Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1)(22)

I scrunched my nose up. “So…what exactly do you need me to do?”

“I need you to give me the play-by-play for the next twenty minutes until we land.”

“Isn’t there anyone else you can bug? I’m probably not the best person for the job.” The last football game I’d watched had been the Super Bowl where Janet Jackson’s nipple had made its television debut, and I could honestly have told you more about her areola than the game. I literally knew zilch about sports, especially football.

“Please, Georgia.” He rasped his words, confusing me by making me think about sex. “I’m begging you.”

I held in my answer until I knew I wouldn’t stutter. “You owe me. Big time.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart.”

The promise of his double meaning oozed from his voice, but I ignored him, grabbed the remote, and switched the channel. “Okay, it’s on.”





Thatch waved his arms manically, trying to get an update. Our personal flight attendant flashed him a look of distaste, but with one quick wink, her contempt turned into consideration. I didn’t have much to my name that said billionaire, but the private plane sure did. With the amount that I traveled and the necessary fluctuation in timing, it was just easier.

When his attention came back to me, I flipped him off, putting Georgia on speaker. “What’s the score? How much time is left? Who has the ball?” I rambled, desperate to know if Western University was pulling through. Fucking Thatch wouldn’t let me live it down if New York State won this thing. It was a nothing game—early season, Thursday night, and unquestionably obscure teams. But Thatch could turn anything into a competition, and he’d created this rivalry out of thin air years ago.

She gave us the rundown in succinct, inaccurate terms, but I got the gist of it.

Fourth quarter. Tigers were winning.

I cursed.

Thatch shouted, “Victory is mine!”

I’d honestly never seen a guy that big Riverdance.

“All of this for five measly bucks?” Georgia asked.

Thatch’s loud, boisterous laugh echoed inside the cabin of the plane.

“No, not five dollars. A little more than that…”

“Five hundred?” Her voice was incredulous. I pictured Georgia’s nose scrunching up in that adorable way of hers.

“Actually…” I cleared my throat. “Five grand.”

“Five thousand dollars?” she shouted.

Internally, I cringed. Hell, externally, I cringed.

I probably sounded like a pretentious asshat. Betting exorbitant amounts of money on sports was not my usual M.O. “It’s Thatch’s fault. He won’t take no for an answer and never bets anything less than a grand. He could be the poster child for gambling addicts everywhere. His only redeeming quality is that he actually knows how to invest his profits.”

Thatch’s smile mocked me. He knew what I was doing, exaggerating his faults to help minimize my own.

“Whatever you say, Mr. Moneybags.”

Yeah, she definitely thought I was an ostentatious dick.

“Georgia girl, give me an update. What’s going on?” Thatch schmoozed, laying it on thick just to get a rise out of me.

“Uh…” she mumbled, trailing off for a brief second. “Boobear just tackled somebody.”

“Boobear? Who the f*ck is Boobear?” Thatch mouthed in my direction.

I shrugged. “Who just got a tackle?”

“Boobear. He plays on the orange team,” she repeated as though it made sense. “Oh no, I think Boobear is hurt.”

It took some serious thinking, but I finally decoded the mystery. “Do you mean Boudmare?”

“Yeah, that’s him. His nickname is Boobear.”

“The commentators are calling him Boobear?” I asked, fighting a smile.

“No, I nicknamed him Boobear. He looks like a giant teddy bear. He’s so cute!”

“Oh, dear God,” Thatch groaned.

“Oh, thank goodness. Boobear is back up and on his feet. They’re lining up again. White team has the ball. The big guy in the middle chucked it to the thrower guy. He threw the ball… really far…” She trailed off, and then the line went silent.

“Georgia?”

Nothing.

“Georgia!” I strived to grab her attention.

“What?” she snapped.

“The ball was thrown…where? What happened?”

“Coca-Cola threw it a bunch of yards to Stuart Little. They’re lining up again near the touchdown box.”

Coca-Cola? Stuart Little? Who in the hell was she talking about?

“Who is she talking about?” Thatch mouthed, arms wide in frustration. “I f*cking knew we should’ve called Wes,” he whispered, pacing the aisle.

“Help me out here,” I said into the phone. “Who is Coca-Cola?”

“The quarterback on the white team.”

“You mean Cokel?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Is she f*cking nicknaming the players?” Thatch boomed in disgrace.

“Uh-huh,” she responded over what sounded like a mouthful of chips, not an ounce of shame in her tone.

I couldn’t even get pissed at her. She was too f*cking adorable. I glanced over at Thatch. He was wearing a figurative hole in the aisle carpet and practically pulling his hair out. I grinned. Even though I hadn’t a clue what was happening in the game, watching Thatch’s upset come to a crescendo was worth it.