Three
There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from calculating how fast you’re going broke.
Six thousand two hundred dollars. I cringe, adding that upcoming expense to the Google Sheets tracker I have open.
Right then, the cooler in the back starts up with a grinding, metallic shudder that vibrates through the floorboards.
“Ah, the sound of my profit margin dying,” I mutter, mentally adding another twenty dollars to the tally. We’re one bad compressor failure away from serving warm beer, and if we serve warm beer, we don’t have a bar.
Reza keeps telling me it’s a wonder the old compressor has lasted this long. Just like he and Ulf still talk about the ‘miracle bank loan’ that saved this place when Dad was first getting sick.
It was easier to let them believe it.
The truth lives in a locked drawer in this office: a deposit slip for a six-figure settlement, paid out by someone with deep pockets and a rising star to protect.
Castellano’s people. That’s all I ever knew.
Blood money. I sold my right to clear my name so my dad wouldn’t lose his bar.
Nothing is left in that drawer now. Except the paper.
And the shame of what I signed to get that money.
Mom didn’t survive putting me here. Her family’s a place on a map to me—Winnipeg—never names, never faces. Dad’s parents split the early years with him until I was five. Then it was just Dad. Then, a few years back, just me.
Three accounts were closed before I could drive. A fourth since. I don’t open new ones.
I check the drawer with my knee. Still locked. It always is.
Yawning, I palm my eyelids and take a sip of bitter, cold coffee. I skim the spreadsheet, my focus glazing over when I search for what could be cut or downsized.
I’d like to blame my exhaustion on the mounting bills and the ghosts in my filing cabinet, but if I’m being honest, Gabriel Castellano’s sudden reappearance is what’s rattling around my skull.
The one thing I gave myself credit for last night was the control and recovery. Sure, beer went all over him, but I didn’t snap when he turned that arrogant glare on me. I stood my ground and treated Gabriel Castellano like I would any other entitled, melodramatic ass.
“I won the round,” I tell the empty room.
The front door chimes, saving me from my own spiraling. A moment later, Delilah breezes into my tiny office, yoga mat slung over one shoulder and a takeout bag from The Hidden Bean in hand.
“Morning, boss lady!” She slides onto the visitor’s chair, grinning. “I come bearing gifts.”
I inhale the rich aroma of espresso, unwrapping the warm, cheesy, buttery pastry. My Friday salvation. “You’re a goddess.”
“And don’t you forget it.” Delilah winks, then sobers. “Rough night?”
“What gave it away? The bags under my eyes or the fact that I’m here this early on a Friday?”
“Nah, that’s your usual ‘burning the candle at both ends’ chic.” She takes a sip of her own drink. “I was talking about the video.”
I freeze, the croissant halfway to my mouth. “What video?”
In response, Delilah whips out her phone and pulls up TikTok. There, in all its glory, is a shaky video of me and Castellano. A block of white text hovers over the footage: POV: New Wolves star gets humbled at the local dive.
“Six hundred dollars,” his gritted voice plays through Delilah’s tiny phone speaker. “For a shirt you just ruined.”
The video zooms in on his face, zeroing in on his tight jaw. “You think that’s funny?” The video shifts to me, completely deadpan. “I think it’s laundry.”
I wince when we get to my Aye aye, captain salute, the video looping with an EDM audio clip overlay. My stomach plummets. So much for staying under the radar.
“It’s gone viral,” Delilah says, a mix of awe and concern in her voice as she scrolls past thousands of comments. “Hashtag BeerGate. Half the internet is furious about the shirt, and the other half is trying to buy you a drink for offering a millionaire a twenty-dollar bar tee.”
“Fucking fantastic. That’s exactly what I need.
” I drop my head into my hands. “As if the deal with the Wolves wasn’t already on thin ice.
” If their PR director has already seen this, she’s either on the phone with the Wolves’ legal team or she’s drafting a very polite email that ends with We’ll be in touch.
Neither option is good.
“Hey.” Delilah’s hand finds my shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “Look on the bright side, I bet this’ll bring in new customers.”
I want to believe her. But as I stare at the video, at the rage in Castellano’s eyes, I can’t shake the sinking feeling that this is just the beginning.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
As if manifesting my future, the mail slot clangs open, and a moment later, flyers and mail scatter across the hardwood.
“I’ll get it!” Delilah bounds out of my office and returns with a fistful of flyers and mail.
I take a big swallow of coffee, eyes skimming through the spreadsheet.
A thick, crisp letter is dropped on my desk, and I jolt. In the corner of the envelope is the Whistler Wolves crest, embossed beside the WSE logo.
“Well? Open it!” Delilah bounces on the balls of her feet. “I can’t believe it’s finally happening. You’ve worked your ass off for this, Ives.”
With a deep breath, I slide my finger under the flap. The paper resists—or maybe I do. The contract unfolds before me with the cover letter: