Twenty-Four
It’s the week of New Year’s. Typically, we’d be jampacked—tourists three deep at the bar, locals shouting over rock songs. This year, I’d been hoping for the mechanical wolf to bring in fresh faces, too.
The wolf is still dead in the corner. So is the line.
Instead, the bar hums low. Half?empty tables. Two snowboard bros hunched over nachos. A couple visiting from Point Roberts arguing softly about lift tickets.
Silence in a bar isn’t peaceful. It’s expensive.
The till drawer thunks shut too lightly every time I cash someone out. Every gap on the floor feels like a gap in my bank account.
Delilah moves slower than usual, gathering glasses with no real urgency.
She sets a tray down and leans her hip against the back bar.
“You talk to the lawyer yet?” she asks, eyes on the bottles instead of me.
Sighing, I reach for a pint glass, hold it under the tap even though nobody’s waiting. Something to do with my hands. I hoped she wouldn’t ask.
“Yep. Saw her yesterday.”
“And?” Her voice is careful. Like maybe if she says it softly, it won’t be real. If only.
“Appeal’s a no. Extension too.” Foam hits the side of the glass, curves over the rim. I let it run a second too long before I cut it off. “‘Public safety concerns.’ ‘Standard operating procedure.’ You know the drill.”
Delilah’s mouth twists. “Of course. Can’t have the tourists electrocuted while they’re overpaying for beer.”
I set the pint on the mat, aligning it perfectly with the edge.
“She asked if I had anyone lined up to do the work,” I say. “Gave me a list of ‘trusted contractors.’”
Delilah rolls her eyes. “Let me guess. All ‘unavailable until mid?January.’”
“Try closer to March.” I drop the glass into the rack a little harder than I need to. “Every name she rattled off is already ‘committed to a priority project for community development.’”
She stills. “Westfield?”
“Westfield,” I confirm, gripping the edge of the bar. The wood digs into my palm. “He’s hoovered up every sparkie and plumber from here to Vancouver to fast?track his shiny new lounge and I get the leftovers. Which is nothing.”
Her gaze sharpens on my face.
“So January fifth…”
“Is the morning they come by, see nothing’s changed, and shut me down.” My voice comes out steady. “Letter’s just the courtesy copy.”
She snorts, a sound that’s half laugh, half disgust. “You’re being squeezed out, Ives.”
I stare at the Wolves logo on the tap handle until the burgundy blurs. Something hard settles in my chest.
Delilah watches me for another heartbeat, like she’s waiting to see if I’ll crack or breathe fire.
The bar phone rings. Saved by the bell.
I grab it on the second buzz. “Penalty Box.”
A woman’s voice chirps down the line, too bright.
“Hi! I’m so sorry to bug you—this is Brianna Schmidt? Checking to see if we have a reservation for New Year’s Eve?”
The reservation book sits open by the till. I flip to the right page. Schmidt – 10 smiles up at me in my own careful block letters.
“Eight o’clock, table for ten,” I say. “You’re in the book.”
“Right. Yeah.” Nervous laugh. “About that…”
My stomach drops. Of course.
“We’re going to have to cancel,” she rushes on. “Last?minute change of plans. Our friends got a place in the Village and we thought we’d, you know…be down there instead.”
“Big night out,” I say, forcing a smile.
“Exactly! And with that new hockey lounge thing doing a—what do you call it—soft open? Pre?something?”
“Pre?launch,” I supply.
“Yeah. That. We figured, how often do you get to be where the real action is, right? Even if we’re just outside.” Another laugh. “Maybe we’ll see players walking in.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Got it. Well, thanks for letting me know.”
“You’re not mad, are you?”
“Not even a little,” I say. “Bundle up out there.”
Enjoy the sidewalk.
She makes a flustered sound. “We’ll come by in January! Promise.”
“Happy New Year, Brianna.”
I hang up before I say something I can’t take back. Picking up a pen, I cross her name out of the book. The ink digs into the paper, tears it a little.
Delilah comes over. Peeking over my shoulder, she winces. “That’s the third group this week.”
“Fourth,” I correct. “Plus one corporate tab.”
She huffs, blows her fringe out of her eyes. “All wanting to be ‘in the Village,’ eh?”
“Near the glitz,” I say. “Even if it’s on the sidewalk.”
Her mouth twists. Biting her lip, she looks away, suddenly intensely interested in aligning a stack of coasters. “So… Brock asked me to go.”
I pause, the pen still clenched in my grip. “Go where?”
“The Sin Bin launch. As his plus-one.” She crosses her arms, looking aggressively defensive. “I told him no, obviously. It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m not leaving you in the weeds.”
I stare at her. Delilah is willing to stand in an empty bar all night just to hold the line with me.
Before I can tell her she’s an idiot and should accept the invitation, her phone buzzes on the back counter. She glances at the screen, her expression shifting instantly.
“Oh, speak of the devil. Literally.” She snatches it up, thumbs flying. “Sin Bin Sentinel drop.”
“Of course.”
“Want the honors?”
“No. Go ahead. Rip the Band?Aid off.”
She comes to stand beside me, shoulder almost touching mine, and opens the link.
