Chapter 7 Beck
BECK
A Rainier beer sign flickered in the frosted window. Classic rock filtered up the stairway. As I descended into The Last Chance I wondered how many people from my past were at the bottom of the steps.
The place was just as hideous as I remembered. Blinking Christmas lights were strung haphazardly across the rafters. A sad plastic tree leaned in the corner, decorated with beer koozies and bar coasters cut into snowflakes.
Even at five o'clock, almost every chair was full. My boots sticking to the floor as I wove through the crowded room, brushing against reflective vests slung over the backs of chairs.
Nothing had changed since the day I first slapped my fake ID on the bar. Back then, the Bobcats got away with everything. Well, almost everything. The only person to kick us out was that ball-busting bartender.
I found an empty spot at the bar. The bartender wiped down the sticky surface with a rag. She had a few more lines on her face and her hair was more salt than pepper, but the ball-buster bartender was still there. "What can I get you?"
"Scotch. Neat." There was no way was I trusting the draft lines in this place.
"Top or bottom shelf?” She looked up. "Never mind, honey.” She pulled a bottle of Glenmorangie from the top shelf and dusted it off with her rag. "You look familiar." She poured a stiff three fingers into the glass.
"I grew up here, but I moved away a long time ago.”
"Welcome back." She squinted, trying to place me, then shrugged and slid the glass across the bar. "Forty-two bucks."
A city price. I guess some things had changed. I handed her a fifty. "Keep it."
A quick sip of the amber drink warmed my body and relaxed my shoulders. The scotch was worth every penny. Glass in hand, I turned and scanned the crowd. Rob was nowhere to be seen. A woman wearing a cheetah-print top with hair straight out of the Eighties scrolled through the jukebox.
The man beside me, a tall stocky guy with a beer gut who looked to be in his late fifties, pointed to the jukebox lady. "Want to place a bet on what song she’s going to play?"
"Easy." I sipped the scotch. "It's going to be Dolly Parton or Shania Twain."
Shania Twain blared from the speakers. The woman yelled, "Let's go, girls!" Two more women joined her on the dance floor.
“Well, shit.” The man laughed. “I was going to guess Dolly, but it’s still a little early for that." He tilted his head and gave me the same curious look as Mary, although this time, recognition flickered in his bloodshot eyes.
"Shep?" He furrowed his brow. "Is that you?"
I tried to place him. Was he one of my dad's friends?
Beer sloshed over the rim of his mug as he planted his hand on my shoulder. He gestured to himself with the glass, leaving a wet spot on the sweatshirt stretched over his Santa-like belly. "It's me, Wick."
"Wick? Paul Wickham?” My lanky left winger was this fat dude? Wick had been fast as hell and could dangle a puck better than anyone on the team.
"Wicky!" I spread my arms wide. As we hugged, Wick smacked my back. I coughed from the unexpected hits.
"Holy shit!" He stood back and looked me up and down, then shook his head. “Bro, you look exactly the same."
I couldn't say the same for my old teammate, so I took off my hat and pointed to my temple. "I've got a little gray."
Wick laughed and patted his belly. "I've still got a six-pack." His voice slurred. "Sit, sit!" He kicked out a chair. "Mary, another round." He used his entire arm to signal to the bartender, then dropped into a chair. "Are you still playing?"
"Nah. I hung up my skates a few years ago." I sat and set my glass down on the table.
“Living the dream. Everyone knew you'd make it to the show." The grin on his face seemed forced. Wick had potential, but he'd liked drinking as much as he liked playing. Probably more.
"What about you? What are you up to these days?"
He drained his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Working at the mill. It pays the alimony." He studied his beer like a church lady reading tea leaves. "She got the house, I got the payments."
"Shit, man. I'm sorry to hear that." When I was a kid, jobs at the mill were revered.
It was stable year-round employment that paid decent wages.
But it wasn't the NHL. Paul had been scouted at one point, and I struggled to see that version of him in the husk of a man in front of me.
"Are you still skating?" I asked, hoping to shift the conversation into more familiar, and hopefully, happier, territory.
“Yeah, man. Beer league every Tuesday when I'm not working. There's a few good players, you should come out..." He set his mug on his belly. "I'm not exactly in game shape anymore, but I'm sure you and I could do some damage."
Mary delivered our next round. "Thank you.” I drained my scotch and handed her the empty glass.
Wick took a big gulp of beer. “What brings you back to this shithole?"
"Business."
"Business?" His slur was getting more obvious. "Well, here's to business. And to getting the hell out when you had the chance."
We clinked glasses. Coming to the bar was a mistake. This could have been me if I'd stayed.
"Beckett Shepherd. I'll be damned."
I turned. This time it only took me a second to place the face to the voice. The familiar man was older, more weathered, but his grin was the same.
"Carmichael!" I stood.
"You got it, buddy."
We hugged. His back smacks were just as hard as Paul's.
Evan 'Locks' Carmichael pulled up a chair and sat next to me. "I heard you were back in town."
"Word travels fast." I wondered what else he'd heard. "I didn't know you were still in town." As a defenseman, Evan was solid and dependable. After I left, I had no idea what had happened to Evan.
"What are you drinking?" He flagged down a cute waitress with long brown French braids. "Can you get this man another of…"
"Glenmorangie, single malt.” I shook the glass.
"Make that two. Thanks, Katie."
"You got it, Mr. Carmichael." She smiled.
"Another brewski for me too. And some hot wings for everyone at the table.” Wick held up his mug. Katie nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
Evan shrugged out of his jacket and stretched his arms over his head. "What brings you back to the mountains?"
