Chapter 14
Finn
By eleven-thirty, we had a problem.
It wasn’t a bad problem. Holy hells, no. It was the kind of problem I would’ve killed for yesterday, the kind of problem I’d dreamed about since Mark first approached me with the idea of opening a bar.
We were running out of food.
“I need English muffins,” Rod called from the kitchen for the third time in an hour. “And ham. We’re almost out of ham.”
“How are we out of ham?” I shouted back, pulling three beers from the tap simultaneously. “We bought enough for fifty people!”
“If you want ham for soup and risotto later tonight, we need more.”
I could barely believe what I was hearing.
The bar had filled up gradually, like a tide coming in.
First the original five.
Then another group of six around ten-thirty.
Then a dozen more by eleven.
Then people just kept coming.
By noon—three hours before our official opening time—we had maybe forty people, all ordering brunch, most ordering eggs Benedict, apparently, because Rod’s newest special menu item had become the thing everyone wanted.
“I’m going to the store,” Mark announced, grabbing his keys. “English muffins and ham. Anything else?”
“More eggs,” Rod called. “And hollandaise ingredients. I’m making it from scratch, and we’re running low.”
“Make me a list,” Mark said, shoving an order pad and pen at Rod through the window.
By one, we had sixty people sitting, standing, chatting, laughing, and—most importantly—drinking their fill.
By one-thirty, people were standing at the bar because all the high-tops and booths were full.
By two, the place was packed.
I mean packed.
More packed than a European porno featuring an orgy in a college soccer locker room.
Guys stood three-deep at the bar, holding drinks and wearing Lightning jerseys that turned the entire space into a sea of blue and white. The noise level had gone from “pleasant conversation” to “need to shout to be heard.”
The energy was electric.
I was behind the bar, moving on pure adrenaline, pulling beers, mixing drinks, and trying to keep track of who’d ordered what while also making sure we didn’t run out of glassware.
Jacks appeared at my elbow, out of breath. “Boss, we’ve got a problem.”
“What now?”
“There’s a line outside. It’s running down the sidewalk.”
“How many people?”
“Maybe twenty?”
I scanned the bar. We were over capacity. The fire marshal would have a field day if he saw this, but everyone was having a good time. No one was causing problems, and I wasn’t about to turn people away when this was what we’d been hoping for.
“Let them in as space opens up,” I said.
“You got it, boss.”
“And Jacks,” I said without looking up from a fruity concoction. “I need you behind the bar with me. You’ll have to handle dishes when we catch up on drink orders.”
Jacks had never bartended before in his life, but right now I’d take anyone who could pour a beer without spilling it.
I showed him the basics—how to pull a tap, where the glasses were, how to open a bottle without slicing his finger off—and then we were both moving, a chaotic dance of pouring and serving and trying to keep up with the constant stream of orders.
Mark returned with English muffins, ham, eggs, and a dozen other things Rod had texted him about while he was at the store. He dropped everything in the kitchen, then came out to help manage the crowd.
“This is insane,” he said, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
“This is what we wanted, right?” I said, sliding three beers across the bar to Lightning Jersey and his friends who were already looking shit-faced. It wasn’t even two-thirty yet.
The game started at four.
By three-fifteen, I was pretty sure we’d violated every fire code in the city of Tampa.
The crowd was shoulder to shoulder, everyone’s eyes glued to the screens, everyone shouting at the commentators to, and I quote, “Shut the fuck up and drop the puck.”
When four o’clock rolled around and the Lightning scored in the first period, the entire bar erupted. Their cheers were so loud I was surprised the windows didn’t shatter.
Someone—I never figured out who—started a drinking game around the second period. He stood on a chair and announced to a hushed crowd, “Every time the Lightning takes a shot on goal, everyone drinks!”
It was a terrible idea. The Lightning took a lot of shots.
But the guys ate it up, hefting their glasses and bottles while chanting, “Shots! Shots! Shots!” at the top of their lungs.
By the end of the second period, Lightning Jersey and his friends were beyond drunk, laughing and shouting and holding court in a corner where at least six other people had gathered to listen to their nonsensical commentary.
They hadn’t understood the drinking game’s rules, thinking they had to take an actual shot every time the Lighting smacked the puck toward the net.
I was beginning to worry they might pass out before the game ended.
The couple who’d arrived that morning had moved from their booth to a high-top closer to the big screen. They were still holding hands while watching the game with the same quiet intensity they’d had all day.
By the end of regulation—a tied game, headed to overtime—I’d run out of vodka.
What self-respecting bar owner runs out of vodka, for fuck’s sake?
“Mark!” I shouted over the noise. “Liquor store. Now. We need vodka. See if they’ll sell it by the case. We still have the watch party after this.”
“On it!” He was gone before I could add anything else to the list.
The overtime period was chaos.
Tension filled the air more than Rod’s Venezuelan spice rub.
The bar had gone from deafening to eerily quiet as the puck dropped.
Everyone held their breath.
When the Lightning scored at 3:47 into overtime—a beautiful shot from the blue line—the bar exploded.
