Regan

“Hey, you!” I yell across the crowded lot, storming toward the jerk that couldn’t bother to listen to the instructions he was given by the parking attendant. The twenty-something lanky punk with dark hair tucked behind his ears turns around to face me, a smirk already on his lips. I want to slap it right off his stupid face.

He points his finger at his chest. “You talking to me?”

“Yeah, I’m talking to you, you sorry sack of shit.” I march toward him, seething mad. “Who do you think you are parking in a VIP spot when the guard already told you to move your car down there?” I point to the section where he should have parked his beater.

Tugging on his Flyers jersey, he curls his lip upward at me in disgust. “I don’t take orders from little girls. Why don’t you keep walking, and mind your own business.”

“This is my business, and that spot is reserved. Either you can move your car, or I will have it moved for you. Your choice. It will cost a lot more to recover it from impound if I have to call a tow truck. And that five minute walk you tried to save yourself will have been for nothing when you have to walk down Broad Street to get your car.”

He snarls at me. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” I counter, “and I will if you don’t get back in your car and park where you were told.”

Lenny, the parking attendant, was too busy with incoming guests to worry about this jerk. I wasn’t even supposed to be outside with the Flyers so close to face-off, but I forgot my jersey in the car. I have a weird superstition that I will jinx the team if I watch the game without wearing my jersey. It was a silly tradition from back when my father played professional hockey.

For as long as I can remember, every game I’d sit on the floor in my parents living room in my jersey with my face so close to the TV screen that my mother swore I would go blind. I had worn my father’s number, of course. Even back then, it was too big for my tiny frame. It still is to this day. Because I had insisted on wearing his old jersey, the same one he’d worn at one point during games, I looked ridiculous. But it smelled like my dad and reminded me of him when he was on the road.

My dad has a bunch of embarrassing pictures of me all over his office in this jersey. Some of the players on the team even make fun of me for it. Mike Turner doesn’t sound like the name of a hockey legend, but it doesn’t change the fact that he is. And I still wear his jersey, even if it’s only to support his team. After he had retired, he tried his hand at sports broadcasting and hated it. Now, he’s the general manager for the Flyers. I guess you could say I’m his assistant or something like it.

The man sighs, finally realizing he’s on the losing side of this argument. I have no problem calling our tow services at the Wells Fargo Center to drag his car off the lot just on principle alone.

He blows past me in a huff without another word. I might be petite, but I’m not some little girl to be messed with. That’s one thing my dad had taught me—not to take shit from anyone. At least this guy has enough sense to leave before the guards have to escort him off the property. We get tons of drunken idiots who try the same stunts every time there’s an event at the Wells Fargo Center.

Tonight is no different from any other night. The only difference is that the Flyers are playing the Penguins, and I need to haul ass back inside if I want to make it in time for face-off.

My teeth chatter from the winter chill in the air. Using the jersey clutched between my hands, I hold it up to my face and pick up the pace, as I make my way through the crowded parking lot. I love when I get the chance to walk around the grounds alone. Everyone treats me differently when my dad is around. Right now, I’m just Regan, an ordinary girl holding her favorite player’s jersey. That player just so happens to be my father. But no one knows that. At least not until I spot Kevin Murphy, who everyone calls Murph. Then, my two seconds of pretending I’m a nobody wear off in an instant.

Once I reach the side entrance of the building, Murph is waiting for me with his back against the door, holding it open with a lazy grin. He loves my dad and always gives me special treatment. Sometimes, I wish he’d knock it off and act as if I’m a girl he’d met on the street. The weight of my father’s legacy is often too much to handle.

“C’mon, Regan, I’m freezing my nuts off out here.” Murph rubs his hands together. “Get a move on, girl.”

I shake my head, laughing. “You know you don’t have to stand out here for me, Murph. I am capable of handling myself, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, but your dad would be pissed, and I don’t want to get on his bad side.”

“Smart man,” I tell him, stepping inside the warm building, still keeping the jersey up to my face until the cold leeches from my bones.

