Jamie wrinkles his nose. “Fine.”
I smile at Roe, grateful for making that all somehow work out for everyone.
Chapter seventeen
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Marge Calloway: UPDATE. The old bar is officially under renovation. Roe Monroe just pulled the permits himself.
Patti Jensen: So he did buy it? That rules out (1) Thatcher’s secret side project, (2) the supposed investor from Chicago, and (3) the ghost of the guy who ran it in the ’80s.
Ash Patel: But what about the rumor it was for the team? Or a youth hockey nonprofit? Or a speakeasy??
Marge: I don’t know. I heard all of those rumors again just in the past week!
Stan Gordon: I still think Thatcher owns it and Monroe is just the muscle.
The bar looks worse in the daylight.
Not that I’ve had much time to really look at it. Between the road games, The Freeze, and whatever is happening with Thatcher, it’s mostly been something I wave at in passing. But tonight, the team’s coming over, and prepping for a house full of hockey players is basically a full-contact sport. I told everyone to bring something, but Thatcher had meat on the smoker since before our morning workout.
All he asked me to do was a liquor run. I’m swinging by the bakery too.
Which brings me here, with a little pocket of time for checking out the only thing I’ve ever actually bought with my hockey money. No car, no condo, didn’t even pay for rehab out of pocket. I always took whatever housing the team arranged—close to the rink, close to the clubs. More money to blow, more people around to make sure I didn’t feel alone.
So yeah, this feels different.
I knew what I was getting into. It took actual detective work to figure out who even owned this place under the layers of small-town gossip and forgotten paperwork. But now I’m here, standing in the midday light while it cuts through the rafters and catches on the dust.
It’s rough.
But it’s mine.
The quiet settles in, not heavy, just . . . present. There’s no master plan. No investors. No safety net.
That’s kind of the appeal.
I walk the perimeter, slowly, mapping it out in my head. The bar will run along that back wall. Plumbing’s a question mark, but it’s there. Most of my ideas are still just sketches on the backs of receipts and corners of notebooks. I haven’t shown anyone—not even Thatcher.
Someone took the first step in converting this old bakery into a bar, but that step appears to have been only halfway done before it was abandoned. It may be that the half-hearted attempt will just mean more work for me.
Part of me wants to text Thatcher. Ask if he still has that salvaged maple. Float an idea about the walk-in fridge.
But I don’t.
Because this didn’t start with him. Or my agent. Or the team. This started with me.
Back when Thatcher was just the hot dad I figured might be good for a distraction. I rub at my chest. Yeah. That’s not what this is anymore.
But this bar . . . it’s the first thing I’ve done in years that isn’t about damage control. Not a comeback. Not a fix. Not a fuck you to anyone. Just . . . a step forward.
A real one.
It’s also this tangible acknowledgment of life after hockey.
I run my hand along the far wall, picturing where the windows will go. How the light will come in. I imagine framed photos of local games, a wall to highlight the locals, maybe a stick from Jamie’s first season. A place that feels like it’s always been here.