Actual explosions might have been quieter.
Guys hugged anyone within arm’s distance, whether they knew them or not.
Others jumped up and down, spilling drinks they were too excited to care about.
Lightning Jersey climbed onto a chair and started leading a chant that I’m pretty sure violated Utah’s decency laws but was too drunk to be coherent anyway.
I stood behind the bar, sweating through my shirt. My feet ached, and my hands were cramped from opening so many bottles. But the smile on my face wouldn’t go away as I thought, This is what success looks like.
Then I glanced at the clock.
6:47 p.m.
The game was over.
Surely people would start leaving now, right? They’d head home, recover from day-drinking, and prepare for work tomorrow?
I might have a moment to breathe. Jacks could catch up on cleaning glasses. Rod might be able to restock without ten tickets piling up.
But no one left.
In fact, the line outside got longer.
“They’re waiting for Horny Rivals,” Jacks said, appearing at my elbow with a tray of empty glasses. “Everyone’s staying for the watch party.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone. And from what I’m hearing on the floor, they’re all about to order apps or dinner. I hope Rod’s ready.”
I wiped my brow with a bar towel and looked around.
The original five were still here. Lightning Jersey and his friends were still holding court in their corner, now with a solid dozen people gathered around, everyone laughing at something I couldn’t hear over the noise.
The sweet couple had stayed at their high-top.
They were still holding hands despite now eating tostones with their non-clasped hands. They looked content.
Mark returned with vodka—six bottles, because he “figured we’d need extra.” I laughed and said, “We’re going to need more than that. And check with Rod. He’s about to get slammed with dinner and app orders. He may not be stocked for this.”
“Jesus,” Mark said, his elated expression morphing into something akin to shock.
By seven-thirty, I’d lost count of how many people were in the bar. A hundred? Probably more. There were too many, way too many, but everyone was happy and the energy was still electric.
At 7:55, someone near the big screen shouted, “FIVE MINUTES!”
The crowd started cheering.
At 7:58, the opening credits of Horny Rivals appeared on screen.
The bar erupted in actual, genuine, enthusiastic applause.
And cheers.
Someone whistled so loud I was pretty sure my eardrums burst.
The theme song started playing—something dramatic and sweeping and vaguely sexual—and the entire bar sang along.
Everyone knew the words.
Literally everyone.
Even Jacks was humming the tune as he restocked my glasses for the millionth time.
I darted back and forth behind the bar, exhausted and exhilarated, as I poured drinks and watched a room full of grown-ass men sing the theme song to a hockey romance TV show at the top of their lungs.
This might’ve been the gayest thing I’d ever seen.
And I loved it.
“Finn!” Jacks appeared at my elbow. “Three rum drinks, two beers, and something called a ‘Pirate’s Puck’?”
“What the hell is a Pirate’s Puck?”
“Mark made it up. He’s been telling people it’s our newest specialty drink.”
Of course he had.
I grabbed bottles and started mixing—rum, pineapple juice, blue curacao, lime, something that would taste like a tropical vacation and a hangover at the same time. I had no idea what made it a “Pirate’s Puck,” but if people were ordering it, I’d figure it out.
Two beers from the tap.
Three rum drinks.
One experimental Pirate’s Puck that I was making up as I went.
I looked up to set the drinks on Jacks’s tray—
And froze.
A guy with dirty blond hair was sliding into the booth in the corner.
He wasn’t wearing a tie.
Wasn’t wearing a dress shirt.
Wasn’t spreading his stack of papers across the table.
He was wearing a tight white T-shirt that showed off shoulders I hadn’t fully appreciated and jeans that stretched across his backside as he bent to pick up a cocktail napkin.
He still looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and a five-o’clock shadow that suggested he hadn’t shaved today, but also somehow still unfairly hot.
He was watching the TV, where Horny Rivals was now in full swing, two hockey players arguing in a locker room about something that was definitely not just about hockey.
And he was smiling.
If only slightly.
Like he was genuinely enjoying himself.
“Boss?” Jacks said. “The drinks?”
“Right. Yeah.” I set them on the tray, my hands moving on autopilot while my brain tried to process the fact that Chase was here again.
In my bar.
On a Sunday night.
Looking like an updated, even more delicious blond version of James Dean.
“You okay?” Jacks asked.
“Uh, yeah. Fine.”
“You sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not a ghost. Just—” I gestured toward Chase’s table. “He’s back.”
“Ooh. The hottie lawyer.” Jacks followed my gaze. “Can that shirt get any tighter? Maybe he wants you to rip it off him.”
“Oh, stop.”
Jacks grinned. “You gonna go talk to him?”
“I’m working.”
“So am I, and I’m about to go talk to him when I deliver these drinks.”
“Don’t—”
“Sorry,” Jacks said, glancing back over his shoulder with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Customer service and all.”
Before I could object again, Jacks was gone, weaving through the crowd toward Chase’s booth. I watched him set down the drinks at a nearby table, then step over to where Chase was sitting. They exchanged a few words, and then Chase looked up.
He glanced across the bar.
Directly at me.
And smiled.