Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
November
Trav
What do I do when my man’s across the country playing hockey?
Pine. Yeah, me pining. Didn’t see that fucking coming.
It’s unbecoming of a man of my growly nature.
I’m in the bar, polishing glasses. I pay people to do this; I don’t need to be doing this, but I don’t have enough busy work at this time of year.
We’re a month and a half into the official hockey season, five more weeks till the way-too-short Christmas break when he’ll be home for a few days.
We get three days, three fucking days. I’ll see Dash most of that time, and Dirk will see Hunter one of the days.
They’re planning something called a “Very Meyer Christmas” which is their friend thing this year.
But Dirk and I are gonna try to fit something in.
We have to, it’s just tricky. He’s not working here through the season, and there’s no reason for him to be at the restaurant.
In any case, it’s November in Vancouver, so when the door opens, an ice-cold breeze blows in.
This time, it carries an Elkington with it.
He’s in a long black peacoat with the collar rolled up to shield his neck in lieu of a scarf.
The sunglasses are a bit much, but I suppose that’s to hide his identity.
What’s a guy like Elkington doing in my joint?
Maxwell Elkington is the Mayor of Vancouver.
He’s the highfalutin kind, not the sort to show his face here.
I check the doors, but don’t see any special security detail. That doesn’t mean there isn’t one, just that they’re not in plain sight. Maxwell stumbles toward the bar top and slides into one of the empty stools.
One of the perks of dating a younger man is being in on the gossip. I don’t know all the details—nor do I want to—but pretty sure he’s coming off the heartbreak of a lifetime.
“Rhett and Logan got married, on the damn ice,” Dirk said when we’d finally gotten a phone call in. I swear, dating a hockey player is like dating someone who’s gone off to war. Thank Christ for text messaging, or I’d barely get to talk to him at all.
Long story short, Maxwell tried to sabotage his son Rhett’s relationship with Rhett’s man, Logan, and it backfired. As a result of the fallout, Maxwell’s man left him. Looks like he’s not handling it well.
He attempts to sit on the barstool, his ass slipping. He catches himself on the bar top, his elbows just managing to save his descent to the floor. He peers up at me as if he made a grand save.
Yeah, I cannot serve him alcohol.
I should kick him out, but he’s the damn mayor, and he’s an Elkington. What kind of bureaucratic nightmare will he unleash on my establishment if I do? If it comes down to it, I’ll do what I have to do, but I’ll play nice for now. I slide a soda with a lime garnish toward him.
“What the fuck is this? Your finest cognac, neat,” he demands.
“Next time.” I narrow my eyes. “What are you doing here, Maxwell?”
“I came to get a drink.” He sips his soda like a petulant child, his nose wrinkling with disgust. “Don’t you have any finer sparkling water? This tastes like old pipes.”
“I don’t. Try the corner store down the road.”
I turn back to the game on the screen. It’s a Vancouver game, which means I get to watch Stacey and Casey.
I got into hockey for my son. When he started playing, I learned everything I could, so I’d have something to talk to Dash about.
He’s never said, but pretty sure he got into rock and alternative music because of me, and I always sent him concert shirts, even when his mom wouldn’t let me see him.
Over the years, I came to love hockey like he does, and he fell in love with the music I like, and we’ve bonded over both.
So I catch as many games as I can, even when he’s not playing.
But the Alderchuck brothers—Casey and Stacey—are family.
I don’t miss their games if I can help it.
“…Orcas are oh for three on the power play, still trailing one to nothing here in Vancouver tonight. Alderchucks move in, Casey toward the goal … round the net, now centers… throws a backhand pass out to Stacey. He shoots, he scooooores!”
The pub erupts with unbridled excitement, and while we’d get excited about any Vancouver goal, something extra warms the eyes of the fans in the restaurant because those men are ours. I pass out a round of beer for Alderchuck goals. Maxwell scowls when I skip him.
“I don’t get one?”
“You need to sober up.” I won’t budge on that. He’s too drunk to serve. Of all people, he should know how BC liquor laws work, but maybe his brain is pickled.
“Get me some food, then. I’ll sober up, and you’ll serve me what I want.”
Fucking Christ, this guy. But food’s probably a good idea. I order him a burger and fries, both good for soaking up the alcohol. He complains when it arrives because he doesn’t eat anything deep-fried and hasn’t had a carb since nineteen ninety-five.
