As I park my car at the sold-out arena, my phone rings through the speakers. I answer without checking the caller ID. “This is Coach.”
“You almost here?” Jamie says on the other end of the line, his voice deep and loud. “Your boy Parker hooked us up with some premium seats. We’re behind the Flyers bench.”
I disconnect the Bluetooth, press my iPhone to my ear, and get out of the car. Looking down at my signed vintage Ron Hextall jersey, I spot what looks like a tiny speck of coffee. Damn it. This is one of my favorite jerseys.
“I’ll see you in a few minutes, okay?”
“Murph is waiting for you at the front door with your ticket. Hurry up. You’ve already missed the first period.”
“Keep your pants on. I’ll be there in five,” I say before clicking the End call button.
Murph—a tall, dark-haired man in his early twenties—greets me with a lazy grin at the door. A dusting of freckles covers his pale cheeks and forearms. The fitted black shirt he’s wearing stretches across his thick chest and broad shoulders, making him look more like a club bouncer than someone who works for the Flyers, giving tours and running errands.
It’s a thankless job, much like being a junior agent at Donoghue Media Group. When I first started at DMG, Mickey pushed me so hard, I thought I would crack in half. Even after a few years with Mickey, the stress has not lessened, and the pressure continues to grow. People like Mickey set the bar so high that anything less than perfect is unacceptable—except he’s stopped demanding the same of himself.
“How’s it going, Coach?” Murph asks, handing me my ticket and ushering me through the door. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’m good, Murph, real good. I’ve been out of town for work the last few weeks. I just got back this week.”
The smell of hot dogs and fried food assaults my nostrils as we walk toward my section. My last meal was this morning, and I can only hope that Jamie has my usual waiting for me. Murph takes a turn around a bend, toward my section. With the game already in progress, the halls are less crowded.
“Oh, right. I read that Kramer signed a seven-year, forty-five-million-dollar contract.” He holds up his hand for me to slap it, and after I do, he says, “That’s huge. Congrats!”
“Thanks. The GM was being a prick, but I finally got him to give in.”
Murph laughs and nudges me with his elbow. “You can always sic Mickey on him. He’s like a pit bull.”
I feign a smile, ignoring his comments, as we turn down the corridor marked 124 in big writing above the entrance. Then, we make our way down the stairs and to my seat.
Working for one of the top agents in the business has its perks, but being one of the few women in a male-dominated field also has its downfalls. No matter how much I do to prove that I’m just as capable as the men who run this industry, there is always someone who thinks I don’t know my job just because I have a vagina.
Last year, I brought thirty million dollars into DMG, and I’m projecting close to forty this year. I didn’t have to sleep with anyone to get it. I hate when men assume I suck off general managers to make deals.
Once we reach the bottom of the stairs, I find Rico and Jamie behind the Flyers bench. I thank Murph for walking me to my seat, and he waves to Jamie and Rico before heading back up to the ground level. I can perfectly see the players from our seats. They’re facing the ice, completely focused on the game.
Jamie pulls me into his arms and plants a kiss on my cheek. His cologne and laundry detergent smell good, a spicy scent mixed with cotton. He’s tall, like me, but only an inch taller with his short blond hair gelled into spikes. Jamie is nerdy cute and the best person I have ever known.
“I was starting to think you’d never make it,” he says, releasing me from his grip. “Rico was about to eat your food. This kid can bust a grub. We’ve already eaten three soft pretzels, nachos, and two hot dogs.”
I look down at Rico with a smile and mess up his dark hair with my hand. “Damn, kid. Slow your roll.”
Rico chuckles, his arm swatting at mine. He is wearing a Kane jersey and jeans, the same outfit as Jamie. “I’m a growing boy, Coach. That’s what my mom always tells me.”
“Because you have a mom who can cook.”
I turn to Jamie and whisper, “Thanks for doing that for him.” He clearly bought the jersey Rico has on, something I would have done if I had made it to the game earlier.
