"You Can't Stay a Saint in This City"

Not so secret confession: I kind of hate preseason games. Sports are boring when nothing is on the line. But I’m going so I suck it up and try to get dressed anyway.

I never know what to wear to hockey games. I don’t own any Kings jerseys unless you count that one Wayne Gretzky gave me when I decorated his home in the Napa Valley. I’m not sure where I put it. I think it might be in my wine cellar turned shoe closet but I can’t really wear it since it’s framed. I don’t think I’m supposed to unframe a framed jersey just because I don’t have anything to wear to a hockey game. Besides it was probably too big for me anyway.

Normal girls just wear a white tank top and skinny jeans if they don’t want to wear a jersey but I’ve always looked sloppy while Jasmine looked casual cool. I don’t do sloppy, that’s basically why I overdress for everything, including hockey games. My go-to was either always a cocktail dress which made me look like I had just come from a museum benefit. I smile as I read the quote etched on the full-length mirror Jasmine bought me for Christmas last year.

“I believe in manicures. I believe in overdressing. I believe in primping at leisure and wearing lipstick. I believe in pink. I believe that loving is the best calorie burner. I believe in French kissing. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day and I believe in miracles.”

–Audrey Hepburn

If there was ever a truer quote. I sigh as I pull out Marchesa cocktail dress, it’s beautiful really with a sequined silver bodice and a light pink skirt made of feathers. I slip it over my head and also pull out a black YSL blazer because hockey arenas tend to be cold.
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“Hey,” I say as I see Greg idling in front of my house in his new white Lamborghini convertible. It’s one of those cars with the doors that don’t open like regular doors so Greg has to help me get into the car.

“I’m excited.” Greg says as we drive towards the Staples Center.

“Yeah?” I ask as Greg parks in the designated parking spaces. Despite the fact that Greg is definitely one of my best friends he has never been to a hockey game. Greg definitely has the stomach for it. I remember once he got tickets to the Los Angeles premier of some B-list horror movie and I literally spent the whole night with my hands over my eyes while Greg watched intently as if he was going to be critiquing for the Los Angeles Times. I have a general rule when it comes to horror movies, if it isn’t based on a novel by Stephen King I’m not watching it.

Greg and I navigate through the busy halls of the Staples Center while girls pretend not to check out Greg. Not going to lie, Greg is a pretty attractive guy. I mean if you were interested in pretty boys who dressed well.

“Oh this is cute.” Greg says as we sit down in our seats.

“Cute?”

“Well not really. What are they doing?” Greg asks peering onto the polished ice.

“They are warming up.” I never thought I’d actually be explaining hockey to someone.

“I could definitely get used to this.” Greg says as Jonathan Quick does a bunch of groin stretching behind the glass in front of us.

“I’m starved I’m going to get us something to eat.” Greg says getting up and leaving our seats with a trail of “excuse me” s behind him.

Mike sees me and tosses me a puck which a little boy thinks is this. I give it to the boy because honestly what am I going to do with a puck? At least with him there’s a chance he’ll use it to play road hockey with. Who am I kidding this is LA, the boy was probably going to sell it on Ebay.

“Guess who I found.” Greg says in a singsong voice as he comes back with a buffet worth of food. I’m not really sure who to expect, after all this is Greg.

“Bailey the Lion!” I yell as Greg drags the 6’4” Kings mascot towards us. Greg snaps several photos of the two of us and promptly posts it on Facebook to show Jasmine and Ivy how much fun we are obviously having without them.

Greg says “Now what does your neighbour look like?”

I nibble on a slice of cheese pizza from California Pizza Kitchen. “He’s number ten, the one on the bench to the left of us.”

“He’s not bad. It’s kind of hard to tell with their helmets on. I think they should play without them” Greg says and honestly I think that’s why we get along so well. Screw practicality we want esthetics.

“Shirts should be optional as well,” I suggest and I can hear a man groan behind me, I hope he knows that Greg and I are only kidding.

“Would you date any of them?” I ask Greg during a particularly slow part of the game were they pass the puck around in their own zone.

“When I said they weren’t bad I meant for you.” Greg says “Clearly I can do better.”

“Clearly,” I reply sarcastically.
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The game goes to a shootout and they spend an entire ten seconds showing Greg and I on the Jumbotron because we’re sitting behind Terry Murray. Of course these seats suck when
Terry Murray stands up and paces up and down the bench to try to look worried or throws his hands up in the air to protest a call my view becomes obstructed.

“Well that was fun wasn’t it?” I ask Greg as we split a box of Junior Mints on our way to the parking lot.

“Yeah, lots of fun.” Greg says “Oh my god, we need t-shirts!” he says as we pass the team store.

“Fine,” I reply but crowded confines aren’t my thing.

Greg however seems to feel a need to profess his new found love of hockey with Kings shot glasses. Seems I’ve found myself a new hockey buddy.