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

9. CAL

CAL

Sick, Stubborn, and Saving the Bar (Again)

I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a Zamboni. My head pounded in rhythm with my pulse, a relentless, shitty techno beat. My throat? Sandpaper and razor blades—because why settle for one discomfort when you could have both? Fantastic. I dragged myself upright, the room spinning for a moment like my body was protesting any vertical movement.

At least the house was empty. No witnesses to this train wreck of a human. The way I was groaning and shuffling around, I’d be mistaken for a zombie with a figure-skating side gig.

First stop: the bathroom and the dreaded saltwater gargle. Ugh. It was as effective as my last relationship—absolutely pointless and left a bitter taste in my mouth. I eyed the vitamin shelf, popped a handful of immune boosters like they were candy, and filled one water bottle with lemon juice and another with pre-workout. Overkill? Probably. But desperation did funny things to a man.

The shower felt like a baptism—briefly resurrecting me into the land of the living—until I stepped outside. The sharp sting of cold Canadian air slapped me across the face, and I realized I’d done it again. No jumper. I looked longingly at the front door, debating whether to go back inside. Nope. Not worth it.

My car was an old, faithful disaster zone, but it had its perks—like acting as my second closet. I shoved a few rogue sneakers out of the way, dug through the backseat wardrobe, and found a jumper that didn’t smell too questionable. A win. Sick, but clean. The bar was low, but at least I’d cleared it.

The rink parking lot was already full when I screeched in, my body protesting every step toward the building. Coach clocked me immediately, his stare heavy with disapproval. He didn’t need to say anything—his head shake said it all: Why are you here? But I wasn’t good at listening to common sense, especially when it told me to rest.

Training was… rough. The stretches felt like torture. My jumps were nowhere near competition standard. I lifted Petra, managed not to drop her, and somehow survived the entire session. By the end, even Coach’s scowls softened into something resembling sympathy.

“Go home, Cal. Bed. I don’t want you sick for this competition,” he barked, the concern lurking behind his gruff voice.

I didn’t need to be told twice. Well… I should’ve gone straight home. But instead of climbing into bed like a reasonable person, I found myself pulling up to the bar. It was instinct now—Jack’s bar had become my favorite kind of trouble.

The place was a madhouse. I barely made it through the door before I clocked Taron and Sadie in full panic mode, weaving between customers like it was a battlefield.

“What the hell’s going on?” I asked, slipping behind the bar, energy borrowed entirely from my pre-workout cocktail.

Taron turned, frazzled but relieved to see me.

“Jack’s dad had a heart attack. He flew home this morning. We said we could manage, but the Voyagers are playing, Cal. We’re drowning.”

I blinked, shaking off the fog in my head. “Alright, I’ll take the kitchen. You and Sadie handle the drinks and crowd control.”

I shot to the back, skidding into the kitchen and immediately thanking Jack’s over-the-top organization. Food prep instructions were pinned everywhere, and most of it was basic: sliders, wings, chips. My kind of speed. I tossed on an apron and got to work, moving through orders with muscle memory I didn’t even know I had. Sure, Jack would probably cry when he saw the disaster zone I’d left in his pristine kitchen, but that was a problem for future me.

By some miracle—and I do mean miracle —we made it through the chaos. Hockey-loving Canadians didn’t mess around, but neither did we.

“Canadians and their hockey,” Taron muttered under their breath when the crowd finally started to thin. “I thought we’d be fine…”

“You were fine,” I said, dragging them into a hug that earned me an exasperated groan. “We survived, didn’t we?”

Taron grumbled something unintelligible, probably about my optimism, but I ignored it.

“You finish up in the kitchen. I’ll close the tills and stack chairs.”

Between the three of us, we got the place clean and locked down by 2 a.m. I peeked into the kitchen, relieved to see Taron had managed to fix the chaos I’d created. Jack would never know. Well, unless I ratted myself out, which… yeah, that wasn’t happening.

“Go home, Cal,” Sadie said, brushing a hand over my shoulder like I was made of glass. “You look like death warmed up.”

I forced a weak smile and nodded. Every step felt heavier, every joint screaming its betrayal. My head was pounding again, my body aching in ways I knew wouldn’t feel better tomorrow. Sadie was right—I looked like shit because I felt like shit.

Still, a tiny spark of pride lingered. The bar survived another night. Jack’s bar. Our bar, I almost let myself think.

And as I finally dragged myself to my car, I promised myself that this time I’d actually rest. I didn’t believe me either.