8 - Kayla
Kayla
The bar was a pressure cooker of stale hops and desperate hope.
Every television in the place was a glowing altar to the Surge, and with the playoffs hanging in the balance, the air felt thick enough to choke on.
It was the kind of night where I didn't just serve drinks; I managed heart rates.
I played counselor to the fans losing hope, and a mirror to the ones refusing to give up.
I moved in a blur of practiced violence, thumping heavy glass mugs onto the wood, snapping the caps off longnecks, and dodging the erratic elbows of patrons who were too keyed up to sit still.
"Two Shiner Bocks and a tequila neat! And make it snappy, would you, beautiful? They’re about to drop the puck!"
"Keep your shirt on, Dave. The game isn't going anywhere.” I poured a line of perfect two-ounce measures with a flick of my wrist, and slid the tray to the waitress station.
There were things I could do in here without even looking and tonight it played in my favor, because my eyes were glued to the screen above the taps.
The Surge were facing the Ducks, and the energy at Frost Bank was translating into a frenetic, fractured pace on the ice. I wiped down a spill, my rag circling a damp patch of mahogany, while the commentary droned through the speakers.
“And a line change for the Surge. Landon and Mason heading to the bench, replaced by the second unit…”
I stopped mid-swipe. There he was. Number 22.
Michael looked different on the screen than he did standing in front of my bar.
Here he was a quiet, looming presence who smelled like cold, fresh air and looked at me with too much clarity.
On the ice, he was a predator. He moved with a heavy, deceptive grace, his shoulders squared as he crashed into the boards to pin a Ducks defenseman.
"Look at that old man lumbering around," a voice grated from the end of the bar. “Some people never know when to quit.”
I reached for a stack of clean coasters and started fanning them out, my jaw tightening.
Good, ole Steve. We could always depend on him to have a lot to say.
A regular who regularly held the loudest, most contrary opinion in the place.
It didn’t deserve my attention, no matter how much I wanted to give it to him.
"Landry," he scoffed. “More like statue with two left feet.” His voice was loud enough to cut through the crowd. He wore a faded Ducks jersey and had the puffed-up chest of a man who’d had three too many mid-shelf whiskies. "Surge are idiots for trading for a washed-up Seattle reject. He’s dragging the whole second line down. Guy’s probably just looking for a retirement check and a place to hide his walker. "
The biggest part of my job was to be invisible behind the bar.
In moments that called for it, it was to be whatever the paying customer needed.
I’d heard every insult, every bad take, and every drunken slur directed at the home team.
My job was to nod, smile, and keep the tab running. Faucet protocol.
But as I watched Michael take a cross-check to the ribs on screen, only to scramble back up and fight for the puck in the dirty areas of the crease, something in me snapped.
I walked down to the end of the bar, the damp rag still gripped in my hand, and leaned over the wood. "You’ve got a lot to say for someone who’s sitting on a stool instead of a bench, Steve.”
"Hey, I'm just sayin'—"
"No, you're flapping your gums because you think a jersey gives you a hockey IQ.” I tapped a finger on the bar, right in front of his drink.
"That washed-up reject just took a hit that would put you out of action for a month. He’s the reason the Surge have a physical presence in the neutral zone for the first time in three seasons.
He's doing the work while you’re busy complaining about the flavor of your free pretzels. "
Steve blinked, his mouth hanging open. The customers nearby went quiet, a few of them hiding their amusement behind their beers.
"You want to talk smack about the team? Go to the sports bar down the street," I continued, narrowing my eyes.
"But in here, we don't dump on the guys who are actually bleeding for the city. And Landry? He’s got more heart in his taped-up ankles than you’ve got in your whole body.
You want another drink, or are you on your way out? "
He muttered something under his breath and looked down at his glass, effectively neutralized.
I turned away, my heart thudding a hard, angry rhythm against my ribs. I shouldn't have done that. It was bad for business, bad for tips, and a massive neon sign that I was giving Michael Landry far too much bandwidth.
On the TV, Michael was lining up for a face-off, his helmet pushed back, sweat matted to his forehead. He looked exhausted, but determined.
I reached for the soda gun and filled a glass with water, my hands shaking just a fraction. I told myself it was just because I hated bullies. Because he’d helped me with the cookies and I owed him some professional loyalty.
