Chapter 33 Best Seat in the House
Thirty-Three
Best Seat in the House
Forest
The dregs of winter bring a snowstorm, and I plow the parking lot of the bar with the help of my new truck. Then we’re treated to a preview of spring with a thaw that turns the snowbanks into ugly piles of sludge.
The Stickhandlers make it to the beer league playoffs, where we lose in the first round. But so does the Plague, so I’m mostly okay with it.
Charlie’s hockey season also ends, which means he has more free time for video games and sass. Not necessarily in that order.
I, on the other hand, have no free time at all. Another bartender quits, so I’m stuck on a work treadmill that just won’t quit. Either I’m picking up extra shifts or interviewing prospective hires.
Beck and I manage a couple of sleepovers. Once at his place, where I avoid looking Rigsy in the eye on my way out. And once at my place, where I make Beck a fantastic brunch the next morning on his day off.
He seems happy—as sunny as ever when we’re together—but Rigsy’s message still stings a little.
Then, in the middle of another busy week, I’m training a new server one Thursday at the bar, when my phone starts dancing a jig in my pocket.
Beck
Hola
This text was scheduled to pop up on your phone just after the puck drops on the Cougars.
I need you to watch the bench.
Where I have the best seat in the house tonight.
Also, would it jinx me if you took a pic of the screen?
I’ve forgotten how to breathe, and when I remember again, all I can say is “Holy. Shit.”
Ignoring the customer who just sat down with an expectant look on his face, I grab the TV remote. Aiming it at a nearby screen, I switch the channel away from the basketball game in a big fat hurry.
“I was watching that!” yelps Fregular, but I couldn’t care less.
The Cougars are only three minutes into their game, but I’m glued to the action, waiting for the camera to pan the bench.
“Buddy?” Scully says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Something wrong? Or are you just in the mood to ignore all our customers?”
“Watch the bench,” I bark. “I think Beck is the backup tonight.”
“No shit?” Scully says, his eyes zipping up to the screen.
“Can I get a Sierra Nevada?” someone says.
“In a minute,” Scully thunders. “Pay attention! We got a friend having his first call up to Denver tonight.”
The whole bar turns toward the hockey game. “Who is it?” Fregular demands. “Wait—that sexy Ice Cats goalie with the cute smile? I’d like to see him use his stick.”
I growl, but Scully says, “Yup, that’s our guy! Stay sharp, everyone. We need the camera to…”
A view of the bench pops onto the screen—a line of Cougars with their coach standing attentively behind them. And there he is. I let out a shout when I spot Beck, geared up and ready, watching the game from the bench.
The bar lets out a roar of applause and luckily Scully is filming it all on his phone, because I’m too overwhelmed to react.
Beck is up there on that screen, like I always knew he’d be. My throat is suddenly very tight, and when Scully claps me on the back, I struggle to make all the right noises.
He did it. Never mind that it’s only an emergency call-up to sit on the bench. It’s another stepping stone to greatness. He’s on his way, and now everybody knows it.
Scully’s phone looms into my face, and I lift a hand to push it out of my way. “What are you doing?”
“Had to preserve this for posterity. Forest gets all emotional over the goalie.”
“I didn’t get all emotional,” I grunt, turning back to the bar to serve some drinks. I probably do a shitty job, because it’s hard to be a good bartender when you’re keeping an eye on the game.
And does it make me an asshole to hope that Walcott gets a bad cramp and comes off the ice?
At intermission I take my phone out and reply to Beck’s text.
Forest
Words cannot express how happy I am for you. Come over later, if you want to. Maybe you have other plans. But I’ll leave the front door unlocked just in case.
I get back to my job, because one of us isn’t going anywhere.
Spoiler: it’s me.