The cacophony of cheers echoing throughout the open space set fire to my insides. I love the vibe of a packed event center. It reminds me of my childhood. I love the hum of voices and the screaming fans that make the place come alive. When I walk the halls during the day, it’s quiet, leaving me alone with my thoughts. But when it’s game time, there’s a certain energy that surges through my veins. The excitement is palpable, consuming the air around me.

“I don’t need you sending Daddy after me if I leave you hanging,” Murph says, as we walk the halls together.

I chuckle and nudge him in his biceps. “As if I would even think of it. He pokes his head in my business enough already. You have no idea what it’s like to have everyone watching you all the time. It’s creepy.”

He holds his hand up to his mouth and laughs once. “No one is watching you, Regan. You’re just paranoid.”

“Nah, man. You have no clue. It’s like I’m a fish in one giant fish bowl. As soon as people find out who I am, everything changes. I have never had a normal life.”

“Your dad is…” He smiles at the thought of my father. “Well, your dad is a great man. I looked up to him when I was a kid. You know I never missed a single game while your dad was in the league.”

Seeing that my father had such an impact on Murph’s life tugs at the corners of my mouth. That’s the one thing never gets old. The fans are the best part of sports. My father always said that. He said that without his fans he would’ve had no one to watch him, and without their support, he would’ve been a kid with a dream and his talent would have gone to waste. I believe in that wholeheartedly.

“I think you might love my dad more than I do,” I joke.

“That’s possible. Your dad is the man. He’s the reason I wanted this job in the first place.” Murph puts his hand on my back and guides me down the steps and to my seat.

I slip the jersey over my head and tug on it until it’s down to my knees, making it appear if I’m wearing a dress. Looking like a total asshat in this outfit, I could care less. It’s part of the fun to show my team spirit in the most obnoxious way possible.

Pulling Murph into a hug, I lean in to kiss him on the cheek. The shimmery clear gloss coats his skin, forcing me to wipe it off with my hand after I peel my lips away. I can’t send him back up to the offices with my dad, looking like he was making out with a chick in a back hallway. That would not go over well with the boss man.

The stands of the Wells Fargo Center are packed. With the Flyers playing against Pittsburgh, the arena is mostly a sea of orange, gold, and black. It’s so cold in here that my nipples are poking a hole through my bra. You’d think after basically growing up in an ice skating rink that I would be used to subzero temperatures.

But I work here almost every day of the week, even when the rink switches over to a basketball court or concert. My dad managed to talk me into helping him, which turned into a full time position that has made me a permanent fixture in the building. It’s not this cold on days we have concerts or when the Sixers play basketball. Those nights the place is practically scorching from all the bodies rubbing up against one another.

“I’ll catch ya later,” Murph says, squeezing a hand down on my shoulder. “Are you working tomorrow?”

I flash a wicked smirk in his direction. “I work every day. I have no life.”

“Works out well for me. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

I nod, and he releases his grip, his hand falling down at his side. “Count on it.”

After Murph disappears into the crowd, making his way back up to the executive offices, I take my seat in the front row at center ice. The player’s wives and girlfriends like to sit in this section. My dad would prefer it if I sat up in a box with him, but I like to be part of the action.

I want to see the mouth guard fall onto the ice when the gloves come off and shit gets real. I want to be so close to it all that I can see the sweat on the player’s brows, witness the technique in their stick handling so I can take it all in. You can’t see the worried look on a player’s face when they’re down to the last minute and need to score from a damn box. Nope, I need to have the full experience.

The men on the ice are so graceful on skates that even with their large frames, they make it appear effortless. I have a hard time peeling my eyes from the rink. Watching them glide along the ice as they warm up for the game reminds me of all the times I waved at my father from the crowd as he did the same thing with his team.

Not even realizing I’m sitting next to Candice, Gerard Spencer’s wife, I accidentally elbow her in the rib as I get adjusted in my chair. The back is hard as a rock, and no amount of movement helps me get comfortable.

