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MAXFORD

The evening I expected to have didn’t include a rowdy group of women, huddled in the back corner of the bar, dressed like America’s Founding Fathers. Opening night of the American League Wild Card Series has rules. Also, I have a routine here at Gin and Bear It.

I arrive a few minutes before the game to grab my favorite booth. Just as I slide all the way onto the vinyl seating, Tom, the middle-aged owner-slash-bartender, nods at me. When I nod back, he props open the swinging door to yell my regular order into the kitchen: sample platter, cheeseburger, and if the Texas Armadillos aren’t doing well, they know I’ll require one of those warm pizzookies with three scoops of ice cream. I will inhale all the nachos off the sampler platter before the first pitch is thrown and couch-coach the team by yelling at one of eight fifty-five-inch TVs attached over the bar. We have rules in baseball. Even at the bar.

A loud chorus of “wooo!” followed by the distinct sound of shot glasses thunking onto wooden high-top tables interrupts my couch-coaching.

“Tom,” I call gruffly to the bartender, who’s busy prepping a row of shots. He doesn’t bother to look up. “Turn it up, will ya?” There should be some self-shame surrounding how frequently I’ve come to Gin and Bear It to catch a game and eat food I didn’t have to cook, but I’m not giving in to it.

A second round of “wooo!” catapults itself into the shared space. There are at least a dozen women in white wigs, wearing long coats with vests and knickers, giggling and hollering to one another. I notice the majority of the women have chosen to dress as Alexander Hamilton, but the history major in me also notes there are two James Madisons, two Thomas Jeffersons, and a single Ben Franklin.

The solo George Washington, sporting a blue coat, spins in a circle with her arms above her head like a ballerina and I see the sash announcing she is the ‘Bride to be.’ After a few rotations and a tipsy bow, she calls out, “It’s my last declaration of independence!” And the group amps up in unison (again) with a third “woooo!”

I recognize I’m unfairly glaring at their festivities, but come on, it’s aThursdaynight. This is a sports bar. Read the room, ladies. Not only is this an eat-greasy-food-and-watch-the-game kind of establishment, but it’s theplayoffs,and I’m in a personal dark space. Ben Franklin catches me watching them and shrinks a little, mouthing, “Sorry,” but there isn’t an apology there, so much as a ‘what-can-you-do-about-it?’

Tom smirks and ignores my request, putting down the bottle of tequila. “You don’t need to hear the game to know what’s going on, Hutchings. You got eyes, don’t you? They take turns using that bat and the goal is to get the most people across home plate. Simple. I mean, it takes half a day to accomplish the task, but you can follow the excitement without sound.”

My elbows go forcefully down on the table and I hunch angrily over my sampler tray of wings and mozzarella sticks; nachos long gone. Instead of staying home and watching the game alone like a loser, I peeled myself off the couch to view it alone at my favorite local dive like a normal man. And for what? A noisy group of out-of-place women and a sassy middle-aged bar owner. Without a second thought, I twist my body around the back of the booth and glare at the women again. They aren’t paying any attention to me, but it feels necessary to send my negative energy their way.

Tom comes out from around the bar and stops in front of my table, saying, “If you can’t eat your food and be happy, I’m switching all the TVs to hockey. The Avalanche play the Ducks tonight and?—”

“Hockey is the only sport worth following. Yeah, yeah.” We’ve gone the rounds on this many times and I thought we’d decided we’d have to agree to disagree.

Tom looks at me with a deep sigh. “Why are you even watching this?” Without waiting for a response, he surprises me by pulling the remote control out of his apron and aiming it at the respective televisions to put on the subtitles. “They dumped you over a year ago and you’re still here rooting for them. It’s just sad.”

That last comment deserves the dismissive stare I send his way, even if it is true. Glaring is apparently my thing tonight. Tom’s not wrong in questioning why I’m putting myself through the misery of watching my old team compete for a chance at the biggest prize in baseball, but I don’t want to talk about it right now. “Leave me alone, and when you’re done serving the sorority sisters, can you tell the kitchen I’m ready for my cheeseburger?”

“Go tell them yourself.” Tom readjusts the tray of shots inhis arms and heads into the center of the noise, offering a ‘Here you go’ and receiving—surprise—shrieking applause and fangirling. I swear it reaches decibels only dogs can pick up. I offer another quick glance over my shoulder toward the action and feel a pang of lonely nostalgia in my chest.

Once upon a time, I had throngs of women reacting the same way to me. No lie, that level of energy does something to a guy—it made me feel invincible. Knowing I could walk up to a group of beautiful women and say, “Hi, I’m Maxford Hutchings,” and they’d all fight for my attention? It was addictive. Almost more so than being a two-time World Series MVP third baseman. Then I hit rock bottom, and just like that, all my fanfare disappeared with it.

When the game goes to commercial after the bottom of the first inning, I hop off my stool and beeline it to the kitchen. Tom’s run this bar for a decade. He knew exactly who I was the minute I walked in, just over a year ago, fresh off the worst life choice I’d ever made. When Grandma Stella needed to relocate to Boise, Idaho, I saw it as time for a change myself, and I came with her. That first night in town, I stumbled into Gin and Bear It. The rest is history.

When Tom tells me to talk to the kitchen myself, he actually means it. I’m very familiar with the staff and have let myself back there to order or grab my own food on more than one occasion. The entrance to the kitchen sits by the hallway to the bathrooms, and as I reach for the swinging door to get the status on my entrée, Ben Franklin’s leaning against the wall across from the women’s restroom. She’s out of sight from her party and has tucked her receding hairline wig under her arm as she furiously taps away on her phone.

“I swear she loses her water bottle every week,” Ben Franklin mutters under her breath.

I can’t help but notice she’s pretty, even in the long brown coat over a vest and black short pants. Her brunette hair’s gathered and pinned back, but she’s got high cheekbones and soft curves. When she senses me watching her, she lifts her head, her big brown eyes unimpressed.

“Can I help you?” she asks curtly.

Her tone is deserved and I clear my throat. “Are you having fun?”

“Not really. Some mopey bar creep keeps glaring at us.” She slides the phone into her coat pocket and crosses her arms like she owns the place andI’mthe intruder, not the other way around.

My cheeks heat at her accusation and my nose crinkles as I casually question, “Would we call it mopey? Seems to me like he just wanted to watch the ball game in peace.”

“And yet he came to a bar.” Her lips quirk up, producing a single dimple on her right cheek.

“I don’t think he’s the reason you’re not having fun,” I say.

She cocks a brow. “And what makes you say that?”

“There’s a wild party going on out there and you’re hiding back here.”

“I’m not hiding from it.” There’s a bit of a defensive bite to her words.