That Time We Faked It (Time On The Ice #3)

4. WADE

WADE

The Morning After, with a Side of Trouble

I desperately needed my sleep. When my alarm rudely blared at midday, it was only a reminder that I'd only managed six hours of shut-eye. I cursed under my breath. Don't get me wrong, I loved my bar, but after nights like the one we just had? Yeah, I couldn't handle that kind of schedule on repeat. And by "we," I meant me and…Mr. Pretty boy— who was long gone, and I was glad of that.

I dragged myself out of bed, I couldn't help but groan. Arthritis was a constant pain in my ass that combined with a military injury, I was a hot mess— emphasis on mess. At thirty-two, I felt like I was pushing fifty on some days. It was all down to genetics, really.

Despite being one of six siblings, I was the lucky winner of the debilitating genetic disorder lottery. My siblings? All super sporty. Meanwhile, I would go from one day moving with a small ache to the next unable to get out of bed. Go figure.

Over the years, I'd learned to manage it as best I could, following my first boyfriend to the military which ended… well… let's not speak of that. My determination to not let an auto-immune disability hold me back, also led me to a life of heartache, and further feeling pain as I got 'older'. Funny how life worked out.

The one thing I knew though, my first job was at a bar, and there was something about the atmosphere of sharing a love for sports with people, whether they played it or not, that made me forget about the parts of life I'd missed out on, like being the next ice hockey star— ice skating was attainable… but being hit by men with the intention to hurt… yeah, arthritis said no.

As I made my way to the shower, I cranked the water on scorching hot, hoping it would ease the ache that had settled deep into my bones. Why did I ever think working crazy long shifts on my feet was a good idea? I wondered, while I massaged my temples before stepping under the steaming spray. But as the water cascaded over my weary body, I couldn't help but sigh in relief, letting my head hang low as I absorbed the comforting heat.

The shower was always where I found myself contemplating my whole life. It was where I made the crazy decision to venture into the world of owning my own bar instead of following the family business. Needless to say, my family wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea.

Their skepticism was palpable, but they begrudgingly gave me their blessing. "Let him have his adventure," they said. "If it fails, it fails." So, there I was, determined to prove them wrong. Like I always was. I was going to prove to them that for once my decisions were not based on other men… no this was all me-myself and I.

But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months, I couldn't help but feel the weight of their doubts bearing down on me.

The location wasn't ideal, the market was tough, and my marketing skills left much

to be desired. If it weren't for a handful of loyal regulars, mostly guys from the gym, I would have been forced to swallow my pride and crawl back to my parents' house with my tail between my legs. And that was simply not an option.

Yet, despite the challenges, the past night had given me hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Sure, my body was feeling the strain enough to make me consider popping the painkillers I'd always avoided, but if it meant I could move around without wincing, it might just be worth it.

Then my mind went back to a certain pretty boy, with a movie star quality, a witty mouth and a personality I just couldn't pin. In an instant with him coming to mind my dick got hard. The thought of the most perfect ass, clad in leather, you could drop a dime on it and it would have bounced.

Then his tight torso and sheer top that didn’t cover those nipples that were calling to be between my teeth. I groaned, the sound echoing through the tiny bathroom walls. I reached out to my cock that was twitching with every thought, pumping it in my fist as I imagined that sassy little mouth over my cock, those sparkling brown eyes teasing me even when his mouth was full of me. I came on an outcry, embarrassingly too quick. Thankfully for me, no one would ever know, especially not my pretty boy.

I descended the stairs into the bar, stopping at the last step as I took in the scene. A deep sigh slipped from me. The tables were clear, the chairs mostly in place, but the sink… the sink was overflowing with glasses. Somehow, despite the late-night clean-up, it looked like an entire hockey team had stormed through and decided to leave every pint glass, tumbler, and shot glass in existence behind.

