Even at five o'clock, almost every chair was full. My boots sticking to the floor as I wove through the crowded room, brushing against reflective vests slung over the backs of chairs.
Nothing had changed since the day I first slapped my fake ID on the bar. Back then, the Bobcats got away with everything. Well, almost everything. The only person to kick us out was that ball-busting bartender.
I found an empty spot at the bar. The bartender wiped down the sticky surface with a rag. She had a few more lines on her face and her hair was more salt than pepper, but the ball-buster bartender was still there. "What can I get you?"
"Scotch. Neat." There was no way was I trusting the draft lines in this place.
"Top or bottom shelf?” She looked up. "Never mind, honey.” She pulled a bottle of Glenmorangie from the top shelf and dusted it off with her rag. "You look familiar." She poured a stiff three fingers into the glass.
"I grew up here, but I moved away a long time ago.”
"Welcome back." She squinted, trying to place me, then shrugged and slid the glass across the bar. "Forty-two bucks."
A city price. I guess some things had changed. I handed her a fifty. "Keep it."
A quick sip of the amber drink warmed my body and relaxed my shoulders. The scotch was worth every penny. Glass in hand, I turned and scanned the crowd. Rob was nowhere to be seen. A woman wearing a cheetah-print top with hair straight out of the Eighties scrolled through the jukebox.
The man beside me, a tall stocky guy with a beer gut who looked to be in his late fifties, pointed to the jukebox lady. "Want to place a bet on what song she’s going to play?"
"Easy." I sipped the scotch. "It's going to be Dolly Parton or Shania Twain."
Shania Twain blared from the speakers. The woman yelled, "Let's go, girls!" Two more women joined her on the dance floor.
“Well, shit.” The man laughed. “I was going to guess Dolly, but it’s still a little early for that." He tilted his head and gave me the same curious look as Mary, although this time, recognition flickered in his bloodshot eyes.
"Shep?" He furrowed his brow. "Is that you?"
I tried to place him. Was he one of my dad's friends?
Beer sloshed over the rim of his mug as he planted his hand on my shoulder. He gestured to himself with the glass, leaving a wet spot on the sweatshirt stretched over his Santa-like belly. "It's me, Wick."
"Wick? Paul Wickham?” My lanky left winger was this fat dude? Wick had been fast as hell and could dangle a puck better than anyone on the team.
"Wicky!" I spread my arms wide. As we hugged, Wick smacked my back. I coughed from the unexpected hits.
"Holy shit!" He stood back and looked me up and down, then shook his head. “Bro, you look exactly the same."
I couldn't say the same for my old teammate, so I took off my hat and pointed to my temple. "I've got a little gray."
Wick laughed and patted his belly. "I've still got a six-pack." His voice slurred. "Sit, sit!" He kicked out a chair. "Mary, another round." He used his entire arm to signal to the bartender, then dropped into a chair. "Are you still playing?"
"Nah. I hung up my skates a few years ago." I sat and set my glass down on the table.
“Living the dream. Everyone knew you'd make it to the show." The grin on his face seemed forced. Wick had potential, but he'd liked drinking as much as he liked playing. Probably more.
"What about you? What are you up to these days?"
He drained his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Working at the mill. It pays the alimony." He studied his beer like a church lady reading tea leaves. "She got the house, I got the payments."
"Shit, man. I'm sorry to hear that." When I was a kid, jobs at the mill were revered. It was stable year-round employment that paid decent wages. But it wasn't the NHL. Paul had been scouted at one point, and I struggled to see that version of him in the husk of a man in front of me. "Are you still skating?" I asked, hoping to shift the conversation into more familiar, and hopefully, happier, territory.
“Yeah, man. Beer league every Tuesday when I'm not working. There's a few good players, you should come out..."He set his mug on his belly. "I'm not exactly in game shape anymore, but I'm sure you and I could do some damage."
Mary delivered our next round. "Thank you.” I drained my scotch and handed her the empty glass.
Wick took a big gulp of beer. “What brings you back to this shithole?"
"Business."
