For the Win (Finn’s Pub Romance #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

WIN

Normally, there’s nothing I love more than hanging out at Finn’s Pub with my friends, especially around the holidays. They have good music, great beer and the kind of welcoming atmosphere that made us regulars in the first place.

Tonight is not normal.

It’s an event. A happening. Something that went viral online and turned this manageably popular establishment into an ugly-sweater rave.

Okay, it’s not that bad. The band is on fire, there’s mistletoe and Christmas lights everywhere, and at least five sexy Santas are currently line dancing to that “Tipsy” song as I speak. I probably could have gotten into the spirit if my friends weren’t so distracted and upset.

And my recent decision wasn’t to blame for it.

“Got a word problem for you, Coach,” I say casually to Connor, who’s tipsy himself after one too many free beers tonight.

“Four objectively hot friends attend Queen Calamity’s Rockin’ Christmas Party.

All caps intended. One is currently on the dance floor getting her groove on while the other three hold down a high top, thankfully close to the bar.

One of the three is antisocial, another is ogling the women at the bar instead of talking to them, and the third—the one they dragged out to supposedly celebrate the start of his teaching sabbatical—is wallflowering in solidarity.

Of those original four, how many are getting any action tonight?

I’ll give you a hint: The number is less than two. ”

Val manages a ghost of a smile while Connor attempts a stare down across the table. “Is that a dare, Mr. Winston?”

“Mr. Winston has left the building. This is Win, your favorite wingman, telling you to get out there and actually talk to one of those ladies you’ve been staring at for hours. Maybe even ask her to dance.”

He slides off his stool, leaning on the table for balance before lifting his beer. “Fine. Raise a glass to freedom or whatever.”

I choke on a laugh at the petulant delivery and tap my beer against his and then Val’s water glass in approval.

“If you really loved me, you’d drop the ‘or whatever’ and sing that line so I can save it to my phone.

‘Coach Lafferty does Hamilton’ would tell the story of tonight. Our students would love it.”

He downs his drink, wiping the foam off his upper lip with the back of his hand when he’s finished. “You’re leaving me and our students alone for the rest of the school year, so you can take whatever musical references you get. Now excuse me while I ask those ladies at the bar to dance. Game on.”

“I said one of them, not all of them,” I call as he makes his way to the bar with an impressive amount of swagger. “He’s acting like I’m breaking our lease, canceling our friendship and moving to Greenland or something. He understands that I’m not actually going anywhere, doesn’t he?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, he’s drunk.” Val’s reply is so deep and soft I have to lean closer to hear him over the band. “And he’s still in shock. I’m still in shock, and I’m not the roommate connected to you at the hip. I can’t believe you waited until last week to tell us.”

“I wasn’t sure it was going to be approved until then.”

“You didn’t even mention the fact that you were thinking about it. That isn’t like you.”

He’s right; I do always tell them everything.

Honestly, I’m as stunned by my own behavior as they are.

I think I kept it to myself for so long because I didn’t believe I’d actually go through with it.

But here we are. With the start of this winter break, I’m officially on sabbatical.

I don’t have a classroom to prepare, lesson plans to get a head start on, or parent-teacher meetings scheduled after the holidays. I’m free.

Unfortunately, their worry is starting to rub off on me, making my freedom feel a little too much like being unemployed, which is freaking me out. Perfect. Now instead of enjoying ourselves, we can all spend the rest of the night wondering what the hell I was thinking.

“The worst part is you still haven’t told us why.” The usually stoic Black man sounds sincerely concerned. “Did something happen?”

“I’m allowed to need a break,” I hedge, and it isn’t really a lie. More like an omission. “You know I’ve been working nonstop since I was fifteen.”

I waitered and salesclerked and occasionally hustled my way through college to get my degree in education.

Now I’ve been teaching at my middle-school alma mater for the last ten years, and during that time, even my summer breaks have been packed with work activities.

Summer school followed by summer camp followed by back-to-school prep.

