Real Regrets (Kensingtons Book 2)

Hockey rinks have a distinct smell. Different from the fresh air and earth scent of soccer fields or baseball diamonds.

My eyes close for a minute as I inhale deeply. The cool bite to the air burns my lungs, accompanied by the lingering odors of cooled sweat, chemical cleaner, rubber, and buttered popcorn. With my sight restricted, all the smells seem to sharpen. Something about the mix of them swirling in the chilled air is more relaxing than appalling. For a few seconds, I can pretend I’m somewhere else.

“Miss Garner.”

I open my eyes, turning away from the bird’s-eye view of the arena to watch Robert Damon approach. Balding, portly, and pushing sixty, the general manager of the Las Vegas Coyotes makes the predictable choice to check out my cleavage before his eyes migrate up to my face. I resist the urge to double check I didn’t miss a button. I only had ten minutes to change between checking in to the hotel and heading here, so it’s a definite possibility.

“Mr. Damon.” I hold out a hand to shake and fix a polite smile on my face.

He chuckles as our palms connect, his hand warm and slightly damp. I suppress a grimace as the handshake lasts a few seconds longer than necessary, his beady gaze making another trip down to my chest in the extended length of time.

“Call me Robert, please.” His voice is as repellant as the rest of him, high and reedy.

Robert waits, presumably for me to reciprocate the offer and tell him to call me Hannah. I don’t. I’m happy to remain on professional terms with him.

“The facility is impressive,” I say, pulling my palm free and gesturing toward the flawless ice I was just admiring. I focus on taking in the impressive view for a second time, instead of wiping my palm on my pants the way I want to. “This is only the team’s second season, correct?”

I’m not actually asking; I know it is.

But allowing Robert to think he knows more about his team than I do serves a purpose, just like not commenting on his wandering gaze does. Pissing him off won’t make this visit any more pleasant. I’m here to play a role, and I’ll do a damned good job of it.

“That’s correct.” Robert smiles. “I appreciate when a woman does her homework.”

My smile stays fixed. It tightens, freezing like poured concrete as he cements my initial assumption that he’s a misogynistic asshole. Jerk or not, he’s a bridge I can’t burn.

Robert sighs, happily looking out at the ice rink. The frozen water reflects the bright lights of the arena, glimmering off the smooth surface.

It’s an overwhelming sight, like standing in the center of an empty cathedral. Huge and majestic, to the point it shrinks everything else into perspective. Makes you feel tiny and inconsequential and awed.

“This was a bitch of a project to push through,” Robert tells me, residual annoyance lingering in the words as he studies the finished product. “But worth it, in the end.”

I nod, biting the inside of my cheek so nothing snarky about the questionable genius of building a massive hockey stadium in the middle of the desert can slip out. While dubious from an environmental and logical perspective, it’s an architectural marvel. In keeping with the city’s flashy reputation, the domed ceiling is designed to look like a mirrorball with thousands of reflective facets displaying a distorted image of the empty arena.

“Would you like a tour of behind the scenes?”

“That sounds great.”

Robert nods, anticipating my answer the same way I was expecting the offer. When he looks away, I take the opportunity to check my shirt, relieved to see all the buttons are done up.

Today’s visit to the Coyotes’ facility is part of a tired, predictable routine.

Well, I’m tired of it. Robert looks like this is the highlight of his week as he summons over a petite redhead from the corner of the suite. She’s dressed professionally, just like me, in a blazer, skirt, and heels. A lanyard emblazoned with the Coyotes’ logo hangs around her neck.

“Lauren can show you around,” Robert tells me. “She handles public relations for the team. Lauren, this is Hannah Garner. From Garner Sports Agency.”

I don’t miss the impressed look that appears on Lauren’s face as Robert emphasizes my last name, immediately followed by understanding. The that’s why she’s here conclusion. The nepotism look.

I don’t hate it because I worked my ass off to get here and am craving acknowledgment of that fact. I hate it because I didn’t earn my spot at the business making a few hundred million in commissions annually.

My father is a big deal in the sports world. Since childhood—his, not mine—he’s been involved in it somehow, some way. Player, coach, owner, manager, agent. When I graduated college and wasn’t sure what to do next with my life, he suggested I give the “family business” a try.

So I did.

And now, five years later, I’m still stuck in place without really moving anywhere. I have a corner office and a generous salary, and an Executive Vice President nameplate on my door.

But it feels like I’ve accomplished next to nothing. Like I’m swimming, not just floating, but still headed nowhere certain. There’s always more water ahead and no expected destination in sight. I just keep moving.

I shake Lauren’s manicured hand when she holds it out to me. “Nice to meet you, Lauren.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Garner.”

I open my mouth to tell her to call me Hannah, then shut it. Insulting Robert Damon would be a dumb decision. And that’s exactly how he’ll take me inviting an employee he undoubtedly considers inferior to call me by my first name when I didn’t extend him the same courtesy.

A fake smile stays plastered on my face while I mentally count down the minutes until I can leave the Coyotes’ facility and return to my hotel room.

This Vegas visit was a stop my father sprang on me. He called this morning, when I was already on my way to the airport from my best friend Rosie’s apartment in Hyde Park, to ask if I’d be willing to meet with Robert this afternoon.

He said it made sense because I was already traveling but I know the real reason. I work for a sports agency, but I’m not a sports agent, which makes these sorts of interactions more casual. My father calls me his secret weapon, and it makes extricating myself from a career I never wanted infinitely more complicated.

“We can start by looking in the press office?” Lauren suggests.