“Regan,” the blonde sitting next to me with long curly hair says to me as she clamps down on my wrist, “Oh, my gosh, girl. It’s been ages since I last saw you.” Her Southern twang is thick when she speaks. “How have you been, darlin’?”

Without hesitation, I peel my eyes from the ice and turn to my seatmate, nonchalantly shaking her hand from my wrist by shifting in my chair. “Candice,” I say, in the fakest voice I can manage that makes my pitch sound a few octaves higher. “I’m doing good. How have you been? Spence is looking awesome this year. He’s playing really well.”

She holds her hand up to her heart, her mouth wide open. “Bless your heart. You are too sweet for words. Spence will be so thrilled to hear that.”

To Candace, anything that comes from my mouth is like hearing it from my father. In some ways, I suppose it is close enough, considering he passes his opinions on to me. Being in charge of public relations for the team, I get more insight into my dad’s mind that most. He tells me exactly what message he wants me to convey for the organization. But that’s not my only job. Somehow, I have managed to add event planner in the other duties as assigned column of my job description.

“We’re lucky to have him on the team.” This part I speak from my own experience with Spence. He’s a great player, and like most of the guys on this team, he’s underrated because the Flyers never make it into the playoffs.

This year everything is about to change. We’re on a roll this season, practically steam rolling the competition. But the damn Penguins and Capitals are always on the top of our division and hard as hell to beat. My God, I hate them. I listen to my father complain about them enough.

Candace squeezes my hand and smiles, showing off a set of pearly whites and red lipstick drawn onto her lips as if airbrushed onto her. She’s one of those girls that never has a hair out of place. Unlike me. I am the pure definition of a tomboy. My face is completely free of makeup, not a single piece of jewelry, and my blonde hair is pulled up into a high ponytail to keep it off my face. The only time I dress up and play the part is when I have to make press announcements, attend special engagements for the team, or if I have a date, which is almost never anymore.

“So, while I have you down here, do you mind me asking you something?” Her accent is thick, and she really has the Southern belle thing going for her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s won a few beauty pageants in her day. “Spence has been looking forward to this game for weeks, and I know it's not up to you, but do you think you can ask your dad to let him play a little more? That would mean the world to Spence.”

She calls her husband by his last name, but so does everyone else who knows him personally.

“That’s not up to my dad. If Coach wants to move him to a different line, that would be entirely up to him.”

“But your dad calls the shots.”

Just like that, Candace made this moment between us awkward. For most of last year, Spence was out with an injury that had kept him on the bench. While he’s on track to get back to his old self, there’s nothing I can do to help him get more time on the ice.

“Sorry, but I don’t have any control over playing time, and either does my dad. He mostly handles the managerial stuff, not so much the coaching aspect of the game.”

On occasion, he’ll voice his opinion about particular players or make suggestions to the coach, but he likes to stay out of those decisions as much as possible. Micromanaging is not really one of his strong suits.

If I didn’t know she was Girard Spencer’s wife, I would’ve thought she was a puck bunny. Her tits are falling out of a low-cut black top, and she’s sporting a pair of super tight matching leggings and six inch heels. No sane person would wear shoes like that into a cold rink where they have to climb stairs and maneuver thousands of crazy fans. Here, I am, in a jersey down to my knees and jeans, while Candace is decked out as if she’s about to hit the club after the game.

I am always out of my element with a woman like her because I have no idea how to make small talk about hair and makeup and normal things girls chat about. I prefer the company of men.

I try my best to focus on Candace without missing too much of the beginning of the game when someone steps in front of me, blocking my line of sight.

“Regan,” she says, and before I glance up, I already know the woman standing in front of me just from her voice alone.

Peeling away from Candace, I hold onto my armrest and push myself up to a standing. “Coach, how the hell are you?”

Charlotte Coachman is at least six inches taller than my five feet two inches. She wraps her arms around me, the scent of her sweet perfume filling my nostrils. Like me, Coach is a sporty girl who hangs out with all men. She gets me. Women like Candace do not understand girls like us. I’m so happy to see Coach that I can’t stop smiling.

