22. Finn O’Connell #2
“No, you don’t,” she says, leaning closer over the boards, her voice dropping into that familiar, easy rhythm we’ve had all week. “And honestly, you looked good out there. Even with the live sports commentary, your shoulder didn’t catch once.”
I look down at my right arm, rotating the joint slowly. She’s right. Despite the sheer absurdity of the last hour, the mechanics were perfect. The shoulder is a non-issue now.
For the first time in six months, I actually feel like myself again.
“Yeah,” I say, looking back up at her. “It feels good.”
“Excellent,” she says. “Now go shower. You smell like a wet locker room and the Boston Glacier needs to maintain his pristine image.”
***
The hotel is one of those classic, slightly older brick buildings downtown with a restaurant and a lounge attached to the lobby.
We walk through the main doors, our sneakers clicking against the tile, both of us exhausted from the drive and the intense skate. As we pass the entrance to the lounge, a strange, low-frequency screech echoes out into the lobby, followed by the muffled sound of an old synthetic drum track.
I stop, looking through the glass doors of the bar. It’s a classic local spot—low lighting, dark wood, a few older guys sitting at the counter with drafts of Coors, and in the far corner, a neon sign that says KARAOKE NIGHT flashing in bright pink letters.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across my face.
“Absolutely not,” Scottie says immediately, not even looking up from her phone.
“I didn’t even say anything,” I say, dropping our bags next to the concierge desk.
“You stopped walking, your breathing changed, and you have that specific energy that means you’re about to cause a problem.” She looks up, pointing a finger at my chest. “We are going upstairs. We have an early call tomorrow.”
“Scottie, the Boston Glacier doesn’t care about early calls,” I say, grabbing her by the sleeve and tugging her toward the bar doors. “Come on. Just one drink. To celebrate the death of my shoulder injury.”
“Cash, stop,” she says, but she isn’t actually fighting the pull. “This is a professional trip. I am a licensed representative.”
“And as my licensed representative you have to entertain me,” I answer her, guiding her toward a small high-top table near the back corner, right near the ancient karaoke stage.
The bartender, an older guy with a gray apron, looks up as we sit down. “What can I get you two?”
“Two drafts,” I say. “And whatever songbook you have for that machine.”
“Oh, no,” Scottie says. “I am not singing. I don’t sing, Cash.”
“Everyone sings in Atlanta,” I tell her, taking the laminated, grease-stained songbook the bartender hands over. I flip through the pages, my eyes scanning the titles.
“I’m serious.” She takes a sip of the beer the bartender sets down. “I have zero musical ability. When I was in middle school, the choir teacher told me to just mouth the words during the holiday concert so I wouldn’t ruin the harmony.”
“That’s harsh,” I laugh. “But I don’t believe you. You’re a Boston girl. You guys grow up singing Dropkick Murphys in Irish pubs.”
“That’s yelling, not singing,” she points out.
I look down at the book, my gaze landing on a classic. “Alright, if you won’t go solo, we’re doing a duet. It’s non-negotiable.”
She looks at the page. “You’re a psychopath.”
“It’s a classic, Sharky.”
Ten minutes later, the bartender calls out over the small house speakers. “Alright, we got Cash and Scottie coming up next. Let’s see what they got.”
The three old guys at the bar don’t even turn around, unbothered by our existence, which makes the whole thing even better. I stand up, grabbing Scottie by the hand and pulling her up from her stool.
I hand her the microphone with the blue tape around the handle. She takes it, a sudden flash of genuine nerves crossing her face before she covers it with a wide, reckless grin.
“Just follow my lead,” I say.
The intro music starts—the unmistakable, synth-heavy bounce of Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.
I take the first verse. I don’t look at the screen; I know the words, and honestly, I spent three years in college singing in the locker room showers to annoy the defensemen.
“Listen, baby… ain’t no mountain high, ain’t no valley low…”
Scottie’s jaw drops. She stares at me, her microphone lowering slightly from her mouth as her eyes go wide. Then, the monitor flashes yellow for her line.
“If you need me, call me…”
The sound that comes out of Scottie’s mouth is spectacular. It is loud, flat, and entirely missing the key by about three full octaves.
One of the old guys at the bar actually stops his glass halfway to his mouth, turning around to stare at us with a look of profound confusion.
I burst out laughing, almost missing my next cue.
I slide closer to her on the tiny stage, our shoulders touching, the smell of her perfume still hanging on her jacket.
“No wind, no rain…” I serenade her, leaning down until my face is just inches from hers, my eyes locked onto her green ones.
Scottie doesn’t back away. She steps right into my space, her red hair bouncing as she takes the next line, intentionally screeching the high note until the microphone feedbacks slightly.
She is so proud of how awful it is, her face bright.
By the time the chorus hits, we’re both singing terribly on purpose, destroying the song while laughing so hard we can barely gasp for air.
“Ain’t no mountain high enough!!” we scream together into the microphones, our voices out of sync, a chaotic mess of laughter and bad pitch.
The song fades out with a cheesy synthetic drum roll, and the three guys at the bar give us a slow, pitying round of applause. The bartender just shakes his head, wiping a glass with his towel.
“Thank you, Atlanta!” Scottie yells into the mic, dropping a dramatic, theatrical curtsy before dropping the microphone onto the stool.
We scramble off the stage, practically tripping over each other as we head back to our table, both of us breathless and red-faced. Scottie slaps her hand down on the wood, taking a giant gulp of her beer to clear her throat.
“I told you,” she pants. “I told you I was a hazard to music.”
“That was amazing,” I say. “The high note on the chorus was particularly moving. I think the guy at the bar is going to write a review.”
“He was terrified, Cash. I saw his soul leave his body.” She sets her glass down. “Where did you learn to sing like that, anyway? You set me up.”
“Locker room dynamics,” I say. “You have to have a go-to track when you’re managing the team speaker. Otherwise, the rookies take over and it’s all techno. It’s a survival tactic. Unlike your scouting tactics. I mean, Vance? Really? I’m still recovering from that blow to my ego.”
Scottie rolls her eyes, but she leans her chin on her hand, a lazy smile playing on her lips. “Okay, well, he was hot until he opened his mouth. The moment the live sports commentary started, the fantasy died, I promise. And anyway, you’re just jealous.”
“Yeah, I am.”
There’s a short, quiet beat between us.
Scottie blinks, her cheeks taking on a different kind of flush this time, her eyes dropping to my mouth for a split second before coming back up.
“We should probably get those bags upstairs,” she says, her voice barely carrying over the low hum of the bar.
“Yeah,” I say, not moving an inch. “Probably.”
***
11:02 PM
Me: guess what I’m thinking about
Sharky: Hockey.
Me: wrong
Sharky: Yourself?
Me: usually yes, but no
Sharky: I give up.
Me: i’m thinking about you, like always