“Sounds great,” I reply, following her out of the executive suite that overlooks the rink.

Robert trails behind us, unfortunately. I was hoping he had something more important to do and wouldn’t be tagging along on the tour.

This entire meeting is a sales pitch. Vegas is an expansion team in the middle of their second season. They’re fighting for relevance among franchises that have existed for close to a century. Those teams have history. Dedicated fans and season ticket holders. Their jerseys are the ones PeeWee players dream of wearing, that carry a prestige earned through blood, sweat, and multiple championships.

Garner Sports Agency negotiates contracts for seasoned veterans and rising stars. Every team’s money is worth the same amount, but that doesn’t make them equal in other respects.

Vegas wants more established players who will bring relevance with them. Ones fans will turn on televisions and buy tickets to see play because of the name on the back of the jersey, regardless of the logo on the front.

Impressing me—by extension, my father, who represents and advises many current and future hockey stars—is what Robert Damon and the rest of the Coyotes management hope to accomplish this afternoon.

The rest of the building isn’t nearly as impressive as the ceiling was. Everything looks brand-new because it is. But the locker and equipment rooms otherwise appear the same as the ten other stadiums I’ve taken similar tours of in the past few years.

I keep nodding and smiling as we walk down a hallway lined with color photos of players on the ice, listening to Robert prattle on about the state-of-the-art, high-definition video boards.

Finally, we end up back in the executive suite where we started. Robert has me promise to return to Vegas for a home game sometime soon before I’m shown out of the stadium and into the waiting car that brought me here a couple of hours ago.

As soon as the car door shuts, I kick off my heels and sink back against the leather seat, wishing I could get on a flight back to Los Angeles right now, instead of waiting until the morning. Back when I first started working at Garner Sports Agency, the frequent travel sounded exciting. A chance to see more of the country after living my whole life in California. I no longer view it with the same excitement.

My younger sister Rachel texts me as the car turns onto the famous Strip. Neon lights flash on either side of the boulevard, the setting sun allowing the artificial brightness covering each building to start shining.

Rachel: You’re in Vegas???

Neither Rachel nor my older brother Edward chose to become involved in the sports industry. Their athletic careers ended in elementary school. I was the one who stuck with soccer through high school, knowing my dad loved to coach. What’s now a croquet course in my parents’ backyard used to be a soccer field, complete with a regulation-sized goal.

Rachel is a high school English teacher. She’s a bookworm who loves kids, so the job suits her perfectly.

Edward—Eddie—is an anesthesiologist married to his high school sweetheart, April. Five months ago, they announced they’re expecting a baby. My first niece or nephew will arrive in about a month.

And then there’s me. The middle child outwardly successful and inwardly unsure.

I text Rachel back, knowing she’ll blow up my phone if I don’t respond quickly.

Hannah: Yes.

Predictably, Rachel replies immediately.

Rachel: Yes????

Rachel: You’re in VEGAS and you’re only response is YES?

Hannah: I think you meant *your

Bad grammar is one of Rachel’s biggest pet peeves. If you ask her, she’s unhappily single because the online dating world is chock full of the barely literate. Her words, not mine. Although I have seen some of the screenshots she’s sent me and she has a point.

Rachel’s name flashes across the screen with an incoming call a few seconds later. I answer it with a sigh, already knowing what she’ll say.

“First off, it was autocorrect, not me. Secondly, when are you going to tell Dad that you’re a grown woman, not an errand girl?”

“He’s my boss, Rachel. It’s my job.”

“You took the day off. Dad will love you just as much, Hannah, if you set some boundaries.”

“Wow. I can’t believe you had time to get a psychology degree between teaching and reading those romance books you love.”

I caught Rachel reading a paperback with a shirtless man on the cover on Thanksgiving, and I’ve made a point to tease her about it multiple times since.

“First off, I’m a Garner. Obviously, I can multitask. And second, you should read one. Your life could use a little romance.”

Rachel isn’t wrong, but I’m not about to admit it. Since breaking up with Declan, I’ve gone on plenty of dates. Partly to prove to my family I’m fine. But Declan’s parting words echo in my head and make me wonder if there’s any point. No one wants a challenge that never ends, he told me. I’ve heard some version of the same sentiment before. It’s never felt easy with anyone, so it’s always turned into a hard relationship until it ends.

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

“When will you be home? I was going to see if you wanted to go to that new sushi place tonight, and then Mom mentioned Dad sent you to the seminary of debauchery.”

“My flight leaves at eleven a.m. tomorrow. I’ll be back in LA early afternoon. And it’s not that exciting here. Hardly a seminary of debauchery.”

I got used to Rachel’s wordsmithery back when she won the fifth-grade spelling bee. It doesn’t even merit a sarcastic comment about memorizing the dictionary at this point.

“Then you’re obviously doing it wrong.”

I don’t argue with that because she’s probably right.

For someone who spends so much time in fictional worlds, Rachel has a zest for life I lack. She’s always trying new hobbies. She spends her summers off traveling around the world. When I’m not working, I mostly just redecorate my house because I can’t settle on a consistent theme.

“I’m here for work.”

“You won’t be working tonight,” Rachel sings. “Put on a tight dress and go to one of those male stripper shows.”

I roll my eyes as the car stops in front of the swanky hotel I’m staying at. “I have to go. I’ll talk to you when I’m back in LA and we can go to the sushi spot soon.”

“Fine. Love you, sis.”

“Love you too.”

I say goodbye to the driver and then climb out of the car, headed for the hotel’s automatic doors.