Unlike Paul, Evan looked good. Sure, there were lines beside his eyes when he smiled, but his muscled arms and a very decent watch on his wrist told me he had his shit together. He was wearing a button-down shirt that actually fit, and his gold wedding band glinted in the dim light.
"I'm here on business. What about you?" I deflected. "What are you up to?"
"I own a well-drilling company." He shrugged like it was nothing. "It keeps me busy."
Wick slapped Evan's shoulder. "Don't be humble. This asshole lives up the mountain now."
Up the mountain. He was doing well. Those houses started at over two million. "That's great, man."
"It's honest work. Everybody needs a well." He accepted his scotch from Katie. "I've got a crew of eight guys and I'm thinking about expanding into geothermal."
Evan wasn't just doing okay. I worked in development now, and his business was lucrative.
"Geothermal, that would be great around here.
" My mind shifted to the development proposal.
Maybe Evan could be part of the project.
The potential business connection was exciting, but I needed to finesse him with some small talk. "Are you married?"
A grin spread across his face. "Five years next month. Do you remember her Sarah Hannah? She was a year behind us."
“I don’t remember her, but congratulations."
"We've got two kids. Mikey plays hockey. Molly is on the ski team, and she’s better than me now. We try to get out on the mountain every weekend."
"That's great, Locks. I'm so happy for you." Like Paul, my words said one thing, but something strange pricked in my chest. Was it jealousy? I had an expensive condo in the city that sat empty half the time. My relationships rarely lasted longer than six months because I was always working.
"Thanks. It's not exciting compared to your life. I think you hung up the skates a little too early though.”
“My knees made that decision.” I shrugged like it hadn’t devastated me.
"I'm in real estate development now." That was the end of my update.
There were no pretty wives from high school, or Saturday morning ski lessons.
"I'm getting you guys a new sports facility.
I'm talking about two ice pads, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and maybe even some indoor courts. "
It sounded good. The town needed something like this. A part of me also felt like I needed something to impress Evan.
"Man, that would be incredible. Mikey is six and has to play hockey an hour past his bedtime because there's no ice time. Maybe we could even get some bigger tournaments here." He leaned in. "Tell me more."
I had to be careful with how much to reveal before the public hearing. "My boss wants to expand the Northern Professional League and bring a team here."
"No shit." Evan held up his scotch. "That would be great for the town."
“What would be great for the town?” Rob slid into the chair across from us.
“Beck here is building a new rink.” Paul snorted. “It’ll only be good for the town if regular folks can afford to use it.”
"It'll be accessible," I said. Though I had no idea if it was the truth—Mr. King was a businessman, not a philanthropist.
Evan raised his glass. "To progress."
"To progress," Me and Rob echoed. Wick’s mug stayed firmly on the table.
Evan finished his scotch. "Shep. You’d better be sure that your boss is on board with the community programs. Logan basically sponsors every kid from Track Street.
The church ladies raise money for figure skating, and the town subsidizes the ice time.
Talk to your old girlfriend Clara. She coaches for free.
" He stood and grabbed his jacket. "Good luck with your project. "
My basket of wings arrived after Evan left, but I'd lost my appetite. Was the mention of Track Street deliberate? Evan knew where I'd grown up, and how hockey had saved my life. "I'm going to head out. See you at the meeting tomorrow, Rob."
"Are you going to eat those?" Wick took a bite of one of my wings.
"They're all yours." I grabbed my coat and left.
Outside, the snow had started to fall again. Soft, fat flakes swirled in the Christmas lights. As I gulped in the fresh mountain air, my scotch-soaked brain tried to process everything that had just happened.
No wonder Clara freaked out about the rink. And fricking Logan Brush was the Chance Rapids version of hockey Santa. Would my boss run free programs? I knew the answer. Like me, William King was a businessman; and for the first time, that title didn't feel very good.
The lights from the flower shop shone onto the snowy sidewalk. Through the frosted glass, I watched as the blonde woman wiped her hands on her apron, then took it off.
Before I could think, I tugged on the door handle. It was locked, but instead of walking away, I knocked.
She checked her watch, but came to the door and opened it. "Let me guess. You forgot your anniversary."
"No. I—" How did I explain this? "I need to apologize to someone."
Her expression softened. "Come in."
The scent of eucalyptus and cedar hung in the air. After the chaos of The Last Chance, the serenity of her shop brought me some clarity. "That’s the one." I pointed to the rose arrangement in the fridge.
"That's four hundred dollars."
"I'll take it."
She raised an eyebrow. "You must've messed up pretty bad, my friend."
"You have no idea."
She taped the paper over the top of the roses. "Try not to get snow on them." When she handed them to me, her fingertips brushed mine. "I hope she can see that you mean it."
What the hell kind of flower shop had I stumbled into? "I do mean it."
"I know." Her tone was matter-of-fact.
I paid and walked back to my room at the Inn. The girl at the front desk gave me a crystal vase filled with a water-and-sugar solution. In my room, I placed the vase on the roll-top desk. The petals were a deep red and silky between my fingertips. Roses were Clara's competition flowers.
Back then I could only afford a single stem at a time, but she kept and dried every single one.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through to find Clara's contact. It was still saved after fifteen years.
I'm sorry. Can we talk?
I deleted it.
I know you hate me, but please give me a chance to explain.
I deleted that one too. How did I explain everything in a text message?
The wind howled, shaking the single-pane glass window. As I caught a glimpse of my reflection, I stumbled, lurching into the desk. The vase wobbled, but I dropped my phone and managed to right it before it fell over. “Shit.” I wiped the drops of water from my phone screen.
I wasn't tipsy, I was wasted. And even drunk me knew better than to text a phone number from fifteen years ago.
Flopping onto the bed, I promised myself that I'd give her the flowers tomorrow.