"Yeah. Perfect. You're a natural." My voice comes out weird.
Get it together.
Petrov tries next. Foam explodes everywhere, coating the glass, the counter, and somehow Petrov's shirt.
"Is not working," he announces, glaring at the tap like it insulted his mother.
"The tap's fine. You're just—" I reach over to help and accidentally brush against Ace's arm.
My brain flatlines for a full three seconds.
I jerk back like I've been electrocuted. "Sorry. Didn't mean to— Petrov, try again. Less aggressive. You're pouring beer, not wrestling a bear."
Kayla's in the back showing Becker and Wall the inventory system, which apparently requires both of them because they both have the attention span of a concussed goldfish.
Which leaves me here. The blind leading the blind. What could possibly go wrong? Actually, don't answer that. The universe is listening and it's a dick.
The front door swings open and two guys walk in. Huge dudes in navy blue shirts, utility pants, and massive, heavy-looking boots. They've got that casual confidence that comes from running into burning buildings for a living.
My brain makes exactly one computation:Uniforms = Authority = Fire Department = OH SHIT.
"The fire only lasted a few seconds!" I blurt out, hands shooting up like I'm being held at gunpoint. "Okay, yeah, it exploded a little when someone poured vodka on it—" I glance at Ace, who's suddenly fascinated by the beer tap, "—but there was barely any structural damage! The sound system was already old! Honestly, we did Frank a favor—"
"Yo!" Becker comes flying out of the back like he's been shot from a cannon, face lighting up like it's Christmas morning. He vaults over the bar and crashes into one of the firefighters with a bro-hug that looks like it might crack ribs. "Marcus! My guy! My dude! My hero!"
I blink. "They're with you?"
The firefighter—Marcus—extracts himself from Becker's death grip and crosses his arms. Those are some quality arms. Not Ace-quality, but solid. "There was a fire?"
Oopsie.
"Umm. Define fire?" I try.
"Flames. Heat. Potential death."
"Then yes. But very briefly! Almost like it didn't happen."
Ace jumps in, smooth as butter. "There was a small decorative incident. Very contained. Barely worth mentioning."
The other firefighter—shorter, stockier, beard that probably requires its own maintenance schedule—grins. "And here I thought this was gonna be boring."
Becker's still vibrating with excitement. "Devon, meet Station 42. This is Marcus, that's Parker. Guys, this is Devon. He's the reason we didn't all die in the Great Christmas Tree Massacre."
"I just yelled at people."
"Exactly."
Marcus offers his hand and I shake it, still confused about what's happening. "We're here for scheduling. The station's joining your charity game," he explains like he’s reading my thoughts.
"We have three weeks to learn hockey," Parker adds.
They huddle up with Becker, diving into logistics—practice times, rink availability, who's bringing what equipment—and I tune out because it sounds boring as fuck and I have much better things to focus on.
Like Ace's jawline.
That jawline could cut glass. Probably has cut glass. I bet he just looks at glass and it shatters out of respect.
And his shoulders. Jesus Christ. They're broad enough to land a helicopter on. I could probably ride those shoulders like—