“Don’t mention it. I was happy to do it.”
When we were kids, Jamie would save all the change he’d found on the ground just so he could buy us each an ice cream from the deli down the street from the school. We were lucky if our foster parents fed us dinner, so dessert was not a luxury we had at home.
In some ways, we were technically like brother and sister for the years we slept across from each other. Jamie was the person who encouraged me to play basketball. We used to pass the ball my father had given me back and forth in the dark when we couldn’t sleep, making a game out of who would drop the ball first. Most of the time, he lost.
Unlike me, Jamie is not very athletic, more of the computer-geek variety. But he kept me focused on school and sports, worked on my game with me at the court behind our elementary school, and made sure I kept my grades up for Villanova.
My dream of crawling out of the gutter to make a name for myself was also Jamie’s—until it all came crashing down one winter night. Jamie was by my side as they carried me off the court when I tore my ACL. He even slept in the waiting room at the hospital. Other than Mickey, Rico, and Rosario, Jamie is the closest I have to family.
“Sit down already!”
I look to the row behind me and find a bald middle-aged man yelling at us.
I raise my hand to tell him to chill out.
Jamie apologizes, and we take our seats.
My two favorite boys are next to me. This is perfect. Rico leans on my armrest to get a view of the players on my left. The chair is rock hard, and the man who complained is talking loudly about how the Flyers are lucky to have Alex Parker on the team and how he’s their only shot at making the playoffs after a ten-year drought.
Obnoxious does not even begin to describe our seatmate, but I’m just happy to be here with Jamie and Rico. And, for once, my cell phone is not ringing off the hook.
“Do you think you can get me an autograph after the game?” Rico points to the bench in front of us, separated by Plexiglas. His finger lands on my client and captain of the Flyers, Tyler Kane.
“Sure, buddy. How about I ask Kane to sign your jersey after the game?”
“Really?” Rico squeals. He flashes a broad grin that reaches up to his hazel eyes. “This is the coolest day of my life. Thanks, Coach.”
Tyler Kane is one of the few hockey players I represent and one of the most versatile players in the league. For someone with his talent, he’s underrated because of the terrible team rankings. But Tyler grew up in South Jersey, watching the Flyers, and it was always his dream to play for them if he ever made it pro. I could easily get him traded to a Stanley Cup winning team if he wasn’t so loyal.
I recently landed him huge endorsement deals with Under Armour and Bauer. On a team of mediocre players, Tyler really stands out, but now, he has hotshot Alex Parker to compete with for attention. Both men are womanizing pigs. I bet the two of them will get along nicely.
Jamie slides his arm across the back of my chair, and I lean back against him. He hands me an American hoagie—known as a sub sandwich to everyone else in the country—wrapped in white paper. My freshman year of college, I discovered the magical lunchmeat sandwich Philadelphians call a hoagie and have been eating at least one a week ever since.
“I had them put extra oil on it this time. I didn’t want to hear you moan about it being dry again.” He smirks. “Better eat up before the roll gets soggy.” Nodding at the soda in the cup holder attached to my chair, he says, “That’s for you, too.”
I unwrap the paper and lift one half
of my hoagie, holding it up to my mouth. “No chips? I’m a cheap date but not that cheap. Hand them over, Jameson.”
“Oh, you wanna play that game, Charles in Charge?” He laughs and then reaches under his chair to hand me a small bag of Herr’s potato chips that he retrieved from a Wawa convenience store bag.
He hates when I use his real name. Jamie’s parents were just as bad as mine, but at least mine didn’t name me after their favorite whiskey. So, he always counters back with Charles in Charge, the name of a TV show that was popular before we were even born. Jamie swears, I look like one of the girls from the sitcom.
“How is work, Jameson?” I say with a devilish smile, taunting him, as I rip my chip bag open. “Have you heard anything about the promotion?”
