"THIS ONE'S FOR THE THUNDER BOYS!" he screamed, and the opening chords of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" started pumping through the speakers.
"Oh no," Evan said from across the booth.
"Oh yes," Jake corrected, already standing.
Pickle attacked the song. Arms spread wide, eyes closed, belting out every overwrought note like his life depended on it. He had the microphone in both hands, swaying, and when he hit the chorus—
"Turn around, bright eyes"—Jake and Evan joined him, arms slung around each other's shoulders, all three screaming the words.
Laughter filled the bar. Juno filmed it all, naturally. "This," she said into her phone, "is the sound of resilience. And chaos. Definitely chaos."
Rhett was laughing so hard he had to set down his beer. "Your team is unhinged."
"They're perfect."
"Same thing." He leaned into my side, warm and solid. "Look at them. Look at this."
I did. Pickle hit a note that didn't exist before he landed it. Jake forgot the words and shouted random vowel sounds.
"We lost," I said quietly, more to myself than Rhett.
"And look what you still have. This doesn't go away because you didn't win tonight. You built this. All of you."
The song ended with Pickle on his knees, mic held high, while the bar erupted in applause. He stood, took a dramatic bow, and nearly fell off the tiny stage.
"I LOVE YOU ALL!" he yelled.
A couple of hours later, The Drop emptied slowly, reluctantly, like nobody wanted the night to end.
Pickle was the first casualty—slumped against Jake's shoulder near the door, mumbling about destiny and sock tricks. Evan had already called an Uber, ever the responsible one, and was physically holding Pickle upright.
"Come on, kid." Jake hauled him toward the exit. "Let's get you home before you start singing again."
"But I havefeelings—"
"We all have feelings. Yours are just louder."
Evan caught my eye as they maneuvered Pickle through the door. "Good game, Hog."
"You too, Spreadsheet."
The Uber pulled up—a battered Honda with a driver who'd probably seen worse than three hockey players on a Tuesday night. Jake folded Pickle into the backseat while Evan climbed in the other side.
"SEE YOU TOMORROW!" Pickle's voice carried through the open window as they pulled away.
The taillights disappeared around the corner. The street went quiet except for the hum of The Drop's neon sign and the distant scrape of the snowplow working its way down Red River Road.
Rhett waited by the door, coat collar turned up against the cold. Snow had started falling again—big flakes that sparkled in the streetlights.
"You ready?" he asked.
I nodded, suddenly exhausted. He held the door while I shouldered through into the cold. My breath fogged white in front of me.
The Drop's neon cast pink and blue light across the fresh snow. Behind us, I heard the bartender locking up, keys jangling, and then the click of the deadbolt sliding home.
I turned to Rhett. "Storm season never ends, does it?"
He stepped closer. "Not when you find your home in it."
