Chapter 13 Jacks
Jacks
The Lightning flag wouldn’t stay up. I’d been fighting with the darn thing for ten minutes, trying to get it to hang straight above the main bar.
Every time I thought I had it, one corner would droop, or the whole thing would slide sideways, or it would give up and flutter to the floor like a defeated bird.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Benji called from across the room where he was arranging bottles with the precision of a White House butler prepping a state dinner.
“Thanks for the help.”
“I’m providing moral support. That’s a kind of help.”
“It’s really not.”
“It’s the best kind of help. It’s help without effort. I’m very efficient that way.”
I gave the flag one more aggressive tug and finally got it to cooperate. It hung at a slight angle, but at this point, I was willing to call that close enough. We had two hours until doors opened, and there was still a mountain of prep work to tackle before the Saturday night crowd descended.
Game nights at Barbacks were their own special chaos.
The Lightning had a home game against Boston at seven, which meant we’d be packed from pre-game analysis until well after final buzzer.
Finn had scheduled extra staff, a few part-timers who worked more nights than not.
He’d also ordered extra kegs and given us all the usual pre-game pep talk about staying hydrated and not murdering difficult customers.
“So,” Benji said, abandoning his bottles to drift closer. “I hear you have a date tomorrow.”
I nearly fell off the step stool. “It’s not a date. How do you even know about it?”
“Mia texted me.”
“Mia doesn’t have your number.”
“Mia has everyone’s number. She’s like the CIA, but shorter and with better hair.” Benji grinned up at me. “Tacos in Seminole Heights. Very romantic for a pair of Neanderthals in sports gear.”
“We’re not . . . It’s lunch between friends.”
“Friends who text each other constantly and stare at each other with longing across crowded bars.”
“Nobody is staring with longing.”
“Honey, I have eyes. You stare. Gape, actually. It’s dramatic. Very Telenovela.”
I climbed down from the stool and busied myself with straightening chairs that didn’t need straightening. “You’re making something out of nothing. Skyler’s straight. He went through a breakup and needed someone to talk to. End of story.”
“The story where a famous hockey player drives across town to your place of work, asks for you by name, spends two hours in a booth with you, and then invites you to a private lunch date the next day?”
“Friend date.”
“You keep using that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”
“Did you Princess Bride me?”
“It seemed appropriate given the circumstances.” Benji hopped onto a bar stool and crossed his legs, settling in like he was preparing for a long interrogation. “Look, I’m not saying anything’s happening. All I’m saying is that the vibes are vibey.”
“The vibes are not vibey. There are no vibes.”
“There are absolutely vibes. Ask anyone.”
“Ask anyone what?” Finn emerged from the back office, clipboard in hand, looking like a man who had spreadsheets to review and no patience for nonsense.
“Jacks has a date tomorrow,” Benji announced.
“It’s not a date.”
“With a certain hunky hockey player,” Benji continued, ignoring me. “Tacos in Seminole Heights. Sounds intimate.”
Finn’s expression shifted into something I couldn’t quite read. He set down his clipboard and leaned against the bar, arms crossed.
“Skyler Shaw asked you to lunch?”
“As friends. We’re friends now. Friends have lunch.”
“Friends do have lunch,” Finn agreed. “But this particular friend is also a closeted NHL captain who seems to be going through some kind of crisis, which makes the situation a bit more complicated.”
“He’s not closeted. He’s straight.”
“Is he?” Finn asked.
“Yes. He dates women. He just told me about the woman who broke up with him.”
“The woman he felt nothing for, if memory serves.” Finn’s Irish accent made the words sound particularly pointed. “The woman who said he wasn’t present with her.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s gay. It means he hasn’t found the right person yet.”
“And you think that person is going to be another woman?” Benji asked, serious for a change.
I didn’t have an answer for that.
The question hung in the air, uncomfortable and unanswerable.
Mark appeared from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. He must have caught the tail end of the conversation because his expression was already set to concerned—and on a burly man with a salt-and-pepper beard, that was more than a little frightening.
“What’s going on? Why does everyone look so serious?”
“Jacks has a date with Skyler Shaw,” Benji supplied.
“It’s not a—you know what, never mind. Yes. Fine. I have a date. A friend date. A platonic lunch between two adult men who enjoy tacos and conversation. Is that a crime?”
“Nobody said it was a crime,” Finn said. “We’re . . . concerned.”
“About what?”
The three of them exchanged looks, the kind of looks that suggested they’d already discussed this without me, which was both touching and annoying.
