Twenty-Three
Christmas lights blink over the bar. Half the village is at home spending time with family; the other half hides from them here. The Penalty Box hums at a low, steady buzz. Locals in flannel, hotel staff in name tags, and lifties in the corner arguing about avalanche control.
Then the period break hits. Commercial time.
Marco sits two stools down, his Christmas tie askew, one reindeer antler headband stained with mulled wine. “Rough night for the golden boy.” He winces. “Could I bug ya for another?”
With a nod, I swipe Marco’s empty mug and add it to the dirty dish rack. I reach for the carafe of mulled wine on the warmer.
Beside me, Delilah slaps a coaster onto the mat. “I need an IPA for table four.”
I grab a pint glass, flipping it under the tap.
The screen cuts to black, flashing gold embellishments.
Promotional footage plays: gutted interior two blocks north, exposed brick, steel beams, hard hats.
The footage flickers. Lustrous renderings overlay the construction: a glossy and LED-illuminated bar, gleaming black leather booths, Wolves jerseys mounted like kills.
In a gold Chyron, the words Coming Soon to Whistler’s Nightlife: THE SIN BIN LOUNGE blink on the screen. It lingers, the gold title glittering.
I tug the tap. Foam hisses. The beer’s citrusy notes burn my nostrils. The handle digs into my palm. I welcome the pain.
The feed cuts back to the between-periods interview.
Gabriel stands in the tunnel, helmet off, hair damp, Sin Bin Lounge logo on the backdrop behind him.
The reporter’s voice crackles through the bar speakers.
“Gabriel, big news this week—The Sin Bin Lounge. What can you tell us about Whistler’s newest hockey destination?”
He smiles. That practiced, not-too-cocky curve.
“It’s exciting,” he says. “The Sin Bin is the future of Whistler hockey. A place that reflects what this team stands for—excellence, community, championship culture.”
I remember that line from the press release he showed me. Word for word.
Behind me, someone boos.
Mike from the bike shop snorts. “So much for our big blockbuster trade.”
The guy sitting next to him scoffs. “Trade was a bust. We’ve lost six of our last eight. Choke artist on the ice, sellout off it.”
“This ain’t Vancouver,” someone else mutters into their beer. “We don’t get a Ragnar Colton.”
I lift the finished IPA, sliding it onto the pickup mat. Delilah scoops it up without looking.
The TV throws another slow pan: lights pulsing, Wolves jerseys glinting. Westfield in a hard hat, arm slung over Gabriel’s shoulder, both laughing.
Paired. Packaged.
My stomach does a slow roll.
He went back. He signed it. He stood in front of cameras and fed them exactly what Westfield wanted.
The mission is working.
The thought sinks and settles cold in my gut.
At the end of the bar, Old Pete shakes his head, beard twitching. “Knew it the minute he stepped in here, that first night,” he mutters. “The snob always did act like he was too good for this place.”
“Ivy, you must feel like an idiot, eh,” another regular calls down the bar. “Backing the Wolves while they build your competition.”
My rag slows on the sticky patch of bar. Technically, my probationary contract has an exclusivity clause that should prevent this. Westfield is banking on the fact that I don’t have the legal funds to fight him on it. He’s right.
I keep my voice light. “Joke’s on them. They still can’t do my fries.”
That gets a couple of chuckles.
Marco clucks his tongue and takes a sip of his mulled wine. “Snakes, man.” He pulls a face at the TV. “Martin Westfield. Gabriel Castellano. Whole lotta snakes.”
My eyes don’t leave the screen. “Snakes bite their own tails eventually.”
He barks a short laugh. “Hope I’m front row for that.”
My grip tightens around the bar towel until my knuckles ache. A sick, heavy knot of guilt twists in my own gut.
Marco doesn’t know about the night Gabriel stumbled in here soaked in snow and regret. Doesn’t know about the way his voice broke at my bar when he finally said the word sorry. Doesn’t know I’m the reason he’s standing up there at all.
I shrug, wipe a ring of beer off the wood. “Show’s not over yet.”
The puff piece loops. Same footage of Gabriel, same quote, same polished half?smile while the Sin Bin logo glows at his shoulder.
I keep moving. Pour, wipe, slide, ring through. Muscle memory is the only thing keeping me anchored.
Above me, they play the quote again.
To the rest of the bar, Gabriel is just a sellout with a painted-on smile.
To me, he looks like a man bleeding out. And I’m the one who handed him the knife.
The shift trundles on.
By last call, the puff piece has run so many times I can close my eyes and see every frame. My ears ring with laughter, complaints, speculation about Sin Bin drink prices and dress codes.
Tabs are smaller than usual for this time of year, yet the tip line’s bloated with twenties folded under receipts like sympathy cards.
It helps. But it isn’t enough.
