CHAPTER 8
ACE
MY FIRST CUSTOMER orders a Manhattan, and I'm pretty sure my soul leaves my body. "A what?"
"Manhattan." He says it like it's a normal drink people order, which it probably is, but I'm a jock, not a mixologist. "Whiskey, vermouth, bitters—"
"Right. Yeah. I know." I absolutely do not know, but I'm nodding like I do while my brain is screaming , What the fuck is vermouth?
The guy's waiting.
I'm sweating.
The bar has been open for exactly four minutes and I'm already sweating.
Devon materializes at my elbow like he's been summoned by my panic. "I got this."
He makes the drink in what feels like three seconds, grabbing funny-looking bottles, measuring without measuring, the whole thing annoyingly smooth, and slides it across the bar.
The customer takes a sip. "Perfect."
"What can I say?" Devon shoots him a grin. "I'm a professional."
I wait until the customer leaves before hissing, "I thought you were new to this."
"And? I'm a quick learner." He's already moving on to the next order, this confidence radiating off him that makes me want to both admire and strangle him. "Just follow my lead. You'll be fine."
I will not be fine.
The bar fills up fast, faster than I'm prepared for. There's a whole line of people wanting drinks, and suddenly I'm supposed to know what a Whiskey Sour is.
I pour whiskey into a glass.
I stare at it.
Is it sour yet?
Devon rescues me again, adding lemon juice and simple syrup like it's obvious, which maybe it is to people who aren't having a breakdown.
"You're panicking." He says it quietly, matter-of-fact.
"I'm not."
"Your eye's twitching."
Fuck, is it? I press my palm against my face. "This was a terrible idea. Why did I agree to this?"
"Because you're a good person who wants to help." He squeezes my shoulder. "Breathe. Nobody's died."
"Yet."
"Yet," he agrees, already moving on to the next customer.
I'm mixing something that's supposed to be a vodka cranberry—hard to fuck that up, I hope—when Groover walks in with Jinx and Snooze trailing behind him. Groover spots me, and his face splits into the kind of grin that means I'm about to be mocked relentlessly.
"Well, well, well." He leans against the bar, taking in my probably-panicked expression. "How's it going, bartender?"
"Fuck off."
"That's not good customer service."
"You're not a customer." I slide him a beer bottle. "Here. Drink and shut up."
Wall appears next, towering over everyone. He orders a tap beer—that fucker—and I grab a glass with something that might be confidence but is probably just denial.
I tilt. Pour.
The glass is half-filled, giving me a false sense of security before the tap coughs and foam explodes everywhere. The glass is maybe fifteen percent beer, eighty-five percent foam, and there's foam on the bar, foam on my hands, foam on my shirt. It's like the beer tap vomited.
Wall stares at the glass. Then at me. Then back at the glass.
"Impressive," he says finally, failing to conceal a grin.
"Don't."
"No, I mean it. That takes skill. You've created something that defies the laws of physics."
Devon's laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the back counter. "How did you— That shouldn't be possible."
"I hate you both." I dump the foam-glass in the sink and start over.
This time it's better. Marginally. At least there's some actual beer in there.
"See?" Devon wipes his eyes. "You're learning."
Hendrix has been uncharacteristically quiet up until now, perched on the end of the bar watching everything with those beady little eyes that definitely contain sinister intent.
He's bobbing his head to the music playing overhead, occasionally letting out a quiet "What the puuuck? " like he's commentating on the chaos.
Mama Paws walks past with one of the dogs—the terrier mix who doesn't believe in personal space—and Hendrix ruffles his feathers importantly.
"He's judging us," I mutter to Devon.
"Obviously. That's his whole thing." Devon's making two drinks at once now, somehow not spilling anything or mixing them up.
Show-off.
A couple approaches the bar, young, maybe mid-twenties, clearly on a date based on the nervous energy radiating off both of them. They both order wine, and they're doing that thing where they keep glancing at each other and smiling.
It's actually kind of cute.
Hendrix waddles over to them, head cocked to the side in that way that looks curious but definitely isn't.
"Kiss kiss."
They both laugh nervously. The girl reaches over to pet Hendrix, who tolerates it for exactly two seconds before backing up.
"Kiss kiss," he repeats, more insistent now.
"I think he wants us to kiss," the guy says, grinning.
The girl giggles. "Okay, okay." She leans over and gives him a quick peck on the cheek.
Hendrix screeches.
Not a happy screech. An offended screech. The kind of screech that says "how dare you insult me with that pathetic excuse for affection."
The couple jumps, startled.
