Chapter 4 Sierra #2
We all head back to the cabin and shed our snowy layers. Miles lunges for the fireplace, getting the flames going in record time. Ryan makes hot chocolate, and I run point on cocktails.
Mile High is the watering hole for the team and its fans, only a few blocks from the stadium. My dad opened it more than two decades ago. I’ve worked there since I was old enough and practiced long before that.
I started by building an encyclopedic knowledge of drinks, but the people have always fascinated me as much as the cocktails.
The margarita was probably invented by a woman.
The mojito was originally medicinal. The negroni supposedly came to be when a count wanted his Americano stiffer, so he added gin instead of soda water.
Drinks are so much more than thirst quenchers. They bring people together. They tell our stories.
“Oooh, that looks fantastic,” Nova observes.
I make her a drink and slide it over. Brooke takes a sip.
“Too much booze?” I ask.
“Maybe we can do no booze?” Nova requests. “I’ve been sleeping like crap lately working on this art show.”
“You got it.” I make her one without.
My dad always loves giving people what they ask for—usually beer—but I get a thrill out of coming up with new combinations. He’s a traditionalist. That applies to what we serve but also how the bar operates. A lot of things he hasn’t changed in twenty years.
As I keep reminding him, we’re overdue, but he doesn’t listen.
The entire crew eats around a big table. Nova suggests she and Clay take first shift cleaning up since Clay picked the first room. Clay’s not sure about her logic, but she shoots him a look and he promptly follows her to the kitchen to wash dishes.
“We’re having a holiday movie fest. Let’s vote on it,” Ryan decides.
The crew argues their cases for The Santa Clause, Elf, and Home Alone.
They land on Elf. The movie starts, and I resist the tug of being charmed watching Buddy eat candy, make friends, and essentially try to find his home away from the North Pole in the most adorably cringe-inducing ways.
We’re sitting around on couches and chairs, a few of us on the floor. Ryan’s at the opposite end of the couch from me. Once in a while our feet brush.
Tingles in my stomach have me glancing over to find Ryan watching me. He cocks his head, lips curved.
“All good?” he mouths.
I nod quickly and look back at the TV… except the words are in my brain long after I retrain my eyes on the movie.
So is the feeling of Ryan’s attention on me.
It’s one thing to ignore how hot he is when we’re in a busy bar and his picture is hanging on the wall of my family business. It’s another to do it up here, in the secluded woods, where he’s close and personal.
An hour into the movie, I duck back into the kitchen on the pretense of refilling drinks and use that opportunity to hit a contact on my phone.
“Hey, kid,” Dad answers. “Did you make my favorite drinks?”
“How’d you know?”
He laughs. “I know everything about you.”
Not everything. I want to say it even though it’s childish.
“Don’t forget, the new stools are coming tomorrow,” I remind him.
“Tell me you didn’t order those.” I can practically hear him grimace.
“They were on sale. We’ve needed them for months. The old ones have holes.” My voice is firm.
“So, we’ll patch them up. I’ll return these.”
“Dad…” I groan, rubbing a hand over my face.
New stools barely scratch the surface of what I’d do if Mile High were my bar, but Dad’s beyond resistant to anything I try to bring in, from new menu offerings and suppliers to décor. Even so, fighting me on replacing seating that saw its best days twenty years ago is ridiculous.
“They don’t come here for change, honey. They don’t want fancy stools. They want cold beer, the team winning, a place that feels like it’s theirs. It’s not about me, and it’s not about you.”
It’s not about you.
The reminder is kind of heartbreaking. I give my all to that place yet still feel as though I can’t make a difference beyond selling more beers. I can’t put my fingerprint on Mile High because it’s all about the team.
“Too much phone time for the holidays.” Clay’s over my shoulder as I hang up.
“So, Ryan’s the Christmas King and you’re the phone police?” I tease him.
The Kodiaks’ five-time all-star is intimidating to most people, but we’ve had him over for family dinner more than once.
“Something like that. Your dad?”
“Sure was.”
“How’s the bar?”
“It’s up and down.”
He opens his mouth, and I know it’s to offer help, so I lift a hand before he can say the words.
“You’ve done more than enough. As Dad always says, the Kodiaks winning is the best advertisement.” I send him a smile and head back out to the living room.
* * *
Ryan
Surprisingly, the girls tap out first. Our day is drawing to a close, and they’ve been talking a good game, but Chloe waves the flag.
“I’ve been busy keeping your asses out of trouble.” She points a finger around the group, then hides a yawn with her hand.
“We’re angels, Chlo,” Jay protests from the lounge chair. He’s rewarded with a dirty look.
My gaze lands on Sierra. It’s been drifting to her for hours, every time my attention wanders. She’s curled up in a beanbag chair as if she’s leaving the couch for the couples.
More than that, she’s preoccupied.
We’ve been up watching movies all night. Once in a while, we’ve checked in on the LA game, but the girls wouldn’t let us leave the TV there, saying it’s a holiday and there’s no basketball allowed.
I wonder what she’s thinking about.
“It is probably time,” Nova agrees, yawning.
Fuck. The sleepiness is contagious.
Clay’s hand threads through hers. No one in the entire NBA can bring our all-star to his knees faster than his pink-haired pixie of a wife.
I’m still humming with energy. We have to get the most out of our time here. “Come on, guys. The night is young. We can watch another one. Atlas?”
Our big man is an easy yes when it comes to group activities. He’s always down for an extra drink or social event.
“I’m going to call some family back home. It’s morning over there.” He rises and pads toward the stairs.
“Jay?”
“Nah.”
Miles and Brooke head upstairs.
I ignore them and wait a beat before pressing. “Sierra?”
If there’s a reasonable amount of hope for one guy to have about a woman saying she’ll hang out with him, I’ve exceeded it.
“I’d better not,” she says at last. She’s standing too.
Disappointment crashes over me. It’s like losing a close game at the buzzer.
I hear Jay and Brooke talking upstairs about some Christmas when they were kids.
And then I’m alone.
The cabin is quiet. Creaky.
I fix another drink and return to the fire.
I think about my family back in Kentucky—the things we’d do for the holidays, the line of stockings along the fireplace. I drag a finger along the mantel.
Then I switch off the lights and head upstairs too.