Noah laughs. “I didn’t offer three.”
The men on either side of me glare. One pair of green eyes and one pair of brown narrow on him.
Shifting closer, he takes the paper from me and crosses off the two. In one quick movement, he draws a big three, then pushes the sheet back at me. “Fine. Three million dollars for one season. We can only offer you a one-year contract for now. We still have two goalies under contract for next year, both withvery highsalaries.” He zeroes in on Gavin when he says it.
Gavin just glowers back.
“How much does JJ make?” I ask Brooks.
He smirks. “Thatta girl.”
I laugh. “I’m not asking because I expect to make the same.”
“Why not?” Gavin prods. “You telling me he’s better than you?”
My natural instinct is to say yes, but that’s not true. He may be more experienced in the NHL, but better? That remains to be seen, I suppose.
“JJ makes more than Sidney. We don’t have the cap to match their salaries,” Noah explains.
Gavin grunts. “Make room.”
I shake my head. “Three million is good. Grand, actually. I was making forty-five thousand in the PWHL.”
Brooks drops his head back and growls. “Motherfuckers. Does Beckett know that?”
Gavin yanks out his phone. “I’m texting him now.”
“Guys,” I grit out.
All three look at me.
“He can’t change the cap in the PWHL.”
All three let out incredulous noises.
“Have you met your father?” Brooks asks.
Eyes falling shut, I sigh. They’re right. Where there’s a will, Beckett Langfield will find a way. And in this case, it isn’t a bad thing. Femaleplayers deserve more, and if getting my father hot under the collar gets that done, then that’s better for everyone, I suppose.
“Can I sign now?” I ask, my knee bouncing. I want to make this official before they take it back.
Noah straightens. “Are you sure you don’t want to have your agent look this over?”
“I trust you guys.” I roll my eyes. “Obviously.”
“Still, the boss will want this all done in a press conference. This is a big moment,” he reminds me. “You’re the first female goalie ever in the NHL.”
“The boss, as in his wife.” I hitch a thumb at Brooks.
Brooks shakes his head, the look on his face half exasperation and half affection. It’s the look he most often wears when Aunt Sara is involved. “She’ll be pissed if we don’t make it happen. And I don’t want to hear about it. Take the contract home. Share it with your agent. Negotiate if you must, and then we’ll schedule the presser.”
“Ugh, you sound like such a suit,” I tease him.
He groans. “I know. But don’t worry, I’ll kick your ass during practice this week.”
A thrill courses through me. “I can’t wait.”
THIRTY-FIVE
