Parker (Face-Off 1)

Alex

Most people hate the loud, obnoxious noise a hockey goal horn makes, but I’m not one of those people. Because that means my team has scored and is one step closer to another victory.

But, this morning, the sweet sound I associate with winning wakes me from a drunken sleep, and for the third time this year, I know the person on the other end of the line is calling with bad news. I lift my head from the pillow, one eye open, as I reach for my cell phone on the bedside table.

Except I’m not in my bedroom. This is not my apartment.

Where the hell am I?

I spot a pink fuzzy robe draped over the closet door, reminding me of something a child would wear. A Harry Potter poster is on the wall above a small desk with a computer, a schoolbag slung over the top of the chair. The room is about the size of a dorm room.

No, this can’t be happening.

When I roll onto my back and sit up, I lean against the headboard, my legs too long for the twin-size bed, and see a naked blonde sleeping next to me. Her arm covers her face, so I can’t tell if I chose well before we left the bar last night. The entire evening is a blur.

Please don’t be a dorm room.

She stirs, a sound escaping her lips.

I silence the ringer on my phone and sigh when I see that it’s my agent calling. This is not good. Answering his call will only confirm that my future with the Washington Capitals is over.

I banged the wrong chick—and not the one next to me.

How was I supposed to know that smoking-hot puck bunny was the granddaughter of the wrinkly old fuck in charge of my paycheck?

I have to man up and face reality, so I return my agent’s call, praying that the owner has granted me a reprieve after another phenomenal season. I think I’ve earned that much. We’re first in our division, and we have the best penalty kill record in the league, thanks to me.

“Hey, Mick,” I say, my hand shaking as I hold the phone to my ear. “Let me—”

Before I can finish my thought, Mickey Donoghue—also known in the sports agent world as Mick the Dick—screams, “Pack your bags, jerk off; you’re going to Philadelphia. Don’t fuck this up, you understand? This is your last chance!”

I sit up straight, my heart pounding out of my chest, unable to process his words. The Philadelphia Flyers are not the worst team in the league, but they’re not the best either. I worked my ass off to make my team worthy of the playoffs. We almost won the Stanley Cup last year. Starting over with a young team is not ideal. In fact, it’s bullshit.

After eight years in the league, I should have my pick of teams. But, after my last fuckup, I lost some of my sponsors and was lucky that Mick was enough of a dick to keep me in Washington, DC. The team refused to sign me with a no-trade clause because of my past indiscretions, which meant I had no choice in where they wanted to send me.

“Can I just meet with the owner? Let me explain to him that it was all a misunderstanding.” I had a good relationship with the owner of the team before the scandal, before I banged his granddaughter in an elevator at The Ritz-Carlton. “Mick, I thought—”

“No, you don’t think, kid. That’s your problem. You let the wrong head do the thinking for you, and the result is the same every time. Look, you’ve got a lot of talent. I know your father wouldn’t have wanted this for you.”

He’s right about that. My dad would crawl out of his grave just to kick my ass if he knew what I had become since his death. A lot can happen in six months. I screwed up worse than normal, and now, I have to sack up and head to Philly to play for one of the last teams I would’ve ever chosen.

“Alex,” Mickey breathes into the receiver, “you’re my godson, and you have been with me since the start of your career. Your old man was a good guy, a talented player, and an even better coach. He was my closest friend, and because we’re like family, I try to look out for you and your best interests, as if you were my own son.”

“I know. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but you—”

I can almost see Mickey on the other end of the line, holding up his hand to silence me, cutting me off. “Think of this as a chance to start over with a less experienced team that can use your skill set. You can teach these young guys. With a lot of patience and time, you can build this team up and help them get into the playoffs.”

I don’t want to be someone’s mentor. I want to win the Stanley Cup.

A brief moment of silence passes between us before Mickey clears his throat, snapping me out of my daze. My head is pounding, as if it has its own pulse, and the foul taste in my mouth makes me want to vomit. I want to drink myself into oblivion at the thought of leaving my team. But I don’t have a choice.

“When do I leave for Philly?”

“You have to report for practice at the Flyers Skate Zone in Voorhees, New Jersey at the end of the week. I rented you an apartment, about thirty minutes away in Philly, from an agent who owns a few properties on the waterfront. I’ll text you the address. After we hang up, my office will give you a call to work out the details, and I’ll make sure someone is at the apartment to meet you with the keys. Since you already live like a drifter, I doubt you have much to pack, but I arranged for a moving company to help you with your transition. The movers will be at your apartment at n

ine a.m. tomorrow. Make sure you’re awake. No more bullshit, Alex. You’re twenty-seven years old. It’s time to grow up and act like an adult.”

The girl next to me removes her hand from her face, and I slide off the bed, holding on to the table next to me for support.

“Thanks, Mick,” I say, somewhat panicked. “I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

“Hi,” the girl says in a playful tone.

She looks about as old as she sounds, which isn’t very comforting, though I can see why I took her to bed. She has legs for days and perky tits.

“What’s the rush, Alex?” She pushes her blonde strands behind her ear and bites down on her bottom lip.

I’m standing naked in front of this girl, contemplating whether I want to make use of those nice full lips, until she says, “We have time. My roommate won’t be home until later.”