Chapter 5 #2
The next few hours pass in a blur of information, instruction, and hands-on practice. Sophia demonstrates how to tap a keg, set up the garnish trays, and batch the house sangria. She walks me through pouring a perfect pint and mixing up a slew of different cocktails.
It's a lot to absorb, but I'm in my element. This is what I'm good at – making drinks and chatting up customers. Combine that with the sports atmosphere and it's a dream come true. I think Ryan would love it in here.
When a group of guys walks in wearing Devils jerseys and Sophia advises me to take their orders, I practically skip over to take their order.
“What can I get you gentlemen this evening?”
They banter a bit before deciding on a round of green tea shots to start. I mix the whiskey, peach schnapps, sour mix, and Sprite with a flourish, pouring the pale green concoction into shot glasses.
As I present the drinks with a grin, one of the guys gives me an approving nod. “I like her already.”
His buddy elbows him. “Dude, she's wearing a Wilder jersey. Of course, you do.”
I glance down at my Devils tee with Ryan's name and number on the back. “He's an old friend. I never miss a game.” Except for tonight because I’m a bad friend. Shit. I smile at the guys and walk away.
This sparks an enthusiastic discussion of the Devils' prospects for the night, their playoff chances, and a heated debate over who the better Wilder is – Ryan or his older brother, Noah Wilder, or his dad, the head coach. No mention of the youngest brother who has their talent combined.
“Coach Wilder is an institution, man. Best coach out there.”
“Ryan– that kid's got raw talent coming out his ears.”
“The China Wall,” someone mocks. “Noah Wilder is pure raw fucking talent. At least he’s skating on the ice and not sitting at the net.”
That’s the reality of Ryan’s position. It’s something that has always bothered him.
But he is naturally talented on the ice all around.
He’s always said that if something ever happened with hockey like an injury or if he’s dropped, his backup plan is to be a first responder.
He likes the idea of a 9 to 5. He claims he’s saving that lifestyle for his future wife and kids.
Lucky them. He doesn’t have them in sight, yet he’s already got it planned.
I hide a smile as I walk back to the bar with dirty cups, warmth spreading through my chest. Finding fans of the Wilders, especially Ryan, is always a bright spot.
His family is fairly known in the sport.
Just wait until the world sees his younger brother.
That kid is an animal on the ice. He’s currently in his first year in college, so it’s just the beginning for him. Stay tuned, hockey lovers!
As if the universe read my mind, I glance up at the TV screens to see the Devils taking the ice for warm-ups. The sight of Ryan gliding across the rink in his gear makes my heart squeeze. It never gets old, watching him in his element.
The bar is already filled with Devils diehards and rival fans. The energy in the bar increases as soon as the puck drops to start the game. Sophia wasn't kidding – hockey nights are huge. We're slammed from the first whistle. And I barely have time to watch the game.
I lose myself in the rhythm of pouring drinks, running tabs, and keeping the customers happy.
It's a rush, and I’m in the flow, feeling like I’ve been working here for months.
Sophia compliments my work ethic. And I am invisibly kicking myself in the ass for not watching Ryan’s game in person.
God, I need to make this up to him somehow.
Did I just become the worst best friend anyone could ever ask for?
No.
I won’t let the guilt get to me.
Too late!
By the time Sophia tells me that my first training shift has come to an end, my feet ache and my brain is fried, but a pleased buzz flows through my veins with the tips in my wallet.
Before I head out, I find an empty stool and order a club soda with lime, wanting to decompress a bit. My eyes drift to the closest TV and my heart sinks. We're down by two late in the third. Barring a miracle, the Devils won't be pulling this one out.
The seconds tick down to the inevitable conclusion. The horn sounds to end the game and the Devils skate off the ice in defeat. The cameras cut to Coach Wilder red-faced and shouting, jabbing his finger at the refs.
My concern turns up a notch. I've seen that look on Coach's face plenty over the years. Nothing good ever follows. If he's that angry, he'll be ripping the team to shreds. And knowing Ryan, he'll be internalizing every word.
I glance at the time, doing a quick calculation.
If I leave now, I can swing by my place, bake him some cookies, make us turmeric lattes, and then I will check on him to make sure he's okay.
I mix up one of the new cocktails Sophia taught me tonight, carefully sealing it in a to-go cup.
A little post-loss cheer might be exactly what Ryan needs. I close my tab and leave.
The drive is quick, the streets quiet this time of night. Before I know it, I have cookies baked for him and I'm pulling up to the Ryan Wilder estate.