The header photo loads: Sin Bin interior, almost ready for showtime. Dark wood bar gleaming under designer lights. Glass wall with a drum kit silhouetted behind it. Wolves’ banners hung at precise, curated angles that probably took a marketing team two days to debate.
Westfield’s lawyers classified the place as a ‘Premium Hospitality Lounge’ instead of a sports bar. My exclusivity clause never stood a chance.
Delilah reads aloud, curling her voice into Braxton’s smug cadence.
“‘With rumors of league royalty flying in for its invite-only New Year’s pre-launch, The Sin Bin Lounge is poised to become the beating heart of Whistler’s hockey culture—a modern upgrade in a town where some legacy establishments struggle with, shall we say, modern standards. ’”
She looks at me, eyes darkening.
“He actually wrote ‘shall we say’ in there, didn’t he?” My lip curls.
She scrolls. “You better believe it,” she mutters. “I hate him.”
“Legacy establishments,” I repeat. The phrase lands like a shovel of dirt on a casket. “Struggling with modern standards.”
He doesn’t have to type my bar’s name. I’m not even a rival worth mentioning, but more of a cautionary footnote.
She tilts the screen so that I can see the rest. Westfield cutting a cake shaped like a puck. Players lined up for a photo, all suits and blinding smiles.
Then, a close-up of Gabriel. Dark suit, burgundy tie, that easy media smile back in place. Sin Bin logo haloed over his shoulder.
Caption: CASTELLANO LEADING THE CHARGE INTO A NEW ERA.
He looks good. Of course he does. Perfect hair, sharp jaw, custom cut.
If you don’t know what his face looks like when his mask is off, you’d never see the tightness at the corners of his mouth. The tension in his shoulders.
Delilah scoffs. “‘Leading the charge.’ Who writes this shit.”
“Braxton fuckin’ Hicks,” I say. “With Westfield’s hand up his back.”
She snickers once, humorlessly.
Out on the floor, one of the lifties waves his empty glass.
“Refill when you get a sec, Ivy!”
“On it,” I call, sliding the phone back to Delilah.
The rush—if you can even call it that—is over before it starts.
By nine, the room has thinned to almost nothing. Music hums under the muted TV. Wolves highlights from Sunday’s loss alternate with another shot of that gleaming Sin Bin bar. Same quote. Same logo. Same man in a suit who is currently chewing himself to pieces so I can light a match.
Delilah leans on the bar, watching a couple play drunk Jenga with the condiment caddies.
“You still trust him?” she asks.
The question jerks me out of my haze. “Who.”
“Come on.” She arches a brow. “You know who. Not Westfield, not Braxton.”
I grab a cloth, start working a fingerprint off the glass like it insulted me. “Trust is a big word.”
“Yeah, that’s why I used it.”
“I trust Martin Westfield to be arrogant,” I say. “He’ll walk into that pre?launch like he invented hockey and the concept of craft cocktails in one genius stroke.”
She huffs. “Accurate.”
“I trust Braxton to be sloppy. He’ll show off. Overreach. I’m counting on that.”
“And Gabriel?”
The cloth squeaks on glass.
“I trust Gabriel Castellano to hate himself enough to see this through.”
The words land heavy.
Delilah studies me for a beat, then nods once.
“Good,” she says softly. “Just… don’t let his misery buy him a discount on what he owes you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The rest of the closing duties are done on autopilot—stock, wipe, stack chairs.
Under it all, I’m running the compliance order in the back of my head. Seventy-five grand and change for two parts. January fifth at nine a.m. No appeal. No extension. No realistic way out.
Dead woman walking.
My personal phone buzzes against the back counter.
Delilah’s eyes flick over. “If that’s Reza texting with good news, I’m flipping a table.”
I wipe my hands on a towel and pick it up.
Gabriel: You see the Sentinel piece?
I snort. Of course, that’s what he opens with.
Ivy: Figured you’d enjoy the photo spread.
Gabriel: Feels like chewing glass.
My mouth curves.
Ivy: Keep chewing.
Three dots appear. Disappear. I almost lock the screen, shove the phone away, when another bubble pops up.
Gabriel: I have a key to the building.
I go very still.
Gabriel: You ready?
My pulse slams once, hard. The bar around me blurs at the edges. In my periphery, the mechanical wolf sits dead cold, taking up the space of a six-person table. I glance down at the reservation book with its ugly, gouged?out lines.
Death over here. A lit match over there.
My thumbs move.
Ivy: Ready as I’ll ever be.
Three dots. Then:
Gabriel: Dress code is formal. I’ll pick you up at 8. Send your address.
I type out my home address and hit send.
Locking the screen, I set the phone back on the shelf, face up this time. I look across the empty bar at Delilah. She’s watching me, waiting for the verdict.
“Text Brock,” I say. “Tell him you’re his plus-one.”
Her eyes glitter with a dark, dangerous excitement. “We’re doing it?”
“We’re doing it. Is that file of yours going to be ready?”
“By Thursday night? Absolutely.”
“Good. Send it to me. I’ll figure out how to get it in front of the room.”
A fierce, protective smirk spreads across her face. “Please. I will send it to you, but leave the delivery to me.”