The
coaches cleared out of the way, and none other than Sharon Jernigan walked up.
“Fucking
hell,” I muttered.
“Who’s
that?” Razor asked me.
“Owner’s
wife.”
He
slumped down in his seat like a kid who didn’t want to get called on in class.
“Fucking hell’s right.”
Her
helmet hair looked even bigger than the last time I’d seen her, at the wedding.
Her smile was as forced as ever. “Welcome to Tulsa and the Thunderbirds
organization,” she said, her thick drawl accented by the all-too-familiar
waving arms. “Tom and I want to be sure y’all feel like a part of the family.”
I
knew she meant her church family, even if the rest of the guys didn’t. Yet.
They’d figure it out soon enough.
With
that, I decided it was as good a time as any for me to tune out again. I leaned
back, crossing my arms and my ankles, doing my best to relax without quite
falling asleep. I was doing a damn good job of it, too, until Razor elbowed me
in the ribs.
I
hissed in a breath, rubbing the spot he’d targeted. “What the fuck was that
for?”
“She
can’t fucking do that, can she?”
“Do
what?” Maybe I should have paid at least some attention while she was talking.
“Put
a fucking swear jar in the room. She says the money’s going into the
Thunderbirds Foundation fund. That’s got to be against some rule in the CBA or
something. Don’t you think?”
A
swear jar? I’d known since the first
time I’d met her that she was going to have a rude awakening being around
hockey players, considering how she’d gotten her panties in a twist over the
language I’d used that first day, but this was beyond ridiculous.
Throughout
the room, guys were shifting in their seats and muttering beneath their breath,
talking to one another.
“I
don’t have a clue,” I said quietly. “But if she can, we’re all going to be
fucking broke.”
He
gave me a thorough once over, a single brow raised. “Good thing you’re paid
more than you’re worth.”
“Look
who’s talking,” I shot back. He was making the kind of bank a top pairing
defenseman would normally earn, but on any other team he wouldn’t be placed any
higher than the third or fourth D on
the team. That was probably why the Sabres had left him available in the
expansion draft, come to think of it. They didn’t want to pay him that much
anymore, and they knew the T-Birds would need to add some salary to meet the
cap floor.
We
were still debating who was being overpaid the most when Dima stood up and
walked to his stall. My arguments dropped off. I couldn’t help but watch him,
and apparently I wasn’t alone. At least half the guys in the room were staring
in the same direction.
Dima
dug his wallet out of his jeans pocket. He pulled out a wad of bills and headed
for Mrs. Jernigan, pressing them into her hand. “For first fucking month,” he
said, his Russian accent thick even if his English was only slightly broken.
She
gaped at him as he returned to his seat next to me. “But you’re supposed to stop swearing,” she said in a daze.
I
couldn’t help it. I chuckled.
The
next thing I knew, every guy in the room got up and followed Dima’s example, me
included. The owner’s wife could do nothing but hold out her hand and collect
the bills she was handed.
I
guess she still had a thing or two to learn about being around hockey players.
You can pre-order Bury the Hatchet now at Amazon, iBooks, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, and All Romance eBooks. You can add it to your Goodreads shelf, too.The second book, Smoke Signals, will star Razor. It releases on October 22, and you can pre-order it at iBooks (and at other vendors 90 days before release) and add it to your Goodreads shelf.