Finn spoke first. “You like him.”
“He’s likeable. That’s not exactly a revelation.”
“You like him more than you’re admitting. To us or to yourself.” Finn’s voice was gentle but firm. “I’ve known you for over a year, Jacks. I’ve seen you flirt with customers, take guys home, do the whole casual thing. This isn’t that. This is different.”
“Different how?” I crossed my arms.
“Different in the way you light up when he walks through the door. Different in the way you check your phone every five minutes hoping for a text. Different in the way you talked to him last night like the rest of the bar didn’t exist.”
I wanted to argue.
I wanted to deny it, dismiss it, maybe make a joke and change the subject.
But the words stuck in my throat.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
This was different.
And I had no idea what to do about it.
“Even if I do like him,” I said, “that doesn’t change the fact that he’s straight and he’s famous. He’s going through something that has nothing to do with me, and I’m a convenient shoulder to lean on.”
“Maybe,” Mark said. “Or maybe you’re more than that and neither of you has figured it out yet.”
“That’s a dangerous assumption to make.”
“It is.” Finn nodded. “Which is why we’re telling you to be careful.”
Benji, quiet for the last few minutes, finally spoke up.
“We’re not saying don’t be his friend or don’t go to lunch.
We’re saying protect yourself. Famous closeted athletes have a way of pulling people into their orbit and then disappearing when things get complicated. I’ve seen it happen. It’s not pretty.”
“Skyler’s not like that.”
“You don’t know what he’s like, not really. You’ve known him for, what, a few weeks? A month?” Benji’s voice was softer, stripped of its usual theatrical flair. “That’s not enough time to know someone, not the version that comes out when things get hard.”
The words landed somewhere in my chest, heavy and true.
He was right. They were all right. I barely knew Skyler.
I knew the surface version, the charming smile and easy banter and pieces of vulnerability he’d shown me in the booth, but I didn’t know what he’d do when the stakes got higher or when the comfort of our little bubble collided with the reality of his career and his image and everything he stood to lose.
“I hear you,” I said. “And I appreciate that you care enough to say something.”
“But?” Finn prompted.
“But I’m still going to lunch. Right now we’re just friends. Maybe that’s all we’ll ever be. If that’s the case, I’d rather have him as a friend than not have him at all.”
Another round of exchanged looks.
I watched them weighing my words, deciding whether to push harder or let it go.
Finally, Mark spoke. “Promise us you’ll be honest with yourself about what you want and what’s realistic, okay?”
“I promise.”
“And if it starts to hurt,” Finn added, “if you start to feel like you’re in over your head, you’ll talk to us.”
“Okay.”
Benji slid off his stool and pulled me into an unexpected hug. He smelled like expensive cologne and the faint sweetness of whatever cocktail he’d been taste-testing earlier. “You deserve good things, Jacks.”
“Thanks, Benj.”
He pulled back, his grin snapping back into place. “Now, enough emotional processing. We have a bar to open and a hockey game to watch. Let’s go make some money.”
The tension broke as we scattered to our various tasks, the familiar rhythm of pre-shift prep taking over. I restocked the garnish trays while Benji did his final bottle arrangements and Finn ran through the lists with Mark, but underneath the routine, their words kept echoing.
Be careful.
Protect yourself.
Famous closeted athletes have a way of disappearing when things get complicated.
I knew they were right. I was walking into something potentially painful, eyes wide open, my heart already more invested than it should be. The smart thing would be to pull back, to keep things surface level and maintain the friendship without giving it any chance of becoming more.
But when had I ever done the smart thing?
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I knew who it was before I even pulled it out.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Game starts soon. Any pre-game rituals I should know about? Do you sacrifice a goat? Dance naked under the moon?
I smiled despite all the well-intentioned advice I’d received.
Me: We sacrifice Benji. One slice to a non-vital limb, a few drops of blood, and BAM, happy hockey gods. He’s surprisingly okay with it.
PuckingSkylerShaw: That tracks. He seems like he’d be into ritual sacrifice.
Me: He insists on being the center of attention—even in fake death.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Respect. Anyway, I should focus. Coach is giving me the death glare. I wanted to say thanks again for last night. And for tomorrow. It means a lot.
Me: Go win your game, hockey star. We’ll be cheering.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Loud?
Me: The loudest. Nobody out screams the queens. Foam fingers and everything.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Fingers and queens. Sounds like Horny Rivals.
Me: We do what we can.
PuckingSkylerShaw: See you tomorrow.
Me: See you, Sky.