18 - Sage
Sage
Ramona slammed into the opening riff while a fresh beer floated across the bar toward me.
Icy Veins was playing a packed venue but by the looks of it, I was the only one in the downtown bar who cared.
Every so often, the bartender would look over to the stage with mild interest, but I was almost a hundred percent sure that had more to do with Ramona’s tiny schoolgirl wraparound skirt than the particularly grating melody of You’re the Reason I Drink Alone.
Foam crept down the side of the glass and pooled against my fingers.
It wasn’t lost on me how painfully fitting the lyrics of that song were at this point in time.
As much as I would’ve liked to deny it—as hard as I’d fought Ramona in that arena—here I was.
Drinking alone. And the reason for that was six-feet tall and covered in ink.
“Bullshit. That hit the wire.” Two men near the dartboard argued about a score card, their voices rising over the music.
“Yeah, well, you threw wide. Count it.”
“It hit the wire,” and so the argument kept going.
On stage, Ramona pushed closer to the mic and drove the rhythm harder. Her gaze swept the room before landing on me. I lifted my beer in quiet support, but she just rolled her eyes, her voice taking on a terrifying edge through the “think I’m dramatic now, you should hear the chorus” part.
Usually a crowd-pleaser, but the only people in front of the stage were the ones passing it to get to the bathroom.
Mike took the lack of enthusiasm personally. He planted one foot on the monitor, his bass hung low against his hip while he challenged the room with a snarling run he’d clearly made up on the spot. She shot him a look but could do little to get him back in line.
A group of cowboy hats at the end of the bar remained deep in conversation.
Didn’t flinch at the drops of sweat and desperate bass licks flying their way.
Mike climbed fully onto the monitor and aimed the head of his bass right at them.
Nothing. Well, nothing except one guy turning his back to the stage.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my grin contained. This would be the lament of the week; bruised egos deluxe.
The bartender passed behind me with a crate of empty bottles. “They always this loud?”
“They get louder when nobody pays attention.”
He scoffed and set the tray down behind the bar, pausing to wipe a wet ring off the counter. “Should probably research the demo before booking a club.”
The Leaky Buckaroo was hardly a club. Shit, it barely fit the description of a bar with a counter that was chipped and peeled down to bare wood, and old taps that sputtered more than my mom on her second pack for the day.
On stage, Melvin tried his own solution.
He drifted closer to his amp as Ramona’s voice fluttered over the last notes of the song. His fingers danced over the fretboard, making the amp shriek into a blast of feedback that ripped through the room.
People covered their ears, a few drinks were spilled in alarm, but nary an impressed look in the house.
Melvin lunged for the knobs and twisted one down. The screech faded, and Ramona glared with enough heat to melt the strings off his guitar.
It was too risky to laugh. They’d choose that exact moment to look over and I’d be screwed, having to grovel to get back in the good books. I dropped my head so my hair would shield my face, shoulders shaking.
“This taken?” A guy in green flannel tapped the back of the seat next to me.
“Go for it.”
He pulled the stool out and climbed on. His attention stayed on the Hurricanes vs Canucks replay silently flashing above the bar. Here was a man’s man who definitely didn’t come out for the music tonight.
“Thank you.” Ramona pushed her hair away from her face, breath blasting into the mic in short bursts. “You’ve been a great crowd. Try not to tear the house down on this next one.”
A sickening burp tore out of the guy next to me, and my head snapped in his direction. I must’ve been crazy to expect an embarrassed laugh and muttered apology.
“Everyone knows Dallas is taking the Cup this season.” He hiccupped to confirm his authority on the matter. The guy’d clearly been crawling all night, because this was only his first drink here.
Which told me all I needed to know.
A quick escape was in order. I eyed the corner of the stage—my usual refuge—and felt an elbow in my ribs.
“No comment, huh, pretty lady?”
“Excuse me?”
My newest bar friend hiked a thumb in the direction of the TV. “You’re a Hurricanes fan, I take it. Probably— Probably goo-goo-gaga over that… whatshisface center all the girls like.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, so please stop doing it.”
“Stop doing what?” His pea-sized brain visibly rattled in his thick skull.
“Talking to me,” I said, and turned my back to him which, incidentally, had me looking right at the entrance when the door swung open.
