Better.
Except now the one next to it looked wrong. Had it always been that far from the edge?
I moved my hands. Adjusting. Aligning. Three holders now, perfectly parallel to the bar's edge, perfectly spaced—
The countdown on the TV hit one minute. Someone started another chant, and I abandoned the napkin project, spinning toward the noise.
"Ten! Nine! Eight!"
The whole bar counted down like it was New Year's Eve, and the ball was about to drop. I climbed onto the brass footrail beneath the TV, one hand braced against the wall for balance.
"Seven! Six! Five!"
Jake had his arm around Evan's shoulders. Juno was filming the room, panning slowly across the crowd. Coach Rusk stood near the back, arms crossed, jaw set.
"Four! Three! Two!"
TheShark Tanktheme music blasted from the speakers, and the room erupted—then immediately shushed itself, a wave of "shut up, shut up, it's starting" rippling from the TV outward until the only sounds were the clink of someone setting down a glass and Biscuit's claws clicking on the hardwood as he circled once and settled.
I held my breath.
The camera panned across theTankset—all those dramatic lights and that long walkway and the sharks sitting in their chairs like gods deciding the fate of mortals—and then there he was.
Rhett.
Walking toward the cameras with his shoulders back and his chin up. He looked good. Polished. The kind of confidence that made you believe whatever he was about to sell you.
And behind him, carrying the prototype like it was as fragile as a Faberge egg, was Hog.
The bar collectively gasped because Hog on television was exactly what you'd expect. He was wearing his "I cannot believe I agreed to be on television" shirt, a plain navy button-down, but his face said everything the fabric couldn't. Wide eyes. Rigid posture. The energy of a man who would rather fight three guys at once than speak into a camera.
"Oh, buddy," Jake murmured. "Oh no."
"He's going to be fine," Evan said, but he gripped Jake's hand hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
On screen, Rhett started his pitch. His voice was steady, warm, exactly the right mix of passion and professionalism. He talked about how difficult packaging could be for older adults. About shards of plastic that could mangle a hand. About the utility of existing technology that could change everything.
The bar was silent—completely.
Rhett mentioned Hog. The camera cut to him—standing there, holding the prototype, looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole—and Rhett's voice softened.
"My partner," he said, "in every sense of the word."
Somewhere in the bar, someone whispered, "Fuck," in the exact tone of voice that meant they were about to cry.
I glanced at Coach.
He dabbed his eye with the heel of his hand. Subtle about it. Professional. A quick swipe, like he was handling a minor irritation and not having an emotional breakdown over his enforcer's nationally televised love story.
I elbowed Desrosiers, who was standing next to me. Nodded toward Coach.
He looked and then looked back at me.
"Let him pretend allergies," he whispered.
"What allergies? We're inside."
"Dust. There's dust."