She’s a real Amazon woman, standing before me in Alex Parker’s hockey jersey and jeans, and a black pea coat.

“I had no idea you would be here tonight.”

She shrugs her coat off her shoulders and lays it over her arm. “I didn’t expect to get here on time. Mickey’s trying to land a big client, and I’ve had my hands full all week. Alex doesn’t even know I’m here.”

I glance to my right to get a better view of the Flyers’ bench and spot Alex staring in our direction as if he’s drawn to her presence. In some ways, I find it cute. But I could never date a player again. I have no idea how Coach manages athletes all day long at work and also fell in love with Alex Parker, of all people.

We take our seats and Coach sits next to me, waving to Candace and some of the girls in the row behind us. Not one for the girly girls, Coach usually avoids this section so she can watch the game in peace. Candace and the girls aren’t bad as long as you don’t mind spending most of the game explaining simple penalties and narrating the game.

“So, I heard you and Alex are getting married.”

With her attention on Alex, Coach smiles at him before she turns her head to face me. “Yeah, we decided to get married on July fifteenth. It’s John Parker’s birthday. The day means a lot to Alex.”

“The middle of the summer. That’s going to be a hot day. Do you have a venue picked out yet?”

Coach shakes her head. “No. Since the day is so special to us, I want it to be perfect, but I have no idea where to look.”

“You can always have it here,” I say, joking.

Coach glances around the event center, her eyes traveling over the ice before making her way up to the ceiling. “That’s not a bad idea. Do you guys rent this place out for weddings?”

I chuckle. “No, unfortunately, we don’t, but I’m sure an exception could be made for you and Alex.”

“Really?” Her eyes widen in shock. “Do you think your dad could convince the owner to let us have our wedding here? That would be amazing.”

I was joking when I offered the Wells Fargo Center as a location for her wedding, but now that I can see how much it would mean to Coach, I have to ask if it’s even possible. “Let me check our event calendar when I go upstairs, and if there’s nothing on the schedule for that day, I will go beg and plead for you.”

Over the years, Coach and I have become close. We have so much in common and can just shoot the shit that it makes it easy for us to talk for hours. But I don’t know much about her, apart from her love of sports. I always wanted to get together, but with our busy schedules, it’s hard to line up a time to meet. Neither of us has a regular routine for girls our age.

“That would be great. Thanks, Regan. Alex would love it if we got married on his father’s birthday and in a hockey rink, of all places. How cool would that be?”

“Oh, you want to get married on the ice? In the middle of July?”

She shrugs. “Not like it matters how hot or cold it is outside.”

“That’s true. You’ll go from sweating your ass off to freezing in no time.”

“I like the cold,” she says, her eyes focused on Alex as he skates past us. “And I already know Alex loves it. How cool would that be to have the tables for the reception in the middle of the rink?”

I give her a sideways look, unsure of how to respond. “Wouldn’t people fall on their asses? Then we’d be liable if something happened to them.”

“Right. That’s no fun.” She seems disappointed that I burst her bubble about the reception idea. “Maybe I should check out more conventional places where no one will get hurt. That would be my luck that someone would fall and crack their head open on my wedding day.”

“We can look into it if you want. I’m sure there are other things we could arrange if the dates work out, and everyone is okay with the venue.”

She grins. “Thanks, Regan. I’d love that if we can make it work.”

By the time the third period starts, Coach and I end up giving the girls around us the rundown after each stoppage of play. How they can be married to professional athletes and not even attempt to learn the sport is beyond me. Candice seems like she tries to understand, but most of the time she mixes up the penalties and doesn’t know when or why the lines always change.

One minute, she’s talking about how amazing her husband looks on the ice, and the next, she’s inviting Coach and me to Sunday brunch with the girls as if we’re one of them. We politely decline, of course. I always say no, as does Coach. We have nothing in common. I have no idea how Coach and I would even carry a conversation with them over brunch.