My heart staggered a beat as blue and white jerseys poured into the bar. Surge players. Cheering and raising a racket for whatever reason, with Aiden in the middle of it all. Judging by the emphatic back-slaps and hair-ruffling, he looked to be the reason behind the revelry.
I didn’t need three guesses to know what that was about. I’d been there when Mason Calder was carried off the ice. His injury left a gaping hole in the center position and just as Ramona had predicted, Aiden was most likely the guy called up to fill it.
The Surge moved through the bar full throttle, ignoring the heads turned in their direction as they made their way to the closest empty booth. I tracked them without meaning to, heart beating a tad harder than Big Rich’s kickdrum. Of all the bars in San Antonio…
They fought each other into the booth and Aiden hung back, laughter still dancing in his eyes when they locked with mine.
He’d singled me out without even trying.
Across the mess of bodies, noise, and beer-slick floor.
Everything faded into the background and just like that, the world I’d been keeping at arm’s length punched straight through the middle of my chest.
He jutted his chin at the guy next to me, who was now lecturing the bartender on why Dallas Stars were the true and only viable option for Stanley Cup greatness.
I shook my head, no.
Aiden made a show of clutching his heart in relief, almost falling over with how ‘dizzy’ it made him. I bit back a smile. Then he cocked his head, motioning to the booth at his back. The same one bursting with Surge players.
I shook my head, no.
This time I got a pronounced sad face, and he dabbed at the imaginary tears running down his cheeks.
Behind him, one of the guys grabbed hold of his jersey and gave it a hard tug.
It should’ve dragged Aiden right onto his ass, but it didn’t.
Not with the way he fought it. But the effort he used to pull free sent him catapulting across the floor when his teammate suddenly released him, and I was off my stool without even thinking, arms stretched out.
Aiden found his feet in a stumble or two, avoiding the crash landing and my lame attempt at a rescue. When he came upright, it was with a giddy smile that infected the most guarded corner of heart.
“What were you planning to do with those?” He dangled my arm like a limp string of spaghetti, until I snatched it back and glared at him.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. Clearly you have the grace of a ballerina, despite your two left feet.”
His gaze raked over my body, and the flash in his eyes told me exactly where his mind had gone. Because mine went there too. I was wearing the same pair of jeans I’d worn the day of our retirement home brunch. The very same pair he’d peeled off me in the back of Melvin’s van.
“Are you too good to be seen with me in public?” he asked, apparently unaware of how his teammates were shamelessly ogling us.
“I’m too good for you, period.”
He smirked. “Didn’t sound like it when you said yes to going on a date with me.”
“I was suffering a mental break at the time. Shit happens.”
“How’s your mental health now?” His presence was all-consuming in the tight space, heat overtaking my senses with that musky-earthy scent I’d come to associate with only him.
I swallowed past the way my body betrayed me. “What do you want, Aiden?”
He gestured toward the booth bursting with Surge players. Pitchers of beer filled the table, and the guys were even louder than when they’d first walked in. “I want you to come meet my friends.”
“You have friends?”
He rolled his eyes, and slid an arm around my waist as he guided us in the direction of hell breaking loose.
I spared a quick glance to the stage and found Ramona watching me closely, as she always did in situations like this.
She never once tripped over her lyrics, just made it known she had my back even from up there.
“Santos, when are you gonna stop bothering pretty women in bars, huh?”
“We can’t take you anywhere.”
“That’s Landon, and Tucker,” Aiden said with a laugh, pointing first at the young guy with shocking blonde curls, then the beefy one sitting next to him. Then he went through the rest of the row: “Grayson—”
“That’s ‘Captain’ to you, first line freshman.”
“—Hunter, and… Cash, I guess. I don’t really know what his actual name is,” Aiden finished.
“Does anyone?” Landon asked, then took an especially huge gulp of his beer.
Cash laughed. “Does it matter? Cash is the name I use, because it’s the one that speaks to me. Cash Money, baby. Why we play big.”
“Why we’re gonna lift that cup third year in a row.”
The magnitude of cheers that burst out of the booth made me jump, but I was also partly impressed to hear that level of noise coming from only five guys. They’d make awesome groupies, following Icy Veins around to avoid them ever playing a dead room like this again.
“I’m Sage. Nice to meet y’all. Have a nice night.”