Six #2
It’s a masterclass in passive aggression, and despite myself, I’m impressed. Usually, people who hate my guts either try to pick a fight or fake a smile to get a photo. This calculated indifference is bold.
It’s also working.
A muscle twitches at my temple as she laughs at something the Eagles fan says.
It looks effortless. But then her eyes flick up to the long mirror behind the liquor tiers.
She catches my gaze in the glass, the corner of her mouth twitching into a sharp, knowing smirk before she turns her full attention back to the customer.
“Busy night,” Thompson observes.
“Yeah,” I grunt, rapping my knuckles twice against the polished wood. The sound is heavy, deliberate. Demanding.
Ivy’s shoulders tense, but she doesn’t turn around.
The minutes stretch, and I can feel my teammates’ casual conversation becoming strained. O’Neill clears his throat. Andersson glances between Ivy and me with growing awareness.
Part of me wants to call her out, demand she do her job instead of playing whatever twisted version of hard-to-get this is. But another part—a part I don’t want to examine too closely—is fascinated by her audacity.
The Eagles fan taps his glass in thanks and turns back to his buddy.
Ivy wipes her hands on her apron, squares her shoulders, and pivots. Her entire demeanor shifts. The icy indifference I’d felt radiating off her melts when she looks between the boys, warmth in her smile.
“What can I get you, boys?”
“I’ll take a Stella,” Thompson says, grinning back at her.
“Make that two,” Andersson adds.
“Guinness for me,” O’Neill chimes in. “Gotta say, Ivy, glad this is our new official spot. Place is brilliant.”
“We’re happy to claim the home team,” she says. Her laugh carries over the noise of the bar—warm, unforced, and infuriating. And her eyes? They skip right over me like I’m a smudge on the glass. A piece of furniture. A fucking coaster.
Thompson glances my way. “And Gabriel will have—”
“Sorry, didn’t catch that.” Ivy’s smile never wavers, but her gaze remains fixed on Thompson. “Who?”
Heat crawls up my neck, and I can feel my teammates’ attention sharpening.
“Whiskey,” I say through gritted teeth, each word precise as a blade’s edge. “Top shelf.”
She still won’t look at me. Still addresses Thompson like I’m speaking through a fucking translator.
“Oh.” She tilts her head, considering, then says, “We’re out of the good stuff.”
We’re out of the good stuff. Right. The bar’s got a wall of premium bottles behind her, but sure. They’re all mysteriously unavailable for me.
O’Neill shifts uncomfortably. “Come on, Ivy.”
Thompson’s fighting back a grin. “Bit of a cold front between you two, eh?”
Andersson leans forward, eyes glinting. “This is better than cable.”
And there it is—I’m the entertainment. The joke. This bartender is dismantling my ego in front of my own locker room, and they’re eating it up.
The competitive fire in my chest flares white-hot. I’ve built my career on never backing down, never showing weakness. But what’s my play here? Cause a scene? Demand service? That only makes me look more pathetic.
Ivy watches the silence stretch. Her lip twitches—a tiny, victorious tell.
“Tell you what,” she chirps, flashing a bright customer-service smile. “Let me whip up the house special for you. Coming right up!”
My grip on the bar edge goes white-knuckled as I watch her pivot away from me. The entire time, I can feel my teammates’ eyes on me, their amusement a low hum in the background. But my own gaze is locked on her, tracking every move.
She doesn’t reach for the taps. Her back a rigid line of defiance, she ducks under the rail for a shaker. My eyes narrow. She works quickly, her movements hidden from the others but just visible from my angle. Vodka from the well. A splash of something bright. A vigorous shake.
Only then does she grab the glasses, pulling three perfect pints in rapid succession so they don’t have time to go flat. The little show she’s putting on. The perfect hostess for everyone but me.
She places the three beers on the bar first, delivering each one with a flourish. Thompson gets his Stella with a playful wink. Andersson’s comes with a comment about the game. O’Neill’s Guinness is presented like a work of art.
Finally, she turns back to me.
It’s pink. Bright fucking pink, with a slice of orange and a little paper umbrella perched on the rim like some tropical vacation fever dream.
She sets the hurricane glass down in front of me with ceremonial precision. I can see the faint, adrenaline-fueled flush high on her cheekbones.
“Your bevvy, Castel-LINO.”
The mispronunciation is deliberate, drawn out as if she’s savoring each syllable. My teammates lose it—Thompson nearly chokes on his beer, O’Neill’s laugh booms across half the bar, and even Andersson’s stoic facade cracks.
I stare at the abomination in front of me. The umbrella tilts at a jaunty angle, mocking me. I slowly plant both forearms on the bar top, leaning into her space until I can smell the faint scent of vanilla and citrus masking the sharp tang of the bar sanitizer.
“This isn’t what I ordered.” I keep my voice dead level.
Ivy doesn’t flinch. Her eyes widen in mock surprise, meeting mine for the first time tonight. The impact hits me squarely in the chest. Up close, those hazel depths hold a hot, triumphant spark that makes my pulse kick.
“Oh? Must have misunderstood the order.” She shrugs, innocent as fresh snow. “So sorry.”
Sorry. Right. Sorry, my ass.
But even as irritation burns through my chest, another feeling surfaces. Reluctant admiration. She’s got balls, I’ll give her that. Taking me on in front of my team, making me look like an idiot. It’s gutsy as hell.
And despite the humiliation, despite the frustration—there is something wildly intoxicating about the way she refuses to yield an inch of ground.
Even hostile, she’s fucking magnetic.
But looking into those furious hazel eyes, I can’t shake the feeling that this runs much deeper than my bruised ego or a spilled beer.
You don’t even remember, do you?
The words she threw at me the other week play back in my head, and that nagging sensation returns stronger than before. There’s a piece missing. A big one.
The stare-down stretches; the air between us crackles.
Thompson seems to sense the standoff has reached its limit. He catches the eye of the other bartender—the shorter one with dark hair who has been handling the other end of the bar.
“Delilah!” Thompson calls out.
Her head turns, and a genuine, playful grin spreads across her face when she sees him.
“Please save our boy from becoming another viral post,” he says, his voice full of practiced charm.
“Just this time for you, Brock,” she says, laughing, as she saunters over. Her gaze flickers from Thompson’s hopeful expression to the ridiculous pink drink in front of me, and she lets out a low whistle.
“Oh, honey.” Her laugh hits a shrill note, carrying a frantic edge. “Looks like you got the bachelorette special by mistake. Let me get you what you actually ordered.”
As she turns, she shoots a look over her shoulder at Ivy. The silent exchange lasts less than a second—a sharp tilt of Delilah’s chin met by Ivy’s rigid posture—but it carries the heavy weight of a shared boundary. An unspoken directive that says: I’ve got this. Walk away.
Something goes out of her all at once, like a fuse pulled.
Her gaze drops to the scuffed bar top. For a fraction of a second, the furious, untouchable armor cracks, leaving her looking hollowed out.
Then she blinks rapidly, squares her shoulders, and pivots away, all business as she tends to the other customers.
Delilah returns with a new glass, setting down a top-shelf bourbon, neat. “Here you go, Castellano. The good stuff.” Her tone is friendly, professional, but her eyes hold a glint of loyalty to her friend that tells me she’s not on my team.
I take a slow sip, letting the smooth burn slide down my throat to wash away the taste of humiliation. “Much better,” I murmur.
Thompson claps me on the shoulder, giving Delilah a grateful nod. “Crisis averted, eh?”
“What crisis?” I shrug, but my eyes track Ivy’s movements across the bar. “Just a misunderstanding.”
O’Neill snorts. “If you say so, mate.”
They fall into easy conversation about tomorrow’s game, but I’m only half-listening. My attention keeps drifting back to the puzzle of her. The sheer, targeted force of her hostility.
“Ready to head out?” Thompson asks, draining his beer.
I glance at my watch. We’ve been here barely an hour, but the guys are already settling their tabs. Andersson’s phone buzzes with what looks like a text from his girlfriend. O’Neill’s yawning.
“Yeah, sure.” I finish my whiskey and slide off the stool.
But as Thompson and the others file toward the door, something compulsive drives me toward the small merchandise display near the register. Penalty Box t-shirts, hoodies, shot glasses—typical bar swag.
Delilah appears, gesturing at the items. “See something you like?”
I grab a black t-shirt with the bar’s logo. “This one.”
“Excellent choice. That’ll be twenty bucks.”
I make a show of pulling out my wallet, peeling off bills with deliberate slowness. My voice carries when I speak—loud enough for Ivy to hear over the ambient chatter.
“For the partnership.”
Ivy’s head snaps up from across the bar, and the look she gives me could melt steel. Pure, undiluted murder.
There she is.
The fury—that’s the real Ivy Hayes. For some twisted reason, that expression is a relief. At least she’s feeling something. At least I’m getting under her skin the way she’s gotten under mine.
Thompson appears at my elbow. “You’re playing with fire, buddy.”
“Maybe.” I fold the shirt under my arm and head for the door.
The mountain air hits like a punch after the bar’s warmth. My teammates are already climbing into their respective cars, but I linger on the sidewalk for just a second, the question burning in my mind.
What the hell happened between us that I don’t remember?