Rolling up my sleeves, I approached the sink like I was facing off against an opponent, the mountain of glassware daring me to take it on. Water hissed as I turned on the tap, suds foaming up around my arms as I grabbed the first glass. The satisfying clink of clean glass against the drying rack became my rhythm as I worked my way through the pile. One glass, two glasses, ten… I didn’t stop until the sink was empty, the steel bottom gleaming as if mocking me for doubting I could finish the job.

With the glasses drying neatly on the rack, I turned my attention to the rest of the bar. The counters got a good wipe-down, leaving the surface shining under the overhead lights. I straightened stools, double-checked the fridge for stock, and by the time I was done, the place looked ready—like it hadn’t just been through the New Year’s Eve war zone a handful of hours earlier.

I grabbed a sandwich from the kitchen, wolfing it down in a few bites as I flipped on the lights. The hum of the fridge and the faint warmth of the grill told me everything was in working order. Today was New Year’s Day, and I’d cut myself some slack by opening later for lunch service—at fourteen hundred hours, sharp. With the place back in shape and smelling of fresh coffee and polished wood, I unlocked the door, my muscles still sore but my bar looking the best it had in weeks.

I braced myself for crickets and empty seats, but the jingle of the bell brought a shock of laughter and chatter into the space. Friendly faces strolled in, and I blinked in surprise, my chest loosening just a little.

There was no time to overthink it. Orders rolled in fast, and I dove into the work. Between pouring drinks, sliding plates of food across the counter, and greeting tables with quick nods, I kept the place running.

By six o’clock, the bar was a sea of people—cheers erupting as the hockey game on the main screen played out, while other sports flickered on nearby TVs.

The smell of burgers sizzling on the grill mixed with the warm tang of beer and cologne, filled the room with that comforting, bustling hum of a bar that worked .

I paused just long enough to look around, a momentary swell of pride tightening in my chest. The place had life. A pulse. Maybe it was luck, or maybe some unexpected fairy godmother had wandered through the door. Either way, one thing was crystal clear:

I needed staff, and I needed them yesterday .

As another rush of people flooded in, I felt the stress mounting. Orders were piling up faster than I could handle, and the standard I prided myself on was quickly slipping as the crowd grew.

Just when I thought I couldn't handle it anymore, a familiar voice caught me off guard. I turned to see Pretty boy eagerly making drink orders behind my bar, that megawatt smile of his beaming my way.

"Mind if I help out with the drinks, boss? Can you handle getting these folks their food?" he asked.

I blinked, caught off guard by his audacity. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it was rude to stare?" he quipped, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

Cheeky little shit, I found myself rolling my eyes as I headed to the kitchen— I couldn't help but think the eye roll would be a staple with Mr. Pretty boy around—as he served patrons, happily chatting away and tossing out pet names like confetti. I probably should've told him to tone it down with the cutie and sweetie, but hell, even the customers seemed to eat it up.

Luckily, the kitchen closed at nine, allowing me to focus solely on the bar. But first, I had to do a quick sweep to clean up the mess he'd left behind. It was like a little tornado had hit the place, but I couldn't bring myself to scold him. He was doing an amazing job, and the till was proof of that.

As the night crept towards two am and the bar began to empty out, we finally called it a night. Pretty boy tried his best to help clean up, but I couldn't ignore the way he was yawning and dragging his feet. With a gentle nudge from behind, I urged him towards the door.

"Out you go. Go to bed, pretty boy," I said, trying to keep my voice firm.

"Why, Jack, this is the second time you've crowded me from behind. If you wanted to screw me like this, all you had to do was ask," he teased, earning himself a glare from me.

"Out, now," I growled, my voice huskier than intended but his reaction on my cock was not something I wanted to indulge.

With a nonchalant roll of his eyes, he bid me goodnight and left. Once again, he'd come to my rescue without expecting anything in return. I watched him go, unable to ignore how damn good he looked in those jeans and tight blazer. Not exactly appropriate for the weather, but damn if it didn't make him look even hotter.