Chapter 2
TWO
FLIC
I take a long gulp of syrup-laced latte—because what can’t be fixed with caffeine and sugar?
—and let my gaze sweep across the bar. It looks like a wedding reception and a rodeo went twelve rounds and both lost. Beer rings stain every table, streamers stick to the floor and hang from barstools, and one pink glittery cowboy hat sits abandoned on the dance floor.
I’m eighty percent sure it belongs to Jake.
My feet ache and my eyes sting with tiredness, but I need to get started on cleaning.
Jake and his wife, Harper, will be here at ten to give me a ride to Oakwood Ranch to see my favorite people in the world.
And celebrate the Stormhawks snatching the third wildcard playoff place and their first shot at the Super Bowl in a few years.
I want The Hay Barn back to normal and ready for when I open again in a couple of days.
These are the times I wish I’d kept the cleaning team on the books.
But after my landlord hiked the rent on the building twice last year, I let them go, along with my regular bar staff.
It’s not just me who’s suffering. The laundromat, pawn shop, hair salon, and attorney practice that specializes in helping women who’ve suffered domestic abuse are all struggling with the rising rents.
Even with the reductions in staff, I’m barely scraping by from one month to the next.
I open the cleaning cupboard and grab the broom, because wishing the rent was lower, wishing I had cleaners, wishing I was still in bed after last night’s celebration, isn’t going to get this place clean.
Before I can start, my phone buzzes from the back pocket of my jeans and I’m already smiling as I see my best friend’s name.
IZZY: Who was the hot guy Harper saw behind the bar last night?
FLIC: Didn’t get his name. He jumped in to help out. Crazy night!
IZZY: He’s probably already moved states if you gave him your usual Flic charm.
FLIC: Says the woman with the pitchfork.
IZZY: You’re coming to the ranch today, right? Mad and Mama made cookies yesterday. I saved you some.
FLIC: Yes. Jake’s collecting me at 10. Can’t wait.
I slide my phone back into my pocket, already feeling lighter at the thought of being at Oakwood Ranch. It’s always felt as much a home to me as the bar, but since my best friend married Dylan—the oldest of the three Sullivan brothers—last year, that feeling has only deepened.
My gaze moves like always to the framed photo on the wall by the bar.
A younger me—thirteen or fourteen—perched on a paddock fence with the red barn in the background.
Hemmed in by three huge boys—Dylan, Jake, and Chase—who all feel like brothers to me, given I spent every weekend past the age of seven at Oakwood Ranch while my parents ran this place.
Dylan played tight end for the Stormhawks until an injury saw him becoming a rancher instead, breeding horses for the rodeo.
It’s how he met Izzy. They run Oakwood Ranch between them, along with Izzy’s ten-year-old daughter, Madison.
Jake has played for the team almost as long and stepped into the tight end position after Dylan left, protecting their little brother, Chase, our star quarterback.
Chase used to play for the Kansas City Trailblazers, but joined the Stormhawks at the start of last season.
I pick up the broom again and start sweeping, my mind moving to the stranger who helped behind my bar, and despite a serious lack of experience, survived.
Trust Harper to bring him up… She was right, he was hot in a preppy, other-side-of-the-tracks way, with that expensive shirt, and some serious forearm game.
He made a mess, but he tried, and he earned those fifty bucks.
Maybe a tiny part of me noticed the little shock as our fingers touched and our eyes met. Maybe I wouldn’t mind seeing him again.
A part of me knows that at twenty-nine, I should be out there, searching for love. But dating takes energy I don’t have. Relationships are messy, time-consuming, and full of expectations I’ve never had space for.
In the past, the men I’ve dated said they liked that I was my own person, that I ran my bar alone, that I didn’t ask for anything from anyone.
But inevitably they started to complain they didn’t see me enough or got jealous when the regulars tried a little harmless flirting.
It was the idea of me they liked, not the reality of cleaning beer pumps, trips to the wholesalers, and eighteen-hour days.
With the stress of keeping the bar running over the last few years, it’s been easier to stay single.
The Hay Barn is all I need. All I live and breathe. That and the Stormhawks, I think, smiling. We made the playoffs. Against all the odds, and after a season where we definitely didn’t play our best, we’ve now got a shot at the Super Bowl. A very long, almost-impossible shot, but it’s something.
I put on my favorite Stormhawks fans podcast, Fourth & Forever, and grab my cleaning bucket.
