Seventeen
I’m restocking the limes and maraschino cherries, humming one of Dad’s favorites I don’t know the name of, when the knock cuts through the empty bar.
Through the frosted glass, I spot a familiar high-vis jacket, clipboard in hand.
My stomach drops.
I cross the floor, unlock the deadbolt. Cold rushes in with the courier—the same guy from Corporate Couriers who dropped off the inspection notice last week. He looks just as cold and just as tired.
“Ivy Hayes?”
“That’s me.”
He holds out the clipboard. “Sign here.”
Government letterhead screams through the plastic window of the thick envelope. My signature comes out shaky, a jagged thing that doesn’t look like mine.
“Have a good one,” he says, already turning back to the snow.
The door clicks shut. I stand there, envelope in hand, staring at the return address.
Resort Municipality of Whistler – Regulatory Services.
Sucking in a breath, I carry the envelope to my office and center it on the small IKEA desk.
I slide a pen under the flap and slice it open in one clean pull.
Two notices clipped together. Dense paragraphs, bolded headers, official stamps. The paper is cream-colored. Thick.
Order to Comply – Building Bylaw Enforcement.
Cross-Connection Control Notice – RMOW Utilities Division.
Frowning, I skim the first paragraph. Then the second. Certain phrases snag in my brain:
Electrical panel non-compliant with updated seismic and fire safety codes…
Immediate replacement required…
Licensed contractor, professional engineer certification…
I flip to the second page.
Backflow prevention system outdated…
Re-plumbing and installation of certified devices mandatory…
The terms sit at the bottom, casual as a drink order.
Fourteen days to comply.
Penalties: up to $10,000 per day.
Forced closure upon non-compliance.
My brain flat-out rejects the timeline. I stare at the bolded headers until they smear into a single black bar, willing them to rearrange. A month. A year. A different life.
The ink doesn’t move.
The numbness starts in my fingertips and moves up my forearms in slow degrees. My lungs seize with the crushing weight of the unknown.
My savings account is basically fumes. The next mechanical wolf installment is due next week. Payroll is next Thursday; Ulf, Birgitta, and Delilah need their cheques. And there’s the groaning walk-in compressor I’ve been ignoring because Reza quoted me six grand to replace it.
Whatever this is going to cost, I don’t have it. I don’t have a fraction of a fraction of it.
The paper crinkles in my grip, and I force my hands flat against the desk. Lean my weight into my palms until the shaking stops. Then I drag my eyes up to the justification paragraph.
“This audit was prompted by updated municipal safety standards as part of Whistler’s downtown redevelopment initiative, ensuring all commercial properties meet current regulatory frameworks.”
Downtown redevelopment.
I read it again, slower, hunting for a loophole.
There isn’t one.
I stare at the wall calendar.
December twenty-second.
Grabbing the pen off the desk, I start counting squares like that’ll change the math.
January first gets a circle so hard the tip punches through the paper. That’s when probation ends.
Two weeks from today lands on January fifth. I circle that too, pressing until the page dents.
And then there’s the rest of the Wolves deal. The second half of the payment hits seven days after January first—January eighth—if we make it to the end of probation and they don’t pull the rug again. I circle that date last, ink bleeding slightly where I hesitate.
Fourteen squares. Two rows of days to find money I haven’t even tallied yet, hire people I can’t afford, and fix the things Dad kept alive on “tape and prayers.”
It’s the week of Christmas. Nobody answers phones. Nobody pulls permits fast.
The municipality won’t care that its own offices are closed for the holidays. If I play by their official rules, I’m already dead. I need someone who knows the bones of this building and how to bend the red tape.
Reaching for my phone, my thumb hovers over the screen for a full three seconds before I jab Reza’s contact.
He picks up on the first ring.
“Ivy-jan!” He pronounces it j-awn, stretching the vowel with a homey warmth that tightens my vocal cords. “How’s the walk-in holding?”
“Fine. Good. Reza, I need—” My voice cracks. Clearing my throat, I start over, “I got a compliance order. Electrical panel and backflow prevention. They’re giving me fourteen days.”
Silence. Then, a long exhale.
“Fourteen days for both?”
“Yeah.”
“Ivy-jan…” He draws it out like sawing through green wood. “The town wants permits, engineers, inspections. Too many moving parts.”
“Can you do it?”
“I can try. But the panel—that’s a licensed contractor and needs an engineer’s sign-off. And panels are back-ordered everywhere. A commercial unit right now is thirty grand, Ivy. If we can even find one.”
Something in my chest folds in on itself.
“What about the backflow thing?”
“Same problem. You’ll need a certified technician, another permit, another inspection. The re-plumbing alone... you’re looking at forty-five thousand, easy.”
I close my eyes. The zeros materialize behind my eyelids, heavy and suffocating. Seventy-five thousand dollars just to get them to stop the clock.
“Reza, I can’t—”
“I know.” He pauses; I hear the tink of a spoon hitting glass. His voice softens. “Let me make some calls. See who owes me favors.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you.” My voice comes out thin.
I hang up. The compliance notice sits where I left it.
My brain tries to turn it into a list because lists I can handle.
Permits. Engineer. Licensed contractor. Bank. Lawyer. Wolves PR. Reza—again.
I don’t even know which one I’m supposed to do first. The money? The paperwork? The people?
The space heater shudders to life in the corner, grinding out warmth that lands on the back of my neck.
I need a miracle. Or Tiffany’s holiday schedule, which is close enough.
I drag the laptop over. If I can’t fix the building, I have to buy time. If I can buy time, I save the building.
Inbox. Refresh.