The game is tied with thirty seconds left on the clock until the Penguins take a shot on goal that hits the crossbar and lands next to Tyler Kane’s skate. As the captain of the team and the fastest player on the team, Kane rushes down the ice, his speed and agility working in his favor. He moves the puck a few times before he regains it and passes it to Parker, allowing him to take the shot that sails between the goalie’s legs.

He scores and the entire arena erupts into chaos, everyone around us clapping and cheering. The team huddles together into a hockey hug to celebrate their victory. The Flyers were amazing tonight. Their mojo is back, and our boys are stronger and faster than ever. The team has a nice rhythm going. We are making the playoffs. That much I can guarantee.

Coach hugs me, jumping up and down along with me. Our excitement dies down once the crowd mellows out and the seats begin to empty. I look over at the Flyers bench and spot Alex staring at Coach. He presses his glove to the glass, and she returns his smile.

“You guys are too cute,” I say to Coach, sounding unlike myself. I never say things like that. But I mean what I say. “I’ll see what I can do about the wedding. That would be kind of cool to have one here.”

“My man-of-honor would love it just as much as Alex and me. We pretty much grew up in this type of environment. I promised Jamie I wouldn’t kill him with girl stuff. Having our wedding here would be perfect.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Man-of-honor? What the hell is a man-of-honor?”

“Oh, right.” She laughs almost to herself. “I guess you haven’t met Jamie yet.”

“No, I haven’t. Only the little boy you bring to the games with you sometimes.”

“Rico,” she says, offering his name. “Jamie has been traveling a lot for work, so he doesn’t have as much time to come to the games with me anymore.”

“Rico is a cute kid. I’m sure he keeps you busy. But did you call your friend your man-of-honor? I have never heard that term before.”

“Yeah, well, my best friend is a man. I’m the farthest from conventional as you can get. It’s what they call a man who is filling the role of the maid-of-honor in a wedding.”

“That’s interesting. Does he have to wear a bridesmaid dress and do all the same things?”

She laughs so hard so doubles over. “No, you sound like Jamie. He asked me the same thing. You should have seen the look on his face when I’d asked him to be my man-of-honor. Of course, Alex had to be an ass and give Jamie a hard time. That didn’t make it any easier to explain it to him.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything,” I say, unsure of how to follow-up with a reasonable response.

I know very little about weddings and anything in the same hemisphere. I’m the last person anyone would ask for advice when it comes to these types of things.

After the team heads to the locker room and the seats around us completely clear out, Coach and I finally make our way up the steps, climbing them side-by-side. We reach the top in record time and walk through the halls in almost silence. The only sounds come from the remaining people attempting to exit the building in a rush. After the game ends, the fans can’t get out of here fast enough.

By the time we reach the side entrance where Coach had parked her car, I hold the door open, allowing her to join me outside. Leaning my back against the door, I do my best to shake the chill from the cold metal against my skin. Coach zippers up her jacket before hooking her arm around me, leaning in to plant a kiss on my cheek.

“Let me know if you can fit us into the schedule. I won’t say anything to Alex until you know for sure, but that would be an event no one would forget.”

“I couldn’t agree more. I’ll do my best and get back to you.”

She releases me from her grip and takes a step back, her teeth chattering as she speaks. “Nice seeing you, Regan.” Stuffing her hands into her pockets, she finishes, “Give me a call sometime this week. Maybe we can grab lunch.”

I wave as she walks away. “Sounds good. I’ll call you.”

Once I’m back inside the warm building, I rub my hands together. My skin burns from the cold. I should be used to the weather at this point. Most of my life, I had split my time between Ontario—where my family is from—and Philadelphia—where my father had played hockey. And now he’s even more of a permanent fixture as their general manager.

I promised Coach something I have no idea if I can even deliver. A wedding on the ice at the Wells Fargo Center would be the wedding of the year. No, it would be the wedding of the century. As I walk toward my office, I keep my fingers crossed that I can deliver. I hate disappointing friends, especially since I have so few of them.