An hour later, the coffee is doing its job, and my bar looks back to normal.
And that’s when my phone buzzes again. I expect another message from Izzy, but it’s Cal’s name on my screen.
He and Rico are the two voices from the podcast, bickering in my ear right now over whether last night’s win was gritty and deserved or a fluke the Stormhawks got away with.
CAL: Next guest slot for recording is Thursday. That OK with you?
FLIC: Perfect. Got a lot to say about being the underdogs of underdogs!
CAL: Any more news on the new owner?
FLIC: If I hear anything, I’ll post it on the Red Zone.
I click from the messages to my fans page and upload a few photos from last night’s celebration before scrolling through the comments.
I set the page up a few years ago, never expecting it to get so big, but now it has one hundred and twenty thousand followers and a core group of fans who rely on me for updates, gossip, and my own opinions on game play.
I’m still scrolling when the doors push open and Jake strides in, impossibly tall and broad. His dark hair is long enough to tuck behind his ears, and he’s currently sporting a handlebar mustache that shouldn’t suit anyone outside of an old detective TV show but somehow looks good on Jake.
“I was going to offer to help clean, but…” He flashes me a wide grin. “Looks like I’m too late.”
“How convenient.” I laugh, grabbing my jacket and keys.
We step out into a frosty morning that promises more snow and I lock The Hay Barn behind me. Buck barks from the front seat the second he sees me, the golden retriever’s tail swishing with excitement as I climb in and run my hands over his soft fur.
“Hey, Buckie,” I coo. “I bet you’re as excited as I am to be heading out to the ranch today, right, boy?”
He barks his agreement, making Jake and I wince as the sound echoes around the cab. As soon as we pull away, Buck settles beside me, head on my lap, his soft snores lost over the rumble of the engine.
It’s around a thirty-minute drive west out of the city to Oakwood Ranch. Plenty of time to catch up with Jake after yesterday’s game.
“Is Harper not coming with us?” I ask, as we make our way through quiet streets on the outskirts of the city.
Jake shakes his head. “She was planning to skip lunch and write a few chapters today, but the magazine called this morning and asked her to come in. There’s a big story breaking apparently.”
Harper is a journalist for Sports Magazine.
She and Jake fell in love when she was sent to write a profile on him and the playboy headlines that used to follow him wherever he went.
Harper was a few years below me and Jake in high school, but I’ve known her since forever and count her as family now.
And even though she still writes profile pieces for Sports Magazine, she’s also a published author with her own romantasy series about vampires in ancient Egypt.
“Big news? Is it about the Stormhawks?” I ask.
Jake chuckles. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“You know you, Chase, and Mama are my biggest sources of news.”
It’s true, and in no small part why my fans page has grown so big.
It isn’t just that Dylan, Jake, and Chase—three of the biggest NFL stars—have shared and commented on it over the years, it’s that they tell me the kind of team gossip the fans love.
Like Jake admitting they’d banned Chase from picking the pre-game playlist after he put the same country breakup song on repeat for three weeks straight.
Then there’s Mama. She single-handedly raised Dylan, Jake, and Chase after their dad, Harry, died in a horse accident when they were kids. She became their agent the minute the college scouts came knocking, making sure they got the best sponsorship deals and contracts.
“We’re not your only sources, though,” Jake replies. “I seem to remember you being the first to know the new owner was a New Yorker.”
I draw an imaginary zip over my lips and smile, remembering the conversation I overheard between two drunk lawyers in The Hay Barn last month, talking about the mysterious new owner whose name has been kept top secret.
I still can’t believe the Huberts agreed to sell after keeping the team family-owned all this time.
After Larry Hubert started the Stormhawks in the fifties, his son Donald Hubert took over.
Don’s daughter, Margaret, and his grandson, Donald Junior, had been running things alongside Don Senior before the sale.
Three generations of a Denver family, who know this city and the team as well as they know themselves.
I knew they were making some regular budget cuts, but tightening their belts is a long way from selling a majority share.
Especially to a stranger. A businessman.
A New Yorker. It’s not just his name we don’t know.
It’s his intentions. The Stormhawks are the beating heart of Denver, and it feels like the whole city has been holding its breath since the first rumors of a sale started.
The fear of what will happen to the team has bled into everything, including our game play.
If we’ve got a chance in hell of making it past the first round of the playoffs, what we need right now isn’t disruption or secrecy. It’s stability.