Page 15 of The Girlfriend Card (Vegas Sin #4)

Absolutely Worthless

Dakota

“ S o. Dakota.” Sal Capuano sat at the head of the massive dining room table, his intense gaze fixed on me, while his servants or butlers or whatever the hell they were stood at the ready.

The billionaire was built like a bulldog, and he ate like one, too, snapping a hunk of steak into his merciless jaw.

“I’m curious how much you know about the underlying financials of a pro hockey team. ”

I couldn’t believe we were already eating—but Mr. Capuano, apparently, had planned everything out for us, and the night was moving along at a brisk clip.

It felt like only a minute ago I was alone, anxiously pacing the Capuano’s vast living room—or maybe the mega-rich would call it an “anteroom,” sorry, I’m not exactly up to date on my mansion terminology—still trying to process the fact that the actress I found on friggin’ Craigslist was actually the billionaire casino hotel heiress and daughter of my team owner.

The sheer absurdity of the situation I found myself in was utterly mind-boggling—and I had so many questions.

Questions I couldn’t wait to ask her, once we were alone.

Y’know … if I actually made it home tonight in one piece.

A nagging part of me couldn’t shake the suspicion Ottavia might be a pawn in Mr. Capuano’s grand scheme, tasked with keeping tabs on me.

However, as they returned from their private talk, Ottavia flashed her radiant smile, and whatever fears I might’ve had dissolved.

It was as if she were silently telling me, Relax, I’m still on your side.

There she sat, across the dinner table, still offering her smile, telling me to stay calm, and just answer her father’s questions.

“The financials?” I cleared my throat. “Not a whole lot, sir. Math and business were never my best subjects in school.”

“I’m curious: what was your best subject in school?”

I hesitated. “Honestly, sir, I wasn’t the best student because I always knew I wanted to be a hockey player—”

“Okay.” He cut me off, swirling his glass of red wine, unimpressed. “Do you know how much I paid to start the Vegas Sin franchise?”

“No, sir. I do not.”

“Half a billion dollars.”

I nearly choked on my bite of steak. “Wow.”

“Yeah. Guess you don’t need to be good at math to understand that’s a lot of money, huh?” He chuckled. “Here’s another question for you, Dakota: where do you think a sports owner like me makes his money?”

I hesitated. Why did I feel like he was walking me into a trap? I could feel the weight of the moment pressing upon my shoulders.

“From … merchandise?” I asked, my voice tinged with uncertainty.

“Eh.” His hand fluttered as if to say, so-so.

“Advertising?”

He gestured to keep going.

“TV rights?”

He chuckled. “All valuable revenue sources, yes. But come on, Dakota. You’re missing the obvious one.”

“Tickets?”

“Yes! Tickets! Bingo.” Mr. Capuano clapped his hands, a satisfied smile crossing his face. “Butts in seats means money in my wallet.”

Ottavia and I exchanged a quick glance, smiling at each other as I finally stumbled into the right answer. But the relief was short, because a sense of unease still lingered, and I knew Mr. Caupano had more in store for me.

“One point five million,” Mr. Capuano said.

I blinked, not understanding the figure. “Excuse me, sir?”

“That’s how much I make at the gate for every home game during the regular season. One point five million dollars.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Any idea what that number is in the playoffs?” he asked.

Crap. I was starting to see what Mr. Capuano was really getting at …

“No, sir,” I said, shrinking in my seat.

“In the playoffs, gate revenue is doubled. So I make three million dollars per game.”

The friendly smile he wore began to fade, replaced by a piercing intensity in his eyes.

“Now, Dakota, I understand you’re not good at math because you play a child’s game for a living. But do you have any idea how much money a playoff series is worth to a guy like me on gate revenue alone?”

I didn’t want to let him paint me as some jock idiot in front of Ottavia, even if that is exactly what I am. So I did the quick math in my head: in a given playoff series, a team played either two, three, or four games at home, depending on how long the best-of-seven series went.

“You make a minimum of six million dollars for each playoff round,” I said. “Depending on how long the series lasted, and how many home games you played, you could make up to twelve million dollars.”

Mr. Capuano laughed and caught his daughter’s eye. “Hey! He can do math.” But his amusement was snuffed out in a hurry when he turned back to me. “Now, tell me—how much am I paying you?”

“Five million, sir,” I said.

“So I pay you five million. But your antics get us eliminated in Round One, which means you cost me a minimum of six million dollars, and a maximum of twelve million dollars, in Round Two. Does that sound like good economics to you?”

I hung my head. “No, sir.”

“I don’t think so, either. Mind you, those figures are just for one round.

If we’d made it to the third round of the playoffs?

That’s yet another six to twelve million dollars.

If we’d made it to the fourth and final round, when ticket prices double again?

” He shook his head. “Altogether, we’re talking about a potential loss of revenue in excess of fifty million dollars.

On gate revenue alone. And why? Why, Dakota? ”

My heart pounded against my rib cage as the weight of his words sank in. I couldn’t bring myself to answer.

“Because you had to go out and party the night before Game Seven,” he snarled.

I drew a deep breath. “I apologize, sir. I know I made a mistake, but—”

“What were you hoping to accomplish by meeting me tonight?” he asked.

