I laughed, because she wasn’t wrong. There was just something about Rigby. Sometimes even just seeing him walk into the room made me happy.

“I’m really lucky.”

“Bitch, yeah you are. So I want you to get up off the damn couch where I know you’re moping and feeling inadequate. I want you to go find the closest one of them fine specimens, and have ‘fuck you’ sex to all those repressed, sports-loving, inbred incels and jealous hos who think they have the right, the audacity, to judge my best friend and her ménage of lovers.”

I huffed out another laugh. “It's been too long, Chlo. I’ve missed you.”

“Damn right, you have. I’m coming to visit so you can set me up with… hang on… Number 12. That man is fire.”

I made a tsking noise. “The player profiles aren’t a catalog for cock,” I teased, and she just snorted.

“Whatever. What’s the point of having a bestie with insider access if I don’t use the opportunity to hit on some players and give them the cardio workout of their career?” We both laughed, until the sound trailed off. “I mean it, Nova. I’ve missed you. Don’t keep me out of the loop so long next time, okay? I’ve always got your back, always. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“Well, strap on your lady balls and stop giving people who don’t know you the ability to hurt you. Talk soon, okay?”

I made promises to call her again in a couple of days. After she hung up, I did what she said. I womaned up and went in search of one of the men who made me so fucking happy.

We’d get through this shit. Together.

Chapter Thirty-Five

RIGBY

Harvey Monderra was rich as hell. He owned the majority of the IceCaps, and the better part of the west side of Detroit. He didn’t take shit, he protected his investments, and right now, he was pissed as hell.

He was scrolling through a file the public relations team had given him on a tablet, and hadn’t said a word to us, even though we’d been sitting here for at least fifteen minutes. Even Muss—who didn’t even need to be here because he’d done nothing, literally nothing at all—was starting to look a little panicked. He almost looked like he was wondering if he’d sleep-walked his way to Nova’s bed and just didn’t remember. That was the Harvey Monderra effect.

Finally, Harvey put down the tablet and looked at Caitlyn from PR. “How bad?”

“Memberships are down immediately, and we’ve had at least six requests for statements—four from the tabloid departments of nationally syndicated newspapers. It wouldn’t have been so bad if we didn’t have the Hefferman scandal less than five years ago.”