The bar empties slower than usual. Nobody’s in a rush to go home to dry turkey and relatives.
When the last table leaves, Delilah flips the door sign and throws the deadbolt. Her Santa earrings jangle when she jumps up, trying to straighten a crooked string of lights. She misses, curses under her breath, and gives up, digging her phone out of her apron instead.
“Brock’s been blowing me up,” she tosses over her shoulder.
I rinse pint glasses in hot water, sleeves shoved to my elbows. Steam hits my face, making my eyes sting. Shutting off the tap, I grab a bar towel and dry my hands.
“About what?”
She comes around behind the bar, non?slip soles squeaking on the damp floor, thumb flying over the screen. “You want to see this?”
“Probably not.” My shoulders tense. “But show me anyway.”
She plants her phone on the bar between us so I don’t have to touch it, tilts the screen my way.
Brock: You saw the Sin Bin thing, right?
Of course I did. It’s been tainting our TVs all night.
Brock: What you didn’t see: Holt dragging Cas into the scrum room after the game. Yelling through the door.
Brock: Then Holt walked out looking absolutely gutted. Told him: “You decide what kind of man you’re going to be. Soon.”
A candid photo comes through a second later. Gabriel sitting alone on the trainer’s bench in the empty room, gear half-off. He’s staring at the floor, jaw clenched, the fluorescent lights making his split lip and bruise look garish.
Delilah leans her hip on the bar, hair frizzing out of its bun.
“Ouch,” I say as I slide the phone back toward her.
Brock delivered a time and an address and never asked why. As far as he knows, he’s watching Gabriel come apart in real time.
So is everyone.
“He’s not wrong.” She scrolls, lips quirking as she reads. “Apparently O’Neill’s pissed too. In the locker room, he said, ‘We’re not your therapists.’ Which, coming from him, is like your dad swearing in church.”
My rag circles an imaginary spill. “So the golden boy caved and everyone’s disappointed.”
Delilah studies me. “You’re not going to bash him?”
I flick my wrist, sending a stray lemon seed into the compost bin. “He doesn’t need me to.”
Gabriel is letting the only allies he has left turn on him. He’s taking the heat from Holt and O’Neill, letting them think the absolute worst of him, just to keep my seat reserved.
His whole room thinks he sold them out. That tab’s running under my name—every day he takes the hit, the number climbs, and I’m the one who set the price.
Delilah arches a brow. “You also aren’t dancing on his grave.”
I pull another glass from the rack and start drying.
“He sold out my bar on live TV. I reserve the right to multitask my feelings.”
Her lips twitch. “That’s fair.” She hesitates, her thumb tapping against the back of her phone case. “By the way… I’ve been building the file.”
I pause, the bar towel still in my hand. “Show me.”
She flips the phone around. The two profiles, side by side—HockeyGOD93. HockeyG0D93.—cropped clean, zoomed until the zero sits dead center of the frame. White on dark. Formatted for a screen a lot bigger than a phone.
“I’m sequencing everything from Christmas Eve so the story’s obvious in ninety seconds flat,” she says. Her eyes darken, shedding their usual chaotic playfulness. “When it’s done… we’re going to burn them down.”
I stare at her. The fierce, unyielding loyalty in her face makes my throat tight. I’ve been carrying the weight of the compliance order and Gabriel’s sacrifice alone, terrified of the collateral damage. But looking at Delilah, I realize I don’t have to.
“Good,” I say quietly, tossing the rag onto the counter. “Because Gabriel came here Christmas Eve. And we have the start of a plan.”
Delilah’s head comes up slow. “Define start.”
“He plays the good soldier and gets me into that launch. Close to Westfield’s blind side, past the guest list, into a room I’d never crack on my own.
” I pick up the next glass, dry it in slow circles.
“Past that—I’ve got one night, a room full of cameras, and a story I’ve been sitting on for seven years. What I don’t have yet is the match.”
“And that’s where my file comes in.” It isn’t a question.
“That’s where your file comes in. Keep digging. Whatever we do, it has to land before Westfield can spin it. We get one shot.”
She looks at me for a long moment. Then the grin arrives, slow and a little feral. “Best Christmas ever.”
We finish closing side by side—till counted, inventory double?checked, appliances shiny—trading logistics in low, hushed voices, the weight on my chest easing a fraction now that I’m not carrying it alone.
The drive home is ten minutes of dark trees and slush. My brain buzzes with a dangerous new energy, but the reality of tomorrow still waits for me—nine a.m., a lawyer’s office, and a question I’ve been careful not to ask out loud.
I shower on autopilot and crawl into cold sheets. My phone sits on the nightstand. I watch the black screen for a long time.
No new messages.
I turn it face down against the wood.
Sleep doesn’t come. It’s not coming back until this is finished. Gabriel bleeding for my plan doesn’t change that. It just means I’m not the only one losing sleep.