I stammered. “Well, sir, I wanted to reassure you that I’m committed this off-season to my training, and—”

“So you fuck me and my team, but I’m supposed to care that you’re suddenly taking your off-season seriously?

Because you’re actually going to hit the weight room instead of partying and jerking yourself off in your bedroom all summer long?

” His voice reached a crescendo as he bellowed out, “Newsflash, kid: THAT’S WHAT THE FIVE MILLION IS FOR.

You’re expected to be doing all of that already. ”

He stared me down, his jaw grinding back and forth.

“You embarrassed yourself. Your team. Your city. You cost me millions. Then you thought you could lie to me about being settled down. And I thought all that was bad enough! But now?” He paused, his question leaving a trail of tension in its wake. “Now I find out you’re lying to my daughter, too?”

Holy shit I’m so fucked, I thought, panicked.

Yet I couldn’t help but admire the billionaire’s skill as he masterfully crafted the narrative against me.

It was as if he were meticulously constructing the train that would inevitably run me over, and all I could do was lay there and watch as he tied me to the tracks.

He turned to Ottavia. “Have you seen it, sweetheart? The video of this joker on the mechanical bull?” He pointed at me with his pinky finger, as if I were an insignificant nothing and unworthy to sit at their table.

She demurred. “I don’t see the point. Dakota told me about it, and that’s enough for me.”

“You should see it. He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he? Don’t you want to know what he’s up to when he’s away from home?” Mr. Capuano pulled out his cell phone and passed it to her. “Here. Watch.”

Ottavia reluctantly watched the mechanical bull video.

When it ended, she passed the phone back to her dad and perfectly nailed the tone of the concerned, but ultimately trusting, girlfriend.

“Well, I don’t exactly love it. But it’s exactly as Dakota described it.

And he said nothing happened between them. I trust him.”

“Wow. Hear that, Dakota? She trusts you.” Mr. Capuano’s ear-to-ear smile made my skin crawl. “She must really like you, huh? Yeah, she sounds serious about you.”

He was winding up for something, and I didn’t like it.

“So, Dakota, I need to ask: are you serious about my daughter?”

What do I say?! Scrambling, I looked to Ottavia for help.

“Don’t look at her. Look at me.” His voice grew more urgent as he repeated the question, “Are you serious about my daughter?”

“Yes?” I croaked.

His derisive laughter filled the room, mocking my response.

“No, you’re not. Because you’re not serious about anything.

Not your team, not your career, and certainly not a woman.

That’s why I wanted to meet your poor ‘Jane.’ To tell her to wake up and see you for the feckless, lying loser you really are.

If she existed, which I strongly doubted.

” His words carried a hint of pain and disappointment.

“So you can imagine my shock when you showed up here with my own daughter.”

I didn’t say a word. I wasn’t sure there was anything I could say right now that could help. It might help if I told him the truth about Ottavia—but then again, I didn’t want him to turn his anger on her.

“I knew you were full of shit from the moment this all went down,” he growled. “I just wanted to look the man who cost me millions in the eye and let him know that I know he’s fucking me.”

Still, I didn’t speak. I felt like Mr. Capuano’s chew toy, and all I could do was wait for him to get sick of me and toss me aside.

“Your father—now he was a great hockey player. You? You’re a joke.” With a sneer, Mr. Capuano twisted the knife he’d stabbed in my heart. “You don’t even deserve to wear the Easton name on your jersey.”

“Dad,” Ottavia whispered, a plea for mercy.

“I’m not done yet,” he snapped back, sawing off another hunk of steak.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret. I was never going to let Killer bring you back next year.

After we lost Game Seven, I told him to trade you ASAP.

But after he talked to all the other GMs, he realized we’d have to pay them to take you.

That’s how much the rest of the league thinks of you, Dakota.

You’re worthless. Absolutely worthless.”

My shoulders slumped. He was right.

“Dad …!” Ottavia whispered again, her concern growing.

He ignored her. “But frankly, I think I’ve paid enough already just having you on my team.

Now, if we can get your trade value up? Then we’ll happily trade you, and you can take your clown show to some other organization.

But after the money you cost me—” He tightened his fist and dropped it to the table like a hammer.

“—I would rather send you down to the AHL, where you and your career can rot in the minors, than pay another dime just to be rid of you. Because it’s the principle of the matter, see. You fuck me? Now I fuck you .”

I gulped. I could tell he was serious about stuffing my contract in the minors.

“So here’s how your off-season is going to go, Dakota.

You’re going to keep up your off-season training, and keep your nose out of trouble, so we can actually trade you somewhere else.

And you’re going to stay far away from my daughter.

Otherwise, I’ll have you sent to the minors, and you’ll have to spend the next six years of your life riding a bus. Understand?”

“Dad! You can’t do that!” Ottavia griped. “It’s not up to you!”

“Sweetheart, I’ve got five million reasons why I can do that. Isn’t that right, Dakota?”

I nodded grimly.

“It was never going to work out between you and my daughter.” He waved his hand in disgust, dismissing me. “Go.”

Now? I hesitated, unsure if I was supposed to get up and leave during dinner.

A second later, he roared, “I said, GO! ”

“Yes, sir.” I stood in a hurry, dropping my silverware with a noisy clatter, and left the mansion in a hurry.