Chapter 15
Chase
Iwas on my third beer and my second burger—yes, second, because the first one had been so good I’d ordered another—when the kiss finally happened.
On screen, the two hockey player MCs had been circling each other for the entire episode.
From what the others watching said, they’d been dancing around their mutual attractions since the series began three weeks ago.
Apparently, hard-to-get was a well-enjoyed trope, particularly among gays who craved representation on the small screen.
The players argued in the locker room, shoved each other during practice, and stood a little too close in the hallway. The tension had been building for forty-five minutes, and the entire bar knew what was coming.
When they finally kissed—a collision of lips and hockey pads and years of suppressed whatever-this-was—the bar lost its collective mind.
Hoots. Hollers. Actual howling from somewhere near the back.
The guy in the Lightning jersey three tables over jumped up and grabbed his friend, pulling him into a dramatic kiss that his friend shoved away from, wiping his mouth and yelling, “EW!” like a first-grader who’d just learned about cooties.
I laughed despite myself, despite the exhaustion settling into my bones, despite the fact that I’d been here for almost three hours and still hadn’t actually talked to Finn beyond that brief moment when our eyes had met across the bar.
I’d come here tonight on impulse.
Work had been brutal, with Saturday spent finishing the Henderson settlement and the Morrison deposition prep and the Patterson brief. This morning, I’d woken up at seven, worked until three-thirty, then realized I had nothing else urgent until tomorrow’s meetings.
Nothing urgent.
For the first time in weeks, I had a Sunday evening with no immediate fires to put out.
Diego had texted around one.
Diego: Game’s on. Come watch at our place?
Me: Maybe.
Diego: That means no.
Me: It means maybe.
Diego: Did you go back to the bar?
Me: Not yet.
Diego: CHASE.
Me: I’m thinking about it.
Diego: Stop thinking. Just go. If you’re gonna blow me off, at least go blow that ginger.
I couldn’t think of a snappy comeback because, well, that’s what I wanted to do. I’d daydreamed about getting Finn naked and sucking every drop . . .
That’s when I changed out of my work clothes and into jeans and a T-shirt that should have been relegated to the “gym clothes” pile but was comfortable enough that I didn’t care.
I stepped into the bar around six-thirty.
The Lightning game had only a few minutes left.
Unlike a couple of nights ago when I could’ve heard my own thoughts echo off the empty walls, the bar was packed.
Like, standing-room-only packed.
Every table was full.
People stood three-deep at the bar.
The energy was so electric and chaotic it felt overwhelming in the best possible way.
I managed to snag a table just as someone left. Ironically, it was the same booth I’d sat in two nights ago. That made me smile.
I ordered a beer and a burger from the barback. He said his name was Jackson but told me to call him Jacks. He was enthusiastic and friendly in a way that made me feel ancient at twenty-six. The moment he scampered away from my table, I settled in to watch the show.
And to watch Finn.
Because as much as I was obsessed with Horny Rivals—and I was—I couldn’t stop watching Finn work.
He was behind the bar, moving with a kind of controlled intensity that was mesmerizing.
He poured drinks, mixed cocktails, and pulled beers from the tap, all while talking to customers and giving instructions to Jacks and occasionally yelling something to an older guy who kept running in and out like he was on some kind of endless supply run.
Finn looked good.
He wasn’t just attractive—though he was definitely that, with his auburn hair catching the light every time he moved and his eyes bright even from across the room. No, he didn’t just look hot; he looked competent and in command, like he’d been doing this for years instead of days.
I watched in unabashed awe as he handled what would have overwhelmed most people in the first hour.
When someone dropped a glass near the bar—shattering it across the floor—Finn had it cleaned up in thirty seconds, glass swept, floor wiped, new drink in the customer’s hand before they could even finish apologizing.
When the crowd had erupted after the Lightning won in overtime, he’d been right there with them, grinning and high-fiving customers and looking genuinely thrilled.
He was good at this.
Really good.
And watching him be good at something, watching him be confident and capable and completely in his element—it did something to me.
Made my chest feel tight.
Made me want to stay even though I was exhausted.
Made me hope he’d make his way over to my table so we could have a conversation that wasn’t just me ordering food while he fidgeted with a bar towel.
But he didn’t.
As the Horny Rivals credits rolled, people started filtering out.
But not everyone, only enough that the bar went from “definitely a fire hazard” to “probably still too many people but technically following the law.”
A few dozen stragglers stayed. They chatted loudly about the game and about whether the two hockey players in Horny Rivals would get together or if the writers would drag it out for another season.
The Lightning jersey guy and his friends were still in their corner, now reenacting various scenes from the episode with increasing inaccuracy and decreasing coordination.
I couldn’t stop glancing at the bar.
Finn was working, still moving, still buried in orders and questions and the general chaos of running a bar by himself.
Jacks appeared at my table with another beer I hadn’t ordered. “On the house,” he said, setting it down. “Boss’s orders.”
“The boss?” I looked at the bar.
Finn was pulling a beer, his back to me, but I could see the tension in his shoulders.
“Yeah.” Jacks hesitated. “Look, I don’t want to overstep, but . . . he knows you’re here. He’s been looking over here all night. I’m pretty sure wants to come talk to you, but we’ve been slammed.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“If you could just give him a little longer, he should be free enough to talk soon. The crowd’s thinning out.”
I looked at the bar, then at the clock. 8:47 p.m.
I had work tomorrow. Early meetings starting at eight.
I should go home, get a decent night’s sleep, prepare my notes.
But Finn knew I was here.
“Okay,” I said. “One more beer. I can wait.”
Jacks grinned. “That’s the spirit.”
By nine-thirty, the bar still hadn’t slowed down.
If anything, more people had arrived—a second wave, maybe people who’d heard about the watch party and decided to show up late.
The network was replaying that night’s episode all over again, and I watched the newcomers’ faces as they walked through the same emotional obstacle course the larger crowd had just experienced.
While the noise level never again reached its peak from earlier, it had gone back up.
Finn was still behind the bar, still moving, still completely occupied.
I nursed my now-warm beer and tried to keep my eyes open.
I was so tired.
And it wasn’t the good kind of tired from a day well spent. Rather, it was the bone-deep weariness of too many late nights and too many early mornings and a schedule that never seemed to let up.
By ten o’clock, I was almost asleep at the table.
My head kept drooping forward.
I’d catch myself, jerk awake, and take a sip of beer, immediately regretting it.
The bar was still busy.
A calendar reminder chimed on my phone, one I always set for the night before an early meeting. Yeah, I knew myself. I needed little reminders.
I also needed time to review my notes.
And more than anything, I needed to sleep.
Reluctantly, I pulled out my wallet and tossed two twenties on the table, then rose and headed for the door.
Tampa was never quite cool, especially with summer’s humidity lingering like a cloak against my skin. I took a deep breath, letting it wake me up, and started walking toward the office where I’d parked my car to avoid the Ybor street parking clusterfuck.
I didn’t look back.
I was too tired for hope, too tired for anything except getting home, getting sleep, and getting up tomorrow to do it all over again.
I didn’t see Finn look up as I reached the door.
Didn’t see him freeze mid-pour, his eyes tracking me across the bar.
Didn’t see his face fall when I pushed open the door and disappeared into the Tampa night without looking back.