The Owner (Dalvegan Dragons #1) Read Online Xavier Neal

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Funny, Romance, Sports Tags Authors: Series: Dalvegan Dragons Series by Xavier Neal
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Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
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God knows I haven’t had a sip since I got back from Vegas.

Hell, I’ve instantly been dry heaving over just the idea, which has Vegas putting points on the board and me sporting a big fat goose egg.

The subtle tap to the closed door has me groaning in unhappiness. “Hennington…”

She’s not here right now, so it would best if you left a message after the flush.

“Letty called the office.” Her pause is given to reiterate what a huge deal it is. “The. Office.”

Nicolette “Letty” Odom is the last member of my best friends team. Rightfully loved and adored by Hollywood for being everyone’s favorite, gorgeous, girl next door sweetheart actress but to me…to my dad…to the others in my circle…she’ll always be that little taste of trouble you’re glad you have. No, she’s not robbing banks or knocking over liquor stores or streaking through the Costco parking lot on Christmas Eve—I lost a very bad bet which is why I refuse to ever play Trivial Pursuit again—but she’s definitely the one behind the wheel of the car that skids out of the aforementioned parking lot with Lindsey Stirling’s version of “Carol of the Bells” blaring hard enough to blow the speakers. She’s also the one who orders fifteen pizzas to spell out “Fuck You Asshole!” in pepperonis—one letter per pizza—to the bat bitch you were banging for six weeks after finding out not only was he lying about being faithful to you, he was also trying to get you to send him nudes not for his spank bank but to sell to a trashy magazine to tank your reputation while building his own. Letty’s that friend I can text at two a.m. or two p.m. and say let’s get some Chinese and we’ll go get it. Well, if she’s in town. If not, she finds the closet spot to her, and we video chat while we eat. Her calling is a huge deal because the woman loathes phone calls. Like I kind of think she has a phobia. Like a real one. If it can’t be said in a text, covered in an email, or tossed out in a DM she’s typically not interested unless it’s face to face or if it’s a video chat, which is face to face adjacent. Sort of like accepting mustard instead of mayo on a burger because that’s all they have available. Her calling means she’s really fucking worried. And honestly? I am too a little bit. I can’t remember ever being away from my phone this much. It’s just…hard to read articles and stats and plays while vomiting my brains out. I’m not a magician!

The shirtless man with the wand who evidently had the legal rights to perform an actual ceremony briefly pops back into my mind.

Ugh.

I can’t believe I actually got married six weeks ago.

I mean I’ve done some dumb shit in my life, but at some point…you would think…I would stop doing dumb shit, or at the very least do cheaper dumb shit. Getting a divorce attorney and having papers prepared for filing and organizing a hush settlement has all been very fucking expensive. Much more expensive than having footage of me underage drinking at a strip club erased.

“Hennington…” Margot cautiously calls out again. “I have ginger ale and crackers.”

For the first time in days my stomach doesn’t object with a forceful squeeze.

“And if you come out now, I’ll let you get an early look at the new team jerseys for next season…”

Dragging myself up onto my bare feet requires energy I don’t have yet pushing myself the way I will be pushing our players in the coming months is naturally done, the same way it’s always been done.

I won’t ask of them shit I wouldn’t ask of myself.

I won’t expect more from them for this team than I’m willing to give.

It’s how I was raised.

And one thing I always believed Dad did right when it came to hockey.

My arrival at the closed ensuite door is quickly followed by me opening it to present my displeased expression. “You know they’re called sweaters, Margot.”

“I do,” she victoriously smirks, “just like I know calling them jerseys will get your ass from wherever you are to wherever the crime was committed in an impressively timely fashion.” The scowl on my face deepens encouraging her grin to momentarily grow wider until her eyes dip down at the lacy orange top, I’m wearing. “Where’s your shirt?”

“This is it.”

“That’s a bra.”

“It’s a bralette.” Commandeering the box of crackers from her possession occurs on my own snarky beam. “You can thank the lords of fashion for basically granting me an appropriate way to wear a fancy sports bra to the office.” I pull out a single saltine. “And the charcoal, oversized ‘dad blazer’ waiting for me to throw on over this is so loose it’s basically a business sweatshirt.”



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