And during the pandemic, the one year I wasn’t able to do the work in person, I did it all online instead.

He shakes his head. “You don’t do breaks. You’re too focused on ‘shining a fact- and empathy-filled light on the bright young minds of the next generation’ and ‘paying it forward while getting paid.’”

I grin wryly at his air quotes. “Can’t say you haven’t been paying attention to my work-based rants, can I?”

He knows me too well. And because of our long friendship, he also knows there’s a deeper, more personal reason I don’t typically do anything that might risk my job security.

I think he was actually in the room when I vowed to do whatever it took to never again experience going hungry or wondering where I’d be sleeping for the night.

Been there, done that, didn’t bother getting the T-shirt because I don’t like to talk about it.

Or think about it. Or have too much time on my hands to ponder what I want from the future.

“So why, then?” He’s being unusually invasive tonight. It’s a strange reversal. Ordinarily, I’m the one trying to get him to talk.

“I just need some time, Val.” Time enough to consider my next steps if a certain vice principal doesn’t leave the district for the shiny new promotion he’s been bragging about while I’m gone. For example.

“Well, now you have it,” he says, finally accepting me at my word. “So, what are you going to do with eight whole months of extra time?”

“I’m already signed up for that online course,” I remind him. Furthering my education is a requirement of my leave.

“You said that would take less than two months. If you need part-time work after that, I could use some help in my office.”

It’s a generous offer. Sabbaticals come with a pay cut that will pinch.

And Val knows how restless I get with nothing to do.

Don’t get me wrong, I love spending weekends catching up on reading and watching my shows, and can scroll through TikTok and Insta for hours at a time (for teaching resources, of course), but that kind of brain candy only feeds me for so long before I start feeling the compulsive need to be useful.

“We’ll see.” I’d rather find something on my own than end up watering his office plants. Not right away, though. All I need to do right now is spend more quality time with my friends. A couple of them have gotten their heads firmly stuck up their asses and could use an assist.

That intervention won’t be happening tonight, because one of them is “working” and the other one is too busy raking my decision over the coals to take me seriously.

Maybe I should raise a few more glasses to my freedom and find a willing partner in the crowd for a holiday quickie.

If the man with the ponytail and tight pants I’m clocking at the end of the bar looks as good from the front as he does from the back, he might be a contender.

Call me a ho, ho, ho.

It’s a wonderful life, I remind myself. And unlike the Jimmy Stewart classic of the same name, I don’t need an angel to show me why I should be thankful.

All I have to do is look around the packed pub and point to the three great loves of my life—Connor, Val and Bex.

My found family. My ride or dies. The reason I survived my childhood to become the upbeat and hardworking control freak I am today.

“Hey Winnie, check me out!” Connor yells.

That’s me, by the way. Nolan “Win” Winston, though no one uses my first name unless they want my passive-aggressive wrath aimed in their general direction.

And only my friends and the voice in my head that likes to keep me humble call me Winnie.

For the rest of you it’s Win for the win. All I do is Win, no matter what.

I obediently turn to watch the other dancers make space for him to do the slightly-drunk-straight-boy dance with two women dressed in outfits that together cost a year of our combined salaries.

He’s a well-built football coach/math teacher full of himbo goodness, but he does like to burp the alphabet for fun, and those ladies look more like morning-mimosa types.

Still, he’s got a certain charm, they’re all flushed with drink and good cheer, and ’tis the season.

Maybe this is an opposites-attract meet-cute, and one of them will agree to take him off my hands and finally make me an uncle.

We turned thirty-three this year, and so far he’s the only member of our tight-knit group likely to settle down picket-fence style and give me some vicarious domestic-bliss thrills.

Those other two sure aren’t ponying up to the bar.

“There may be several regrets in his future.” Bex appears at our table, adjusting her new, more fashionable glasses and fanning her flushed cheeks after her spin around the dance floor. “I’ve seen those ladies at a few of Kate’s other events and all I can say is that they’re a handful.”