20. Hendrix
HENDRIX
I storm into Tucker's Coffee, my prized Boba Fett figurine clutched in my hand. The morning rush hasn't hit yet, and Tucker's wiping down the espresso machine with a microfiber cloth.
"Here." I slam the collectible on the counter. "You win."
"What's this about?" Tucker picks up the figurine, examining it with raised eyebrows.
"Take it. I'm out of the bet."
"Hold up." Tucker flings his cloth over his shoulder. "What happened?"
"You won the bet. I forfeit." I run my hands through my hair, still damp from my early morning run. "I brought this up from Toronto right after that Knights game. Been meaning to give it to you."
Tucker sets Boba Fett back down carefully. "You're giving up your mint condition, never-opened Star Wars collectible? The one you wouldn't even let me touch last year?"
"I can't do this anymore. The bet, the schemes—it's not right. Not with Colette."
"But you were winning! She's totally falling for?—"
"That's the problem." My voice catches. "I don't want whatever's happening between us to be because of some stupid bet."
Tucker studies me for a long moment, then picks up a rag and starts wiping down the already spotless counter. "Good for you, bro."
Something in his tone makes me pause. Tucker's usually quick with a joke or smart comment, but he's oddly subdued. He won't meet my eyes, focused intently on that same spot he's been cleaning for the past minute.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah, man. Just tired. Early morning prep."
I'm about to press Tucker on what's really bothering him when the bell above the door chimes. The sound stops me mid-sentence, and I lean against the counter, waiting for Tucker to handle his customer who shuffles in, stamping snow from his boots onto the welcome mat.
"Good morning," Tucker calls out, his professional demeanor sliding back into place.
I scroll through my phone, half-listening to the transaction behind me, until something familiar catches my attention. A deep, jolly laugh. He's setting a bag of Tucker's signature Christmas blend on the counter, fishing in his pocket for his wallet.
"Just these today," the customer says, his voice warm and rich like hot cocoa.
Tucker rings him up while I stare, trying to place why this guy seems so familiar. And then I remember. He’s the same man from the toy drive, complete with his red plaid coat and perfectly groomed white beard. The man who donated those presents at Colette’s toy drive.
"That'll be eighteen-fifty," Tucker says.
The man pulls out crisp bills, and I swear the twinkle in his eye gets brighter when he catches me staring. He hands Tucker the money, picks up his beans, and winks at me before heading for the door.
I blink hard. By the time I look again, he's gone, leaving only the lingering jingle of the bell over the door.
I'm still staring out into the street when Tucker says, "So you and the Ice Queen, huh?"
"Don't call her that." My hands clench on the counter. "The Ice Queen thing. It's not cool."
Tucker blinks. "Everyone calls her?—"
"Yeah, well, everyone can shove it." The memory of Colette opening up about her past hits me hard.
Tucker backs away from the counter, hands raised. "Whoa, easy there. Just a nickname."
"A stupid one that needs to die." I lean forward. "In fact, if I hear anyone call her that again, I'll personally introduce them to the iciest part of Lake Huron.”
"Message received. No more Ice Queen comments. I'll spread the word." Tucker grabs a mug and starts making what looks like his signature pecan praline latte.
"Good."
"You know," he says, tamping the espresso grinds, "you still have two days until Christmas Eve. Plenty of time to win the bet."
I stare at him. "Did you miss the part where I'm forfeiting?"
"Just hear me out. Take her on a real date. I hung mistletoe all over town… you're bound to catch her under some of it."
Something's off about his eager tone. Tucker's usually competitive as hell. We once didn't speak for a week over a game of Mario Kart. Yet here he is, practically begging me to win.
"Why do you want me to win so badly?" I narrow my eyes at him. "What's going on?"
"Nothing!" He begins to froth the milk, shouting over the high-pitched hiss of the steamer. "Just think you two are good together, that's all."
"Uh-huh."
I watch Tucker's hands as he crafts the latte, his movements precise but jittery.
Something's definitely up with him. I've seen him make thousands of these drinks with the steady confidence of a surgeon, but right now he's acting like he's had way too many shots of his own espresso.
His fingers twitch slightly as he pours the steamed milk, nearly messing up the fancy leaf design he usually nails in his sleep.
He slides the steaming mug across the counter, followed by my Boba Fett. "On the house. And keep your toy."
"Seriously?" I pick up the figurine. "You've been trying to get your hands on this since college."
"Yeah, well." He shrugs, avoiding my eyes. "Maybe I'm not as into collecting anymore."
"Tucker."
"What?"
"You literally showed me your eBay watchlist last week. It was all Star Wars memorabilia."
He busies himself with wiping down the steam wand. "People change."
"In a week?"
"Look, just take the figure and the coffee and go win over your English teacher, okay?"
I set the Boba Fett down with a thunk. "Spill it. What's going on?"
"Nothing! Can't a guy just want his friend to be happy?"
"A normal guy, sure. You? No way." I lean over the counter. "Did you make your own bet? Is that what this is about?"
Tucker's face flushes red. "What? No! Of course not! That would be... completely accurate, actually."
"With who?"
He mumbles something under his breath.
"What was that?"
"Daisy, okay? I made a bet with Daisy!"