CHAPTER 11
DEVON
THE BAR'S ABSOLUTELY slammed tonight. Standing room only, donation jars overflowing, and I'm moving so fast I'm pretty sure I've achieved some kind of bartender enlightenment. Or maybe I'm just having a panic attack in slow motion. Hard to tell.
I'm in the middle of pouring three beers simultaneously—a skill I didn't know I possessed until thirty seconds ago—when the door opens and Marcus walks in with Parker trailing behind him.
They're both in their firefighter jackets, looking official and determined, and they head straight for Hendrix, who's currently perched on the bar doing his best gargoyle impression while bobbing his head to whatever's playing on the speakers.
He sees them coming and perks up, ruffling his feathers.
Marcus approaches carefully, hands out like he's trying to convince a toddler to give up a toy. "We're here for the bird."
Hendrix tilts his head. "Kiss kiss!"
"Not now, buddy." Marcus is still inching closer, moving slow. "Mama Paws said we could borrow you for a day."
Before he can get within grabbing distance, Becker materializes out of nowhere like he's been summoned by a Bat-Signal. "Absolutely not."
Marcus stops, hand still outstretched toward Hendrix. He blinks. "Excuse me?"
Becker positions himself between Marcus and Hendrix, arms crossed, jaw set. He looks like a bouncer at a club. A very muscular, very stubborn bouncer. "You can't just take Hendrix. He's ours."
Parker now steps forward and crosses his arms too. "He's the shelter's."
"Semantics."
Oh, this is going to be good. I abandon the mojito—sorry, random customer—and lean against the bar to watch.
Marcus's jaw tightens, and I can see him actively choosing patience. "We're teaching him fire safety commands."
"He already knows commands. Watch." Becker turns to Hendrix, who's now watching the standoff with what looks like genuine interest. "Hendrix, what do you say when someone's being unreasonable?"
"What the puuuuck?"
Becker gestures triumphantly like he's just won a debate championship. "See? Perfectly trained."
Marcus takes a step forward, closing the distance. He's maybe an inch taller than Becker, but Becker's got more bulk. "Move."
"Make me."
"I literally carry people out of buildings for a living," Marcus says, voice low.
"Yeah?" Becker puffs his chest out. "I literally fight people on ice for a living."
"That's not even—" Marcus stops, recalibrates, probably counting to ten in his head. "You play hockey. You don't fight for a living."
"Tell that to my penalty minutes."
They're chest to chest now, both over six feet of pure stubborn male ego, and the entire bar has noticed. Conversations are dying down. People are turning to watch. Someone's definitely filming this.
Petrov appears next to me, also watching. "Is good entertainment."
"Better than Netfllix," I agree.
Ace materializes at my other elbow, because apparently everyone's abandoning their posts to watch this unfold.
"Should I stop them?" I ask.
Ace's eyes do this thing—this slow, deliberate drag from my face down to my feet and back up again. There's a little smirk playing at his lips, one eyebrow's raised, and he looks so fucking smug. "You sure are confident."
I squint. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." The smirk gets bigger, and I want to bite it off his face. "I guess being short has its disadvantages."
Oh.
Oh, he wants to play? Well, game on then.
I turn to face him fully, leaning one hip against the bar, making sure I have his complete and total attention. I let my eyes go half-lidded, slow and deliberate. "Oh, trust me. I'm the perfect size."
The change in Ace's face is fucking spectacular.
His smirk drops.
His eyes go wide.
His mouth opens slightly.
And then—oh, this is beautiful—his entire face goes bright red. Not just his cheeks. His whole face. His ears. His neck. It's like watching a stoplight change.
"That's not—" He stops, swallows. "I meant—"
I'm grinning now, fully committed, enjoying every second of his flustered panic. "For breaking up fights." I pause, let it hang there. "What did you think I meant?"
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again like a fish drowning in air.
These hockey players are way too stiff, and not in the fun way. Someone needs to teach them how to loosen up, and apparently that someone is me.
Also, Ace is hot when he's flustered. Sue me.
Finally, Ace laughs. "You're absolutely batshit crazy."
"Keep telling yourself that, hockey boy."
The fight's still happening in the background, Becker and Marcus now arguing about custody arrangements while Parker tries to mediate and Hendrix continues to look thrilled about the whole situation.
Eventually they work it out. The firefighters get Hendrix for twenty-four hours, Becker gets unlimited visiting rights, and everyone's honor remains intact. Marcus picks up Hendrix, who goes willingly, and Parker grabs the travel cage from behind the bar.
"We'll take good care of him," Parker promises.
Becker looks like he's about to cry. "He likes his water room temperature. And he needs at least six hours of attention per day. And—"
"We know," Marcus says. "We've got this."
The bar returns to its previous chaos level—which is to say, extremely chaotic. I'm making drinks, taking orders, trying not to trip over my own feet or the three dogs currently weaving between everyone's legs.
I'm debating whether the drink I just made counts as a martini when a woman sits down at the bar.
She's gorgeous—dark skin, killer bone structure, hair in perfect twists, dressed like she has her shit together in a way I can only aspire to. She's wearing this emerald green wrap dress, and she looks comfortable, confident, like she belongs anywhere she decides to be.
I immediately want to be her friend.
"What can I get you?"
