Chapter One #2
He’s standing near the glass, his posture straight, with a clipboard under his arm. His hard voice cuts through the space. It’s calm but commanding. The kind that doesn’t need to shout to be heard.
“Again,” he bellows. “You hesitate like that during a game, and you’ll wind up pinned against the boards.”
A player mutters something under his breath. My father’s head snaps toward him instantly.
“You want to argue,” he asks, not raising his voice, “or you want to get better?”
The kid shakes his head and pushes off harder this time.
I sink lower in my seat, heart thudding, and let my gaze drift across the ice until it lands on the goalie.
He stands in front of the net, looking massive in all that gear. He tugs off his mask and reaches for the water bottle hooked along the back. He squirts some into his mouth twice before tipping his head back and spraying the rest over his face.
He shakes it off, and that’s when he sees me. His dark brows furrow. I’m not sure whether he’s trying to place me or if he’s confused by what I’m doing here.
Our eyes lock for a moment before a whistle cuts through like a blade.
“Rowden.”
The goalie’s attention jerks behind him to the ice. He grabs for his mask and pulls it back on, but not before a knowing smirk crosses his mouth, like he caught me staring and isn’t about to let me pretend otherwise.
“Eyes up and on the puck. If you want to admire the stands, do it after practice.”
I exhale slowly, trying to steady myself.
Practice continues. I notice the goalie, who I guess goes by Rowden, looks up at me a couple more times. I try to ignore the way my breath hitches every time.
I’m not here to check out the players.
My father keeps moving through the drills. He’s intimidating and relentless. A hard-ass, if I’m being honest. He doesn’t coddle them, doesn’t try to soften his edges when he’s telling them what to fix.
But the longer I listen, the more I hear what’s underneath it. Each correction is met with an instruction. Each order is followed by a reason.
From the way he watches each player, it’s clear he’s clued into their weaknesses, and he refuses to let them hide behind them.
It’s strange to witness, seeing him give them this kind of attention. This kind of investment.
While I grew up, it was just my mom and me.
She worked hard for everything we had, doing the job of two people without ever complaining. I learned how to stand on my own two feet early on, how not to ask for much, and how to be okay with empty space where something or someone should’ve been.
Watching him now, I feel that old ache stir.
I wrap my arms around myself, the cold seeping in through my jacket, and wish maybe, just maybe, things could’ve been different.
I stay until practice winds down, and he calls the players over to huddle around him. I slip out before anyone gives me another glance.
Outside, the sun is starting to come out again. I sigh as it hits my face, shrugging out of my jacket before getting in the car. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long before the air conditioner catches up as I make my way over to Broken Saddle, the bar listed in the apartment posting.
The name hangs in wrought iron on the outside of the brick building. The place looks like it’s been standing longer than most of the people who drink inside it.
The parking lot is mostly empty, except for a few cars near the corner of the lot. The door is heavy when I try to swing it open.
Inside, the bar is dim but warm. Old wood lines the walls and bar top, worn smooth with age. It feels familiar without feeling run down.
A man behind the bar glances up when he sees me step inside, wiping his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Hi. Um, I’m looking for Dave.”
“That’s me.” He gives me a quick once-over. “You here to interview for the bartender position?”
I blink. “Oh, no. Well… I mean maybe?” I catch myself, then shake my head. “Actually, I’m here about the loft. I saw the posting on Marketplace that it was available.”
Something in him deflates, like I just hit a sore spot.
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Loft’s open. Bartender spot too, if you’re serious about a job. We’re short-staffed, and I’m pretty sure the girl who was supposed to start this week ghosted us.”
I press my lips together and nod. I kind of feel like a ghost myself right now.
“Come on,” he says, already grabbing a set of keys. “I’ll show you the place.”
We head down a hallway through a side door leading outside. We take a narrow staircase along the back of the building toward what I assume is the loft upstairs. The noise of the bar and the cars driving past fades with every step.
He shoves the key in the lock and pushes the door open, holding his arm out for me to enter as he follows me inside.
I stop short. It’s nice. Nothing fancy, but it’s clean and cozy.
There’s a small open space with a couch, a coffee table, and a dresser. A little kitchenette is tucked against the wall, separating the room with a breakfast bar.
“It’s furnished,” Dave says, watching my reaction. “If you don’t want any of it, I can have it hauled out.”
I shake my head immediately. “No, honestly, this is perfect.”
Relief flashes across his face. “All you’d really need is a bed. I have a couple of stools for the bar too, if you want them.”
“I can manage the bed, but the stools would be great,” I say, already picturing myself fitting into the space.
We talk through the logistics—rent, utilities, and the lease. It’ll be tight for a bit, but doable.
“I’m new to town. If, uh, that job offer’s still on the table, I wouldn’t mind picking up some shifts. I could use the money, and it sounds like you need the help.”
He raises a brow, then smiles. “Yeah. It still stands.”
I nod, heart thudding. “Great.”
He offers to waive the security deposit and let me move in a few days early without charging me any extra if I can start right away. The relief hits hard, especially knowing I still need to figure out a bed.
I hand him cash to cover the rent, and he writes out a receipt before placing the keys in my palm.
When I step back outside, I don’t head straight for my car. I pause on the small deck instead, letting the moment settle, while staring down the alley that leads to the lot where I parked.
I found a place to live. I might’ve found a job.
I didn’t run.
As small as it might sound, I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished so far.
One step at a time.
And for now, that’s enough.