"KISS KISS!" Hendrix is flapping his wings now, hopping from foot to foot, working himself into a frenzy.
"I don't think that was enough," the guy says.
"He's very demanding," Devon adds helpfully from behind the bar, not helping at all.
The couple exchanges looks, a whole conversation happening in a glance. And then they're going for it. Full makeout session right there at the bar, the guy's hand in her hair, her hand on his chest, and they're clearly enjoying themselves.
Hendrix watches like a supervisor conducting a quality control inspection.
After about fifteen seconds, he seems satisfied and waddles away with a quiet "What the puuuck?" that sounds almost approving.
The entire bar bursts into applause, and the couple breaks apart, both flushed and laughing.
"Best first date ever," the girl declares.
"If we get married, we're inviting the bird," the guy says.
I'm grinning as I slide one of the flyers toward them. "His name's Hendrix, and he accepts payments in the form of compliments, chaos, and you two showing up for our charity game."
The guy grabs the flyer, the girl reading it over his shoulder. "What do you think?" he asks. "Second date material?"
She looks at the ceiling, faux-contemplating, but there are dimples etched into her cheeks as she fights a smile. "More like… fourth date? Seems like we have work to do until then."
He grins. "That can be arranged."
The bar's really packed now, every table full, people standing in groups, and my team has basically colonized the entire back corner. Petrov's teaching someone how to say something in Russian. Becker's doing card tricks. Jinx keeps checking his jacket pocket every thirty seconds like clockwork.
Devon's disappeared into the back to grab more napkins or something, and I'm handling the bar solo for the first time, which is terrifying, but I'm actually managing not to destroy anything.
The door opens and Leila walks in, followed by Washington.
The team spots them and the energy shifts, everyone straightening up slightly, voices quieting just a fraction, because Washington's still the captain even when we're not on the ice.
"At ease, gentlemen," Washington says drily as he and Leila approach the bar. "I'm off duty."
"You're never off duty, Cap," Groover calls out.
"It's pathological," Becker adds.
Leila's laughing, used to this. She orders a glass of wine and Washington gets a beer, and they settle onto barstools at the end of the bar.
And of course Hendrix spots them too.
He puffs up his chest and marches toward them with the determination of a tiny feathered general. "Kiss kiss."
"Awww," Leila coos. "You want a kiss, mister?"
Oh, you sweet summer child. "He wants you two to kiss."
"KISS KISS." Louder now, insistent.
Leila's trying not to laugh while Washington's already leaning in, and then they're making out like they're alone in their bedroom, not in a crowded bar.
Washington makes a sound that's definitely not captain-appropriate, his hand sliding into her hair, and they're just.. . going for it. Tongue and everything.
The bar goes silent, everyone watching with expressions ranging from amused to scandalized to impressed.
They finally break apart, both are breathing hard, Leila's lipstick smeared, Washington's face flushed.
Hendrix stares at them for a long moment. Then: "WHAT THE PUUUUCK?"
The team fucking erupts.
"Cap!" Becker's screaming with laughter. "Get some!"
"I did not need to see that," Wall says, but he's grinning.
Washington's trying to look dignified while wiping lipstick off his mouth. "You're all children."
"You're all jealous," Leila corrects, completely unbothered.
Devon returns from the back with a box of napkins, taking in the chaos. "What did I miss?"
I point my chin toward Hendrix, who's already on the move, scanning the room for his next victims. "That bird has the intelligence of a high schooler and the sense of humor of a five-year-old."
Hendrix's beady eyes land on Becker and Groover, who are laughing at something on Becker's phone.
"Oh, fuck," Becker says when he notices.
"Kiss kiss."
"No. Absolutely not. Not happening."
Hendrix is undeterred. He half-flies, half-hops onto their table and gets right in Becker's face.
"KISS KISS."
"Hendrix, buddy." Becker's using his most diplomatic voice. "We're teammates. Bros. It would be weird."
Groover's already shaking his head. "I'm not doing it."
"Neither am I."
"KISS KISS!" Hendrix is screaming now, wings spread, full demon mode activated.
The entire bar is watching.
"Just do it," Wall yells from across the room. "Save yourselves!"
"Never!" Becker yells back.
Hendrix screeches directly into Becker's ear.
"Fine! Jesus Christ, fine!" Becker looks at Groover with pure panic in his eyes, then shrugs. "For the bird."
"This is the worst day of my life," Groover mutters.
They lean in with all the enthusiasm of two guys about to receive root canals. Their lips meet for a fraction of a second—barely even counts as contact—before they spring apart like they've been electrocuted.