Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
That’s true unless your new husband – who is much younger than you by the way – doesn’t actually want a divorce when you both sober up.
Or, of course, if you get pregnant – the last thing you need right after becoming the new GM to a failing pro hockey team.
I guess you could say this year won’t be easy.
Especially for me, the owner.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Here are five songs from the The Owner playlist!
Feel free to follow the playlist on Spotify to find more songs I felt related to the book.
1. Jealous (Remix)—Nick Jonas, Tinashe (R&B)
2.p B.I.G.—X Ambassadors (Rock)
3. Bad At Love—Halsey (Pop)
4. if I could I would feel nothing—blackbear (Rap/Hip-hop)
5. Starstruck—Years & Years (Electro Pop)
More songs
Harlow
This is how normal people mourn the death of their favorite person on the planet, right?
They hop on their private plane with their anal-retentive assistant best friend less than four hours after the funeral of their father—the only real parent to give a fuck about them—send one of their best friends since childhood money for a plane ticket—since he couldn’t make it for the funeral because of a tight cash situation—and tell him to meet them in Vegas where they’ve rented the penthouse suite of The Frost Luxury Hotel for their get royally fucked up adventures.
All of that is…totally…run of the mill…ordinary.
Just like having a Wilcox and coke—or six—during the aforementioned jet setting from Texas to Nevada prior to pounding back shot after shot after shot the instant their best friend and his hot tagalong walk through the door is quite reasonable.
And it’s probably safe to assume that the average grieving individual would also throw cash around the casino like they just won The Cup versus sucking so fucking hard that they’re dead last in the league.
The. Whole. Fucking. League.
Our team sucks so much fucking ass that it gave my dad a stroke.
Okay.
That’s a lie.
The preference for high dollar steaks, fried cheese curds, and refusal to even look at salad contributed to the attack as well as the excessive drinking, smoking, and inconsistency in bringing down his high blood pressure.
But like…owning and having a hand in operating the worst team in the league was probably a factor too.
And while all the shit that I’ve previously listed is obviously acceptable bereavement behavior for a rational, reasonable, emotionally balanced person, I know without a doubt blacking out and waking up with a goddamn mood ring on their left hand is not.
I slowly rotate my warm, honey brown skinned palm from one side to other, glaring at the piece of tacky jewelry.
Black probably isn’t the best sign.
Maybe it means I’m dehydrated?
That I’m malnourished?
Fuck, maybe that I need to take a shit?
Both hands promptly fly over my face on a heavy sigh.
Forfuckssake, it’s not the latest Fitbit. Its job probably isn’t to help regulate my life or remind me how unregulated my life is. Clearly, its sole purpose is to…well, to be honest, I don’t know what the fuck the point of these things are or why on Earth I fucking have one.
And whose idea was it to get one?!
And why would I agree to wear it?
What part of me—skates with the boys, drinks with boys, titty bar hops with the boys—suddenly screams trashy middle school accessories?!
I didn’t even wear those things in middle school!
I would’ve been the laughingstock of the whole fucking barn.
It was hard enough getting them to take me seriously as the only girl on the whole fucking team; however, that shit did change when they realized I was a sniper.
In and out of the uniform.
Audible grumbles suddenly appear next to me not only fanning the dull throbbing I was hoping would be gone by now but drawing my burning gaze over to the stirring movement beside me.
Please let that be a person.
Please let that be a person.
Please let that be a person and not some random baby farm animals Geoffrey Winslow—my childhood best friend from my mother’s home country, Doctenn—convinced me to adopt again.
Ugh.
I can’t believe I have to say the word again.
Although, I’ll admit it.
Life wouldn’t be the same without Cookies and Cream, my Nigerian dwarf goats. Getting those two cuddle bugs not only made turning thirty-five a lot more fun, but they also gave Dad a reason to finally get me out of my downtown condo and into a huge house he had built for me right on the outskirts of Dalvegan. Of course, said house came with obnoxious conversations about me settling down. Getting away from the league—the only thing I fucking live and breathe for. And of course, starting a life with someone who—if it were up to Dad—had very little knowledge about our shared beloved sport.
Sometimes I think he wanted the same type of makeup and cocktails daughter that my socialite, money hungry, ass kissing mother did instead of the sweater—also known as a jersey—wearing and brewskies guzzling one he got stuck raising.
Other times, I know without a doubt, he was grateful for the fearless, athlete obsessed, business savvy beauty he bragged about whenever asked about his personal life.
God, it used to drive her insane to hear him gush about me or our trips around the world together. Without fail, she’d use the press coverage like a debit card to extract more cash from him that she didn’t deserve.