He drags a hand through his hair, and the anger in his expression turns to exhaustion. “I’m dealing with family shit.”
“You can tell us what’s going on, Reid,” Cole hedges. “We’re your family, too.”
Jake’s shoulders sag slightly when the comment lands, the fight draining out of him. He’s quiet for a long moment, then finally sighs. “I found out my dad was trying to buy a place near the arena… so I bought it first.”
Our table goes quiet. Even Logan is stunned silent.
Cole blinks. “I’m sorry, you what?”
Head bowed, focus averted, he says, “I bought the house out from under him.”
I bark out a laugh. Kennedy’s email sign-ups were petty, but she’s got nothing on Jake. Although if she had his kind of money—the kind that allows him to just buy property by the arena, where places cost up to ten million—she’d probably come out on top.
“It was supposed to be a fuck-you, but now I have this massive house I don’t know what to do with.”
“Sell it.” Logan shrugs easily.
“I don’t want to sell it.” Jake’s voice is sharp. “That’s the whole point. He wanted it, so I made sure he couldn’t have it.”
“Okay,” I say carefully. “It may not have been your smartest financial decision, but it’s not the end of the world, man.”
He finally looks up, his expression raw. “Think about it, Davies.Whywould my dad suddenly be interested in purchasing property near Airwave Arena?”
That question makes my stomach sink.
Oh.
Fuck.
Very muchoh fuck.
Cole lets out a low whistle. “You think he’s interested in buying the team if Sanders sells.”
“Yes.”
“He would actually?—”
Jake laughs, but it’s bitter. “It’s exactly something my dad would do. So that’s why I’ve been distracted.” He crosses his arms. “Happy now?”
Cole shakes his head. “No, I’m not happy at all.” He pauses. “Fuck, it’s a miracle you only missed three backdoor passes.”
Despite everything, Jake cracks the smallest smile. “Asshole.”
“I’ll do some more digging,” Logan promises. “I haven’t heard anything new about the potential sale, but I’ll see if your dad’s name raises any flags, okay?”
Jake nods. “Thanks.”
“If Sandersdoessell, at least one good thing will come from it,” Logan muses. “Gigi’s access will be gone, so she will be, too.”
Yeah. Right. And so will Kennedy.
Getting rid of Gigi is no longer as appealing as it once was.
Kennedy doesn’t stop talking once the entire time I’m brushing my teeth. She’s too busy running through her schedule fortomorrow. I don’t know if she’s talking to me or thinking out loud, but I’m listening either way.
She called me an hour ago to thank me for the newest “period care package”—good chocolate, the overpriced tea she drinks before bed, and a beige blanket with pink flowers that pained my soul to buy. She’s had miserable cramps all week, and with Anderson-Chen tasting stressing her out, I figured she needed the pick-me-up.
What was supposed to be a quick thank-you call turned into her walking me through every detail of tomorrow: when she’s leaving, where she’s getting her coffee (not Boston Bean, which I’ve sworn I won’t mention to Maya), the parking spot she prepaid for near the country club entrance, and which sweater she’s wearing because apparently business casual and smart casual are different.