“Just eat it, Maxwell. I’m sure you can have the fat sucked out of your ass or something. Whatever it is you rich people do.”
I refill his soda and watch the rest of the second period. By the time I turn to check on him, all the food’s gone, and he’s licking his finely manicured fingers.
“Okay, Nolan. That was fucking delicious. I’ll make sure to send all my friends.”
Please don’t. “Thanks,” I growl.
Halfway through the third, he sobers up, but I’m still not serving him.
He seems to sense that, demanding another soda refill.
This guy needs to get some fucking manners.
The man is as big as I am, which is a rare encounter for me.
I’m usually the largest thing in a room, but we’re on par.
He’s a weird choice for mayor; Elkington’s always reminded me of an arrogant frat boy.
But I guess it pays to have friends in high places.
It also pays to be beautiful. I know for certain he gets votes based on his looks and charm.
Wouldn’t the internet like to know he came in here falling down drunk? But I can’t kick a man when he’s down, even if he’s mostly a snake.
“Aren’t bartenders supposed to give advice?” he asks right in the middle of play. He’s a hockey buff, the whole world knows that, which is why he should know you don’t do anything but play backseat hockey coach and yell at the refs during play.
Besides, I’m not technically a bartender. I like to stand behind the bar to watch the games, and I help out when I’m needed.
He’s lucky I’m intrigued.
“What kind of advice do you need?”
“Rhett’s angry with me.”
I wondered where he’d go first—his relationship with his son or his lover. The latter’s probably too personal, whereas I have a son and can relate.
“My son would be pissed, too, if I tried to sabotage his relationship.” But I wince.
I have done that. Not in the monumental way he has.
Um, or well, I guess I have beaten a few guys up.
Sigh. Okay, so I’m an overprotective dad, but my son was abducted for fucksakes.
That deserves a pass, doesn’t it? I’m not sure, but I can’t find the fucks I give, so I ignore the little voice of regret that tries to get my attention.
Great. Now I need to know what reason he could have for taking the harsh actions he did to make sure he’s the unreasonable one, and I’m not.
“Not surprised you’ve heard. Those boys are a tight-knit group.”
I’m doing my best to stop referring to them as boys because of Dirk, but the internal cringe happens against my will due to his moniker as my brain helpfully supplies the last time Dirk and I were together, my dick firmly in his ass.
I offer a curt nod.
“Do you think there’s any hope for repair? Rhett’s pissed. I was thinking about cutting off access to all his family accounts. I’d hate to do it, but I’ve got to do something, so he’ll be forced to talk to me.”
“Rhett’s an adult. You’ve got to let him make his own decisions.”
Maxwell laughs and then laughs some more. When he sees I’m not laughing, he stops. “Oh, you’re serious.” He pauses. “Is that what you do, Nolan?”
Mentally filing through my track record isn’t good, but then I come up with Syd. I’ve mostly stayed out of that one. Given, I may have had my “brothers” look into him, and I might know he’s a good guy, but I won’t mention that.
“My boy’s dating someone right now. I don’t love his choice, but it’s his choice.”
Maxwell sips his soda, thinking. “Rhett was my prodigy. He was supposed to marry the cream of the crop. I don’t know if I like Logan. He grew up in a trailer.” Maxwell wrinkles his nose. That man was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
“So did I, and you’re getting your advice from me. Listen, Elkington, you’re going to ruin your relationship with your son if you keep scheming. Is that what you want?”
He taps his fingers on the bar top. “No, which is why I’ve already sent an apology letter. I’ve allowed them to keep their marriage if they choose.”
It pains him, but I guess it says something that he’s doing it.
“Then why rock the boat? Leave it, Maxwell. You wanted my advice? There it is. Let them live their life. This too shall pass.”
He downs his soda, pulling a wad of cash from his wallet. “How much? Will a couple hundred cover this?”
“That burger is twenty-two bucks, the soda’s on the house.”
He tosses the pile of cash on the counter anyway. “Consider the rest a bonus,” he looks around, “for your silence.”
Before I can tell him I don’t need to be paid off, he’s gone. He probably wouldn’t have believed me anyway.
What in the fuck was that? I don’t know, but I hope he doesn’t come back.