She considers for a moment, looking at the bottles behind me, then back at me. "Surprise me."
"Brave choice." I'm already grabbing bottles, moving on instinct. "My surprises are either brilliant or criminal. No in-between."
"I'll risk it."
I make something that's probably against the law—vodka, cranberry, lime, a splash of elderflower liqueur because the bottle was pretty, and a prayer—and slide it across the bar.
She picks it up, examines it like she's a wine critic, takes a sip.
Her face does something complicated. Something between impressed and horrified, settling somewhere around bemused disgust.
"It's awful," she finally says.
I burst out laughing. "You're honest. I like that. I'm Devon."
"Leila."
We shake hands across the bar.
Behind her, Groover attempts some kind of trick shot with a wadded-up napkin, trying to land it in Snooze's empty beer glass. He misses and hits Jinx directly in the face.
Jinx, who was mid-drink, chokes and then immediately retaliates by throwing a handful of peanuts at Groover.
Groover ducks. The peanuts hit Wall instead.
Wall throws a coaster.
It escalates immediately, as all things with this team do.
"Don't mind them," I say to Leila, who's watching the chaos unfold with wide eyes.
"Are they always this...?" She trails off, searching for a word that probably doesn't exist.
"Chaotic? Yeah. This is them behaving."
"Terrifying."
"You get used to it. Mostly."
We watch together as Petrov tries to mediate the napkin-peanut war and somehow makes things worse by accidentally knocking over someone's drink. The wet napkin war has now involved six people and counting, and someone's trying to use the shelter dogs as shields.
Mama Paws is going to kill them.
Leila's still watching, and I can see her trying not to laugh. She points discreetly at Washington, who's currently trying to restore order. "That one looks stressed."
"Oh yeah." I nod, leaning on the bar. "He's the only adult in the room. I swear he's aged ten years in the past week trying to keep everyone in line."
Leila's grinning now, and it transforms her whole face. "He does have that energy."
"Right? Like a disappointed dad at a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party." I'm warming to the topic now, gesturing with my hands. "You can see it in his eyes. The resignation. The 'I'm too old for this shit, but I love these idiots, so I guess I'm stuck here.' It's beautiful, really."
"What about that one?" She points at Becker, who's now attempting to juggle beer coasters.
"The class clown. Thinks he's hilarious."
"Is he?"
I consider this. "Sometimes. Mostly he's just a mess in human form. Like if a golden retriever and a natural disaster had a baby."
Leila laughs, hand over her mouth. "What about the big one?"
"Wall?" I glance over at him—he's currently drinking what appears to be his bodyweight in water. "He's secretly a softie. Cried over a kitten last week. Actual tears. Don't tell him I told you."
Leila's eyes are sparkling now. "Your secret's safe with me."
"What about—" she starts, but Washington appears out of nowhere, materializing next to her like he's mastered teleportation.
He doesn't acknowledge me, just leans down and says to Leila, "Babe, mark the Christmas lights as done in the spreadsheet. Wall pulled through. It's a Christmas miracle."
He drops a kiss on her head and walks away, already being pulled into the napkin war by Groover.
I stare at Leila.
She sips her drink innocently, not meeting my eyes.
"Babe?"
"Hmm?" She's examining her nails now.
"BABE?"
"Oh, did I forget to mention—"
I gasp, pressing my hand to my chest. "You traitor!"
Leila's laughing. "What?"
"You sat there and let me roast your boyfriend?"
"Husband," she corrects, way too cheerfully. "And I really enjoyed the roast. Especially the disappointed dad at Chuck E. Cheese."
"Because that's what he is!" I gesture wildly, nearly knocking over someone's drink. "But you should have stopped me!"
"Why? Everything you said was accurate."
"That's not the point."
She's laughing harder now, shoulders shaking. "You're the one who didn't ask who I was."
Fair. Extremely fair. Still betrayal.
I cross my arms, trying to look offended, but I'm fighting a smile. "Okay. I'll forgive you. But only if you give me the scoop."
Her eyes light up. "What kind of scoop?"
"The good stuff. Actual tea."
Leila leans in conspiratorially, elbows on the bar, voice dropping. "Fine. Luckily for you, I love gossip."
"You're my kind of people."
And she delivers. Oh boy, does she deliver.
She stays for another hour, nursing her terrible drink and giving me the complete rundown on every team member. Who's secretly dating who. Who has weird superstitions. Who can't cook to save their life.
She tells me about Washington's proposal, which involved a flash mob and went horribly wrong, but she said yes anyway. About Wall's secret poetry habit. About Becker's three failed attempts at getting a hamster.
By the time Washington swoops back in to collect his wife, I feel like I've known these guys for years instead of weeks.
Leila gives me a little wave as they leave, Washington's arm around her waist. "See you soon, hon."
"Already miss you!"
Once they're gone, I take a moment to look around the bar, taking stock.
Every table is full. People are standing in groups, laughing, drinking, petting the shelter dogs that Mama Paws brought by earlier. The donation jars are so full then had to be emptied twice already, and there's a third collection happening now.
The flyers Becker made are everywhere—people taking photos of them, posting on social media, asking questions about the charity game. I've given out at least twenty in the past hour.
Two college-aged kids are asking Mama Paws about volunteer opportunities.
This is working.
We're actually pulling this off.