After graduating from Drexel University with a degree in software engineering, Jamie got a job with a firm in downtown Philly where he’s the lead engineer. He’s now up for vice president of software applications.
“No, not yet. They said I would hear back by the end of the week. I want the job because it pays more money, but I’m also in the middle of designing an app that’s still in beta, and I don’t want to lose any progress my team has made over the last month. But it’s more responsibility. I would be an idiot to turn it down if they offered me the position.”
“I hope you get it. If anyone deserves a break, it’s you.”
With a sly grin, he looks at me and starts to hum “Movin’ on Up,” the theme song to The Jeffersons, a popular sitcom from the seventies. We watched tons of ancient television programs while living with our foster parents. They never once put on anything we wanted to watch.
He’s right about one thing; we sure have moved on up and managed to escape the hell we lived in for five years before we turned eighteen and moved to Philly.
“You’ve got a visitor.” Jamie nudges me in the arm to get my attention, almost knocking the chips from my hand.
Midway through stuffing my face, I look up and make eye contact with the one person I was not expecting to see while I was shoving food down my throat. Alex Parker. His smoldering grayish-blue eyes are practically burning a hole through me.
He winks at me from behind the Plexiglas and presses his glove against the barrier separating us, looking so damn sexy in his uniform that my breath catches for a second. Sweat drips from his forehead, his chest rising and falling, as if he just came off the ice.
I was so consumed with eating and catching up with my friend that I hadn’t even stopped to think about Alex. Not that he is my concern. Well, technically, I will have to deal with him at some point, especially since Mickey has decided to work out of the New York office for the next two months. Now that Alex lives in my apartment building, he has become my tenant, and therefore, he is also my responsibility.
Alex mouths something to me, and the girls behind me start shouting. Their screams are so loud, my eardrums are ready to explode.
He tugs at his jersey, moving close enough that I can read his lips. Put your tits on the glass.
My mouth opens in surprise, as I’m horrified and appalled by his words. I practically choke on the chips in my mouth.
That motherfucker!
Alex
“Fuck!” I mutter as I punch the cinder-block wall on my way into the locker room. My gloves are still on, so it doesn’t hurt, but the sting from that loss hits me where I feel it the most.
I went from a winning team, so close to the Stanley Cup, to twenty-fifth in the league—only five away from last place. At the rate these amateurs play, it will not be long before we make it there.
Lowering my head to the ground, I avoid making eye contact with the rest of my new team. I’m disgusted with myself and how I played tonight. My game was completely off. I don’t mesh well with my teammates. The dynamic among the players is strained, nothing about it at all organic, and the coaching staff is worse than what I had in my youth hockey leagues before my dad took over as my coach.
It’s nights like these when I miss my dad the most. He was the reason I made it this far. Without him here to guide my career and share this with me, none of it matters anymore.
Behind Charlotte’s row at the game tonight were two women who would jump at the chance to come home with me. The blonde kept pulling up her shirt and exposing her flat stomach and red bra. Charlotte would’ve killed the girl if she knew what she was doing behind her back.
Then, I told the twenty-something girl to put her tits on the glass. Of course, I was joking. Well, not really. But, when I saw the flicker of anger in Charlotte’s eyes, her hands balled on her lap, I knew she understood what I’d said. I bet she thought I was talking to her.
After I strip off my uniform and skates, I head to the showers and stand under the water for ten minutes—maybe longer—trying to wash the stench of this loss from my body, wash away the guilt over what I did to my previous team.
My teammates back in DC were not thrilled with me after the scandal involving the owner’s granddaughter. She was barely legal, a little fact that would have been helpful before we hooked up. Thank God the videotape from the elevator at The Ritz-Carlton had a time stamp, or she could have lied her ass off, pretending that she was only seventeen when we had sex.
She looked at least early to mid-twenties. It never even occurred to me that she could be younger. A few of the guys on the team had daughters, some of whom were close in age to the girl who I assumed was a puck bunny. Of course, she was wearing a flowery dress the day she made a public statement to the news outlets. Not the tight miniskirt, high heels, and a shirt that could pass as a bathing suit top that she had on the night we met. There was nothing sweet and innocent about that girl.
