Chapter 39 It Was a Sex Injury
Thirty-Nine
It Was a Sex Injury
Forest
The bar is packed tonight with Cougars fans, half of them in jerseys, all of them drinking. It’s going to be a good night for drink sales. It will also be a long one, because Scully has a sprained wrist with a splint on it, and he’s pouring drinks at half speed.
When I asked what happened, he told me it was a sex injury. Then he winked, which made him look like there was something in his eye.
I’m not sure if he was joking, but I was too busy making drinks to ask for details.
“Izzy!” I holler to our cocktail server. “Can you spare a few minutes to clean some glassware?”
“Sure, pal.” She cracks her gum and ducks under the bar. “I can’t deliver the drinks, anyway, if you guys don’t start mixin’ ’em faster.”
“Sorry,” Scully mutters. “It’s a shame we don’t have an injured reserve list, like in hockey.”
“What would that even look like?” I ask, slamming a shaker down.
“Are you kidding? I’d be day-to-day with ‘shaker wrist.’ Izzy’s got ‘chronic tray shoulder.’ You’ve definitely got ‘bourbon elbow.’”
Izzy pops up from under the bar. “Don’t forget Todd’s ‘garnish thumb.’ He almost sliced it off last week cutting lime wedges.”
I grimace, thinking of how much our workers comp insurance would go up if that really happened.
“Can I get a refill?” someone at the bar asks. “Puck drops in one minute.”
“Sure.” The Cougars are playing Calgary tonight, and everyone’s got playoff fever. I grab the guy a clean glass and fill it with beer.
Fregular leans halfway across the bar, waving his arms like he’s coaching from the rail. “If Powers starts Vitek with DiCosta on D again, I swear to God I’m walking out.”
“You say that every week,” I mutter, shaking up a martini like it owes me money.
“They have no chemistry!” he yells. “Vitek couldn’t clear the puck out of a cardboard box.”
Onscreen, the arena lights flash and the Cougars' announcer starts bellowing into the mic:
“Starting on defense, number 51, Jiri Vitek!”
Fregular throws his hands in the air. “You see?! That’s it. I’m done. I’m done!”
“Uh-huh.” I pour the martini into a chilled glass, toss in an olive, and pick up the glass to deliver it.
“Last but not least, starting in goal tonight,” the announcer continues, “in his NHL debut—number 90, Becker James!”
I drop the martini. It just slides right out of my hand and onto the floor, treating the whole bar to the sound of breaking glass.
But nobody looks in my direction. They’re all watching the screen.
“What the fuck,” Fregular breathes.
“I’ve seen that guy in here,” someone else says in a shocked voice.
Nobody is more shocked than I am. I’m staring up at the screen, and there’s Beck, in a literal spotlight on center ice, lined up with the other starters for the Cougars.
Then the arena’s house lights come back on, and Beck skates toward the goal. I’d know that lanky stride anywhere. He’s got a weird, little hunch when he’s nervous. Like the weight of the world just dropped onto his shoulders.
And I didn’t know he’d be there tonight.
I didn’t know.
“Holy shit,” Scully says beside me. He’s staring up at the screen. “Did he tell you?”
“No.”
“He didn’t call?” He sounds like he doesn’t believe me.
“No,” I say again, quieter this time.
On the screen, Beck drops into the crease, taps each post with his stick, and pulls down his mask. Ready to play.
His first big league game, and I’m not there. I’m behind the bar, with gin on my shoes.
“I…I have to go,” I say suddenly.
“Yes you do,” Scully agrees, voice sharp with urgency. “Izzy! Check StubHub. What’s the cheapest seat in the building?”
She already has her phone out. “We don’t want the cheapest. We want the best. Here’s one in row fourteen for three hundred.”
“Oof,” I say, because I can’t not say it.
Izzy shrugs. “You can Venmo me later.” I watch her hit the Purchase button. “It’s a good seat. You’ll be able to see if he blinks behind the mask.”
“Guys, I know I shouldn’t leave you like this.” My heart is hammering. “I’ve got a bar full of people. Scully’s wrist is in a brace. This is—”
“I’ll tend bar,” Izzy interrupts. She’s already moving behind it, tying on her apron with zero hesitation. “I know the register. I know enough.”
“And I’ll carry drinks,” Fregular adds, puffing up his chest. “How hard can it be? I got good hands!”
“You’ve literally never won a game of pool,” I point out.
Izzy's already pouring someone a pint of beer. “We’ll be fine. And if we’re not, we’ll lie about it later.”
I look at Scully, my last chance at reason.
He doesn’t even flinch. Just smiles. “You going to worry about the bar, or are you going to go support your guy?”
Ouch. “I think I already fucked this up. It’ll be an hour before I can even get there. Maybe he doesn’t even want me there.”
Everyone in earshot groans.
Scully grabs my shoulder with his good hand. “This is your moment, Forest. Are you going to stand behind the bar and let it pass? Or are you going to go show him you actually care?”
I don’t move.
He leans in, quiet now. “It’s now or never, man. Why is this so hard for you? I know you care about him just as much as you care about this bar. Maybe even more.”
My eyes travel to the screen, where Beck is already settling into the crease in front of ten thousand spectators. “I do care. I always have. But he’s so…” My voice is gravel. “He’s a fucking shooting star. And I’m trivia night and drink specials.”
“Stop it, dumbass,” Scully says. “He’s a grown man. He knows his favorite flavor, and you’re it. So get the fuck out of here. You’re ruining a very romantic moment for me.”
Then he gives me a shove.
And I do it. I go.