I scan the bolded subjects, hunting for the holiday event schedule Tiffany was supposed to finalize this week.
The Wolves appearances. Christmas traffic. A packed room in team colors, tabs running deep, tourists buying rounds because a Whistler Wolf smiled at them across the bar. Tiffany’s holiday schedule sitting in my inbox means I walk into the bank with projected revenue instead of a sob story.
Refresh again.
A new email drops to the top of the pile.
Tiffany Ling, Whistler Wolves PR
My chest loosens so fast it stings a little.
“Come on,” I mutter, clicking it open.
Hi Ivy!
Quick update: pending franchise scheduling adjustments, all non-essential player appearances are postponed until further notice. We’ll keep you posted on revised timelines.
Thanks for your patience.
Best regards,
Tiffany Ling, Director of Public Relations
Whistler Wolves Hockey Club, a Westfield Sports & Entertainment organization
I read it once.
Then again.
My eyes catch on the same two words both times.
Non-essential.
A laugh jumps out of me. Of course.
I scroll for a revised calendar. An attachment. A We’re aiming for next week. There’s nothing under the pleasantries but more pleasantries—pending and patience in a polished PR font while my bar sits under a damned guillotine.
Probation ends January first. Ten days.
My stomach goes out from under me like a missed stair.
This was the plan. I signed that contract because I needed bodies in this bar and tabs open until close. I needed the bank to look at me and see a profitable business instead of an aging pub with a dying compressor.
Now I’ve got a compliance order on one side of my desk and a polite corporate shrug on the other.
“Perfect,” I say to nobody, flat.
Then, louder, because apparently I’ve lost my mind: “Merry fucking Christmas.”
The laptop screen dims while I’m still staring at it, the black glass reflecting a tired, hollowed-out version of my own face. I don’t wake it back up. I just sit there in the sudden gloom, the only sound the distant, rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk of Ulf’s knife against a cutting board.
Gabriel’s face cuts through before I can stop it—the bruise along his cheekbone, the way he leaned into my hand like he couldn’t help it.
Six days since that night. Six days, and the holiday appearances we’d been waiting to hear about were “postponed.” He’s a player—he’d know his own schedule.
So either nobody told him, or he already knew and didn’t say a word.
My phone is in my hand before I decide anything.
I open a new message to Gabriel Castellano.
Did you know appearances were being pulled?
It’s a clean question. Business.
Except it would still feel like asking. Like handing him the wheel.
I delete the text, toss my phone facedown on the desk, and swallow the taste in my mouth.
I said strangers. He left like one.
That doesn’t mean he didn’t know.
I’m reaching for the compliance notice again when a blast of cold air cuts through the bar. The front door bangs shut hard enough to rattle the glass.
I’m already standing when Delilah stomps through the door, snow spraying off her boots. Cheeks cherry-red. Lips pressed flat.
She’s clutching a glossy trifold brochure in one hand like it’s contagious.
“Please tell me you know about this,” she says.
She drops it onto my desk. It lands inches away from the municipal compliance order.
“There’s a promo team set up by the gondola,” she says. “Handing these out to every tourist walking off the lifts.”
THE SIN BIN LOUNGE: Elevating Whistler’s Sports Bar Scene.
Heavy paper. Glossy finish. A rendering splashed across the front in steel blue and smoked glass.
I flip it open before I can talk myself out of it and read, “A new premier destination celebrating Whistler’s athletic legacy... Coming Soon”
Three levels. Private booths. A whiskey wall. Craft cocktail program. I scan the fine print. Location: Village Stroll. Two blocks north of here. Prime real estate.
“And get this,” Delilah says, leaning over the desk, her voice dropping. “The girls handing them out were bragging about working the soft launch. An invite-only, VIP sneak-peek on New Year’s Eve. Players, media, the whole thing.”
Players. On New Year’s Eve. The day before our probationary contract expires.
My mouth tastes like copper.
“So not only are they building a competitor,” Delilah says, staring at the glossy rendering. “They’re making it look like we’re the discount option.”
A name at the bottom of the back panel.
Media Director: Braxton Hicks.
My eyes go still.
The guy who turned Gabriel’s little decanter delivery into a front-page community-bridge fairytale.
I set the brochure down flat on the desk. Study it. Glance at the compliance order beside it. Look at Tiffany’s email still glowing on the screen.
“Ivy.” Delilah studies my face, her forehead puckered. “You okay?”
“Yep!” I close the brochure. “Just another shiny new thing. We’ve outlasted worse.”
“Want me to stay? Help with whatever you’re spiraling about?”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“Ivy.”
I glance at Delilah and blink, my eyes focusing on her in a way I seldom allow. She relies on this place for rent. If I tell her what I’m looking at, she’ll panic before I have a plan. And I don’t have a plan yet.
“Go. I’m fine. Just… admin stuff.”
She hesitates, then squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll be at the front opening up. Holler if you need anything.”
“I will.”
The office door closes behind her.
I pick up the brochure. Glass walls. Mood lighting. Three levels of everything designed to make this place look like a relic—the kind of bar you visit once for nostalgia and never think about again.
I fold it in half. Then quarters. Wedge it under the wobbly desk leg.
A million-dollar threat, reduced to cheap IKEA furniture repair.
Pulling the notices toward me, I read them again—slower this time, hunting for loopholes, timelines, appeal windows. Anything.
The bar hums around me. The dying compressor rattles against the wall. Delilah laughs at something out front, the sound traveling through the wood.
Outside, the snow falls, indifferent and soft, doing absolutely nothing to help.
I crack my knuckles. Open a new browser tab.
If they want a fight, I’ll give them one.