But as the puck dropped and I watched him dive into the scrum, I knew the lie wasn't going to hold much longer. I wasn't just watching a game; I was watching him. And that was a complication I hadn't budgeted for.
The final horn blared from the television speakers, nearly drowned out by the roar of the crowd at Frost Bank and the synchronized explosion of noise inside the bar. The Surge had clinched. Playoffs were a reality, not a mathematical prayer anymore.
By the time the post-game highlights were looping for the third time, the heavy front doors swung open and the humidity of the night rushed in, followed closely by a tidal wave of adrenaline and expensive cologne.
The team arrived like a conquering army, their faces flushed with the high that only came from knowing the season was only just starting.
I kept my head down, snapping the tops off a row of longnecks with mechanical precision.
My pulse was doing a nervous tap-dance against my ribs.
Somehow, in a bar full of people, I knew exactly where Michael was without looking.
It was as if I could feel the tilt in the room's gravity the second he crossed the threshold.
"Kayla! Shots for the table! Top shelf!" Tucker yelled, sliding onto a stool. He looked remarkably unscathed for a man who’d been in a locker room brawl forty-eight hours ago, though there was a faint yellowing bruise near his jaw.
I ignored him, focusing on a customer who leaned over the wood at the far end. "What can I get you, Artie?"
"Gimme a Scotch, neat. And maybe some of those pretzels if you’ve got 'em," he said.
"Coming up." I reached for the bottle, but my ears were tuned to the frequency of the booth three feet to my right. The team had huddled together, a mess of broad shoulders and loud laughter.
"So, Landry," Cash’s voice rose above it all, dripping with that specific, locker-room brand of provocation. "You played like a man possessed tonight. Second line looks good on you. Almost as good as that shirt looks on Kayla."
Heat crawled up my neck. I focused intently on the liquid flowing into Artie’s glass, counting the seconds. One. Two. Three.
"Shut up, Cash." Michael’s voice was a deep, warning rumble. He sounded tired, but there was a thread of amusement there that made my stomach flip.
"Oh, come on," Landon chimed in, leaning over the back of the stool. "He’s been moping around the locker room like a lovesick teenager. Seventy-five cookies, man. You’ve got the stats, you’ve got the veteran contract... what you don't have is the balls to actually ask her out."
"Maybe he's scared she'll say no," Tucker added with a snicker. "The old man getting shut down by the local talent. That’d be a tough one for the ego, wouldn't it?"
I was staring at Artie’s Scotch, not moving.
Just cataloging every word being exchanged behind me.
My heart thrummed so hard I was sure they could hear it over the jukebox.
I imagined Michael’s face and the way his brow would furrow, the way he’d probably be staring at the grain of the wood, trying to wish them into oblivion.
Does he? The thought flashed through my mind like a lightning strike. Does he actually want to ask me out?
"Earth to Kayla? You still in there?"
A sharp snap sounded inches from my nose.
I jolted, the bottle of Scotch slipping in my hand and clinking loudly against the rim of the glass. I blinked, coming back to the reality of the bar, and Artie was staring at me, his fingers still poised in the air from the snap.
"I asked for a water back, too," he said with a frown. "You okay? You looked like you were staring into another dimension."
"Sorry. Long night," I muttered, my face burning. I grabbed the soda gun, the hiss of the water sounding like a judge’s gavel. "Water back. Coming right up."
I risked a glance toward the team. Michael was looking right at me. He wasn't laughing with the guys, but watching the way I fumbled with the water glass, his expression intense.
The guys were still at it, their voices a blurred drone of "chicken" and "old man," but the air between me and Michael had gone static. I realized then that I wasn't just giving him bandwidth anymore. I was handing over the whole damn radio station.
"Your water, Artie," I said, sliding the glass across the bar with a hand that wasn't nearly as steady as I wanted it to be.
I turned my back to them, reaching for a clean rag, my mind racing.
I was a mother. I was a bartender on thin ice.
I was a woman who didn't have room for a complication. But as I wiped the same spot on the back-bar for the fourth time, all I could think about was the look in Michael’s eyes when the room went quiet.
Then, the front doors swung open, and the chess board flipped.