Once my skin starts to prune, I leave the showers with a towel wrapped around my waist and consider my next drink. It’s been fifteen hours since I passed out with a glass in my hand, only to wake up three hours later for practice. I bought a bottle of Macallan that is calling my name, waiting for me to come home and drink myself into oblivion.
Tyler Kane, the captain and star center of the team, stops me before I reach my locker, keeping pace with me. I don’t speak to him as I take a seat on the bench. I’ve barely spoken to any of my teammates since we met this week. I’m not ready to accept that this is all real and that I set everything in motion. Part of me hopes the Caps will change their mind and that they will reverse the deal even though I know there is zero chance of that ever happening.
Tyler runs a hand through his short blond hair, still wet from the shower. “Hey, Parker, a few of us are going out later if you want to come with us.”
I slip a fitted tee over my head and look at Kane as I shove my arms through. “Nah, I think I’ll pass. I’m just going to go home and crash.” With my bottle of whiskey.
“It’s just Donovan and Nichols tonight.” He points at Carter Donovan, our goaltender. Like Kane, he’s a good player on a shitty team, and now, they’re recruiting me. “We’re going to Scores, a strip club on Delaware Avenue.”
I nod and slip into my jeans. “I live down the street from that place.”
“So, you wanna come or not?” Kane moves his hands onto his hips and gives me a hopeful look. “They’ve got some serious dimes in that club. The women…”
Donovan comes up behind him, towering over Kane. He’s a real mammoth. For such a big dude, he’s unusually flexible. Even though we lost tonight, he had two crazy saves that made me respect his talent.
Donovan scratches his dark beard, a smirk on his face. “Kane has a crush on Drea, the bartender at Scores. You should come just to watch him embarrass himself. Trust me, it’s worth it.”
“Dick!” Kane punches Donovan in the arm. “I don’t have a fucking crush on Drea. She’s hot but not worth dealing with the Marcheses over.” I shoot them a confused look, and Kane continues, “The club is a front for the Mafia, but they have the best top-shelf selection of liquor and tits in the city.”
I normally prefer to drink alone, but strip clubs have
liquor. Why not? “I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
Kane flashes a quick smile. “Let the debauchery begin.”
“Welcome to the team,” Donovan says with a wink before following behind Kane.
After they walk away, I start to wonder if this is a good idea. I don’t know them, and for all I know, this is another trap. I’m pretty sure someone on my previous team set me up with the owner’s granddaughter, knowing it would send me packing. Guys like Kane don’t like to share the spotlight, and trusting strangers makes me uneasy.
Kane and Donovan exit the locker room a few minutes before me, so when I almost fall into them in the hallway, I’m surprised to see them standing with Charlotte. She has a broad smile plastered on her beautiful face, strands of caramel hair hanging over her shoulders that stop right above her breasts.
The night we met, she had no makeup on and a mustard-stained jersey, her hair piled into a ball on the top of her head. Despite her disheveled appearance, she looked good. Now, she’s made up, and upon closer inspection, something I didn’t notice before, her eyes are a shade of blue so bright, they remind me of sapphires. And she smells amazing, like cotton candy. And I want a taste.
She has on a vintage Flyers jersey that’s too big for her frame, even with her height, but she really knows how to wear it. I wish she had on my jersey—or more accurately, I’d prefer she was taking mine off.
Kane and Donovan are practically drooling over Charlotte. She’s standing next to a man around my age and Rico, the boy from her basketball team.
Is she with this guy?
I didn’t notice anyone next to her during the game. In my defense, my focus was on her face and the girls behind her.
The way she touches his arm and glances at him for his approval annoys me. He must be her boyfriend.
Why do I even care?
Parker (Face-Off Series Book 1) Page 5