Page 1 of Shot on Goal at a Second Chance (Midlife Meet Cute #6)
Rebecca
“You didn’t think this would be easy, did you?
” My younger sister, Kayla, always begins her advice with a question, as if to gauge how ready I am to hear her true opinion.
Like the time I drove two hours to her college dorm to show her the used VW Turbo Beetle I’d just purchased.
Seemed fitting to buy my dream car with the first paycheck from my dream job.
Her initial reaction was, “Did you intend to buy a clown car?”
But once she took it for a spin, she loved it even more than I did.
I think I broke her heart when I traded it in a few years later for something bigger and more ‘mature’ for an up-and-coming millennial smashing it in the business world of sports.
And for the record, no clowns were harmed during the ownership or selling of the Beetle.
“No, of course not. I’m just not looking forward to initial reactions.
” I pull my SUV into the parking spot behind the arena, the one marked for the team owner of the Florida Sun Kings.
Buying a hockey team isn’t like grabbing a gallon of milk at the grocery store.
You don’t just take it home, break the seal, and pour. That would be easy—and predictable.
In this analogy, the milk container is an aging arena badly in need of repairs, and the contents? That would be the team and staff I’m hoping haven’t completely curdled, thanks to the scandal involving their former coach.
Turns out the woman he was having an affair with was also his bookie. I’ll let your imagination fill in the blanks—but let’s just say betting against your own team never ends well.
And the pouring? That’s where I come in. Out with the old and in with the new, which involves updating the aforementioned arena and finding a new coach. The old one definitely had to go if the Sun Kings were to have a shot at being a decent ECHL team.
Today’s agenda includes meeting with my contractor to discuss the renovation plans I want completed before the start of the next season.
And tomorrow, I’ll meet the team during a small ceremony the staff insisted on planning.
I know the intent is positive press exposure, but I’ve always enjoyed working behind the scenes, away from the cameras.
The center of attention has never been my speed.
But I’ll do whatever’s needed to shift the needle and bring the fans back.
“Becks, you’re not the first woman to own a hockey team. Besides, you’re literally their Hail Mary. They should kiss your feet when you walk into the locker room. Just make sure they’re dressed.”
Leave it to Kayla to know how to make me laugh.
She’s always been the fun one. Me? I spent most of my forty-three years on this planet idolizing my father, who was a famous hockey player turned coach who later became a general manager for an NHL team.
Through the years, I watched him influence young players to be their best, on and off the ice, so I’d like to think I picked up a few strategies from him.
My love for him and the sport led me to get my degree in sports management and to several positions in the ECHL, AHL, and NHL leagues over the years as I saved for my dream of owning a team.
Our dream. That was the original plan—for Dad and me to do this together.
“I wouldn’t go that far. I’m sure they’ll be appreciative, especially after they hear about the renovations I’m making.”
“Perhaps. But we are talking about hockey players. Will they care what color the carpet and walls are?”
I snort. “No, but I’m sure they’ll appreciate having newly renovated locker and workout rooms and a fully stocked lounge.”
“I’m sure they will.” She pauses. “Dad would be so proud of you, sis.”
We were so close to making our dream happen until Dad had a stroke and passed away almost a year ago. All the years of playing hard on the ice and then the stress of coaching and managing several teams finally caught up to him before he could enjoy the fruits of ownership.
I almost gave up on the whole thing, but then I realized that would dishonor his memory.
Feeling the burn behind my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose to stave off any more tears. “I’d like to think so.”
Her long sigh trickles out of the car speakers. “Wish I could be there for you today.”
And I wish she could see my smile of appreciation. Moving three hundred miles away from my sister and niece wasn’t exactly easy. Not that long of a drive, but far enough.
“I’ll be fine. I’ll call you tonight and let you know how it went.”
“Promise?”
“Of course.”
“Then bye for now. Love you!” she sing-songs.
“Love you, too. Hug Quinn for me.” The call ends, leaving the cabin of my SUV in silence.
My gaze drifts from the imposing arena filling my view to the box of essentials sitting on the passenger seat—a few select items for my new office, including my father’s playbook, which I consider my greatest treasure at this point.
Having it with me is almost like having him here today.
The pages not only hold his best strategies but also his wisdom in managing a team.
I’m counting on the GM being open to shaking things up a bit.
I pat the tattered cover of his self-made manual. “We did it, Dad. Just wish you were here to do this with me.”
The first thing that makes my skin crawl is the desk that came straight from the seventies. In fact, most of the office looks like the disco era dropped in for a visit and decided to stay.
For a long time.
“Good grief. Did the man invest in this place at all?” I mutter to myself as I drop my box on the bare yet faded desk.
The worn chair behind it gives further testimony to the sad state of the furnishings alone.
I can feel my bank account groan as I take in the full scope of what’s supposed to be my new office.
The word ‘new’ being used loosely here, of course.
“That would be a big fat no.”
I spin around. A young woman, maybe early twenties at best, stares back at me with doe eyes and a tentative smile.
Hand out, she takes a step forward. “I’m Harper.”
Smiling, I shake her hand. “Rebecca Piedmont.”
“Our new owner.” Her grin widens. “I’m so jazzed to finally meet you.”
I skirt the desk and pull out a drawer. A swarm of ants writhes over some kind of candy that’s no longer identifiable.
“Eww.” I slap the drawer closed.
Harper walks over and dares to take a peek. “Mr. Burns loved his candy.” She pushes the drawer shut again. “I think we have some ant killer in the supply closet. I’ll take care of it for you.”
“Harper.” I call her back before she reaches the doorway. “What exactly do you do here?”
She leans against the doorjamb. “Everything and anything. Whatever’s needed.”
“Including pest control?”
She points at the drawer. “Today I do.”
“Noted.” I say this more to myself than her, which becomes evident by her confused expression. “Thank you for taking care of the pest problem.”
“I’m on it.” She turns to leave.
“Harper?”
“Yes, ma’am?” Harper turns around again, legs twisted like a pretzel, reminding me of my ten-year-old niece.
And ma’am? “Rebecca, please.”
Brushing back her near-black hair, she nods.
“Who was Mr. Burns’ secretary or assistant?”
She raises her hand, fingers waggling. “That would be me.”
“Which one?”
“Which one, what?”
“Assistant or secretary?”
Her smile falters, replaced by a mix of doubt and confusion. “Both?”
“I see.” When I purchased the team, I was told the staff was minimal due to cuts.
Gambling the team’s profits put a massive dent in the budget.
Not to mention the state of the arena. Obviously, the previous owner was more of a hands-off kind of guy in light of what his coach got away with. I knew that. Just not the extent.
“Jack says the more hats I wear, the more valuable I’ll be. He’s my uncle, by the way.”
Now I really see. “How nice. Let’s have a discussion later about your responsibilities, okay?”
Panic flashes in her eyes. “Are you going to fire me?”
I hold my hand up toward her to stave off the distress rolling over her expression. “No, not at all. I’m just a firm believer in figuring out which hat suits a person best and letting them wear it well, so to speak.”
“Oh, okay.” She hesitates. “I love helping people. Is there something I can help you with now?”
I point to the drawer.
Her eyes pop open wider. “Right! The ants! I’ll get the spray.”
“Thank you.” I return to the ant-infested desk and check out the chair, in case it harbors some kind of pest or an old booby trap left over from a bygone era, then sit carefully, cringing as the base creaks.
Dad would have said a little grease would take care of it. He was always the handy one. I was more of a visionary.
And right now, I’m envisioning a whole new office filled with bug- and creak-free furniture.