Chapter 3
Miguel
I needed noise tonight, and The Crossbar delivered: fried onions, cheap beer, and a jukebox that hadn’t learned a new song in twenty years.
The owner used to play minor-league hockey back in the day, which explained the name and the wall of signed jerseys near the bar.
It wasn’t fancy—scarred tables, mismatched chairs, a corner stage lit by a stubborn spotlight—but it was our kind of night.
The owner switched up the schedule—karaoke one week, open mic the next—mostly to keep things interesting, though the same crowd showed up no matter what.
Our crew had already claimed the long booth near the stage. Jester lifted a hand high enough to be seen over pitchers and shoulders. Tank didn’t wave; he gave me the chin-tilt that passed for enthusiasm in Tank-land.
Lily slid over to make space. “Cutting it close,” she said, eyes bright.
Twenty-nine, our physiotherapist by day, Lily Chang collected hobbies the way other people collected fridge magnets—rock climbing, paddle boarding, weekend hikes that started at sunrise.
Somewhere along the last couple seasons, she’d become my person here.
If I was limping through a rough week, she noticed first. If my head wasn’t in the game, she found a way to shake me out of it.
“I had a couple of errands to run before I got here,” I said, setting my guitar case between my knees. “What are we gonna eat?” I asked, rubbing my palms together.
She laughed and flagged the server. “Two orders of wings, one of nachos, and a ginger beer for my singer.”
“Beer,” Jester corrected, grinning. “He needs courage, not carbonation.”
“I need my goalie hydrated,” Lily said with a grin.
The Crossbar hummed with conversations that braided together—college kids in sweatshirts, older regulars with elbows planted, couples tucked shoulder-to-shoulder under the neon.
The host tapped the mic, earned a burst of feedback, and winced.
“We’re rolling, people. Tip your bartenders. First up—Tyler.”
Tyler was the kind of kid who still wore his campus lanyard.
He gripped an acoustic like it might bolt.
The first verse stumbled out—too quiet, words half-swallowed—but by the chorus he’d found his footing.
It wasn’t polished, but it was real, and somehow the room leaned in with him until the last chord faded.
“Good lungs,” Beau said from the end of the booth.
Devin leaned forward. “He looked like he was gonna pass out.”
“First nights do that,” I said.
Our food arrived—wings slick with sauce, jalapenos curling on the nachos, Tank’s plain burger because he treated his body like it was a contract with small print. Lily forced a celery stick into my hand. “Vegetables,” she said sternly, then stole one of my wings.
A woman took the stage next in a weathered denim jacket and boots that said she knew her way around a room.
No instrument; the host handed her a mic.
The second she opened her mouth, the room quieted.
Not silence, but that hush that meant people wanted to listen.
She had a smoky alto, filling the corners of the room with a song about leaving and staying gone, about the ache of driving past your old street in a rented car.
I forgot about the celery. I forgot about everything except the way a held note can make your chest sting in a good way. When she finished, every table cheered.
“Glad I’m not following her,” someone yelled good-naturedly from across the room.
“Damn,” Jester said softly, reverent for once.
“She’s excellent,” Lily murmured, eyes on the stage.
A couple of other performers went up on stage after. I nursed a glass of water, palms restless against the smooth table edge. The buzz under my ribs wasn’t fear. I’d been on stages before. It was the same nerves I felt in-net—waiting for the first shot, waiting for the rhythm to find me.
I felt the old pull in my fingers—the itch to make sound. Not for applause. For quiet. My uncle’s guitar had been the first thing I ever practiced on because it felt like prayer without church: wood, wire, and breath finding a shape together.
The next act brought a man in suspenders and a harmonica rigged to a neck holder, foot slamming time on a wooden box. He went at it like he was wrestling a storm—notes bending, squealing, then suddenly sweet. The room whooped and clapped along; even Tank’s mouth tugged toward a smile.
The host came back, wipeing sweat from his brow with a bar towel. “Next up—Maestro.”
Chairs scraped. Jester’s whistle cut through the buzz. Tank clapped loudly. Lily squeezed my knee under the table, quick and sure. “Go knock them out.”
I stood and my mouth went dry. On the ice, everything slowed when pucks flew—angles, traffic, my own breath.
Here, the edges blurred. I carried the guitar up the two steps, planted it by the stool, and sat.
The Crossbar’s spotlight threw heat onto my shoulders.
I checked the tuning by muscle memory. E, A, D, G, B, E.
The guitar smelled faintly of polish and time.
I leaned into the mic and let the first chords of “Hallelujah” roll out. Not my song, but a song that had weight, one everybody knew well enough to hum along.
Music always kept me grounded. Hockey got the hours, but this—this filled the space my brother left behind.
He’d had hands for the guitar too, before the pain, before the pills, before everything unraveled.
I carried the instrument like a promise to both of us, even when missing him ached deep and quiet, like a pulled muscle that never healed.
Halfway through the verse, my eyes lifted, scanning the tables. Teammates, strangers, a mix of faces—and then, in the back near the door, a tall figure. Mack.
Coach hadn’t come with us. He stood apart, one hand braced on a chair, shadowed by the dim light. I wasn’t expecting him, and the sight jolted me. My fingers stuttered once, the chord slipping. Probably sounded like improvisation to anyone else, but to me it felt like a skate catching bad ice.
I pulled it back, tightened the line, pushed through the chorus. Kept my eyes on the strings, but I felt his gaze from the back of the room, steady and unreadable.
When the last note fell, the applause came—cheers, whistles, Jester’s too-loud whoop. Tank’s palm hit the table hard enough to rattle the glasses. Lily stood and clapped above her head because of course she did. I ducked my head, heat in my face that had nothing to do with the light.
Back at the booth, Lily tugged me into the seat and shoved water at me. “Perfect,” she said. “You needed that.”
“Not bad,” Beau offered, which from him felt like a thesis on excellence.
“Good job, man,” Jester said.
I grinned and tried to let the noise fold over me—garlic, lemon cleaner, the high tinny ring in my ears that always came after a stage. Still, something tugged at the edges of my attention. I let my eyes travel to the back of the room again.
But this time, all I saw was someone who wasn’t Coach.
Maybe he’d come for a beer, or for quiet, or because this was the team’s usual hang-out and he wanted to see what we were like when it wasn’t drills and video.
It wouldn’t be the first time he did that over the years I’d known him.
I wondered what he thought of my performance tonight.
It wouldn’t have been the first time he saw me on stage.
If memory served, the last time he saw me was when Ry and Xander hosted a Christmas get-together last year.
“Earth to Maestro.” Lily flicked a drop of water at my cheek. “Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere,” I said, wiping it off. “Here.”
She studied me the way she studied a sprain—gently, but with intent. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I reached for a wing and pretended to argue with Jester over whether drums or flats were superior. The table picked sides. Tank declared flats were more aerodynamic. Devin laughed.
Later, when the noise softened and the host thanked everyone for coming, I packed my guitar. The strings chimed once when the case latched, that small ghost of sound following me as I stood.
Lili bumped my shoulder as we filed toward the door. “Proud of you,” she said.
“Gracias,” I murmured.
Outside, night air folded cool over my skin. The Crossbar’s neon buzzed behind us; a siren wailed somewhere and faded into the distance. The team peeled off toward cars and rideshares, voices spilling into the lot, promises to do this again soon tossed over shoulders.
I ordered my ride too, wincing at the fare before sliding into the back seat. Gas was high, tips added up, and I told myself that tomorrow I’d bike instead. But for now, the quiet suited me.
Still, as the car pulled away, I couldn’t shake the image of a man standing by the wall, quiet, watching me, saying nothing at all.