I didn’t expect to see at all.
A photo of a jersey. A jersey that has a signature of my name on it, with a paw print beside it.
“Holy shit,” I mutter to myself. That’s the jersey I signed a few weeks ago.
I click on it and do a little digging on the site. It’s a sports auction site and there’s a whole new set of memorabilia for sale right along with a photo of five jerseys spread out on a table. Mine, Miles’s, Asher’s, Wesley’s, and Hugo’s. It’s not the set that Little Friends auctioned off the other week—I know because those were indeed auctioned off.
This is the set that I gave to Elias weeks ago. The name of the seller is CollegeSportsGuy. That little fucker has been selling our signed gear all along.
What a liar. What a thief. What a total piece of shit. And I’m smiling so wide because this right here is better than punching the guy.
Though punching him would be so gratifying. Only I’ve learned that fights don’t do me any favors. Good thing I can use my brain.
I mull this over for a minute until I come up with the perfect play. At least, I hope it is. I don’t have much time. We need to be on the ice any minute. I turn to Wesley. “Do me a solid, will you, Bryant?”
“Sure,” he says as he tightens his laces.
“Can you call Elias and tell him you have a stick for him? A signed stick?”
He arches a brow in question. “Okay, but why?”
“I need some bait to get him to come down here. And I’m pretty sure he won’t take my call.”
His easy shrug says yes. “I’m in.” He grabs his phone and dials the main number for the front office, asking for Elias. I fucking love my teammates.
Next I hunt around for Coach. I need him—or someone like him inside the Sea Dogs—to pull off this play. But he’s the best place to start since he ought to be easy for me to find right before a game. Only, he’s not in the locker room. Or the athletic trainer’s room. He might be in his office, but first I pop into the video room, since he’s often there with his assistants before a game. Yup. The captain of the ship sits in a leather chair with an assistant coach, peering at a tablet, probably reviewing plays.
“Sir, how’s it going?” I ask.
Coach raises his face, his expression serious because he’s always serious. “Good, Lambert. And you?”
I scratch my beard, then sigh. “Pretty good, but you gotta see what’s going on with Bryant and this stick. It’s messed up.”
He takes a breath, then asks, “And you need me? About a stick? Not Quinn?”
Quinn’s the equipment manager, and honestly, that’s not a bad idea. But the clock’s ticking, so I say, “Both of you would be great.”
Coach rolls his eyes. “I’ll let him know if I see him.” He tells the assistant coach he’ll be right back, then pushes up and follows me.
He’s a little irked, but I can handle an irked coach. I’ve got the crew assembled now. Timing is everything in sports and if I’ve engineered this play properly, Elias ought to be in the hallway outside the locker room right as we walk up to him.
Like…now.
Wesley’s handing a signed stick to my enemy as we turn the corner. I fight off a winning smile as I call out, “Hey, Elias.”
The prick turns to me, his beady eyes flickering with worry. But he tries to cover it up with a, “Hey, Max. How you doing?”
Like we’re friends.
His gaze shifts nervously to the man in the suit next to me. “Hey, Coach. Good to see you too,” Elias says, playing up the buddy-buddy card with him.
“Elias,” Coach says, with a crisp nod and a tone that clearly says, Max, why the hell did you pull me out of my meeting for this?
I tip my chin toward Elias, playing innocent. “I saw you were selling our stuff online. Sweet, man. You must have a nice side hustle there?”