“Benji,” I said. “Focus. They probably want drinks.”
“Right! Yes! Drinks!” Benji snapped into bartender mode, though his grin didn’t fade. “What can we get you guys? And don’t say you’re paying because that’s not happening. First round is on the house.”
“We insist on paying,” Erik said. “But beers would be great. We’ve been at practice all day.”
“Three beers coming up,” Benji said, already moving. “Jacks, can you get them menus? Or are you too busy having a moment?”
“I’m not—I’m not having a moment,” Jacks protested weakly, but his face was still bright red.
“You’re definitely having a moment,” Tyler said. “We all see it. It’s very cute.”
“Tyler,” Skyler said, shooting his teammate a look.
“What? It is! You’re both being adorable. It’s like watching a rom-com in real time.”
Other customers were starting to congregate around the players, recognizing them, asking for more photos and autographs. The three of themwere gracious about it, friendly and patient with everyone, but Skyler kept glancing at Jacks, who was trying very hard to look busy with stacking and re-stacking menus.
“Here you go,” Benji said, sliding three beers across the bar. “And before you ask—yes, that’s our house IPA. It’s good. Trust me.”
“Thank you,” Tyler said, raising his beer.
One of the customers, an older guy in a Lightning jersey, cleared his throat. “Can I ask you guys something?”
“Of course,” Tyler said.
“Why here?” The guy gestured around the bar. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love that you’re here. But . . . why a gay bar specifically?”
The three players exchanged a look, and Skyler set down his beer.
“Honestly?” Skyler said, his voice carrying in the sudden quiet. “The whole team’s been hearing about Barbacks for months, about how the Ybor community has been showing up to every game, every watch party, supporting us so hard. We wanted to come say thank you. To show that we support you back.”
Tyler nodded. “You’re part of the Tampa community, and we wanted to make sure you knew that we see and appreciate you.”
The bar had gone silent.
“The NHL may have banned Pride Tape,” Erik added, his Swedish accent more pronounced now, “but we’re still proud to stand by your side. You’reourcommunity, too. We wanted you to know that.”
Skyler looked around at the crowd, at the rainbow flags hanging from the ceiling, at the Pride stickers on the walls. “We can’t wear the tape anymore or use the jerseys during warmups, but we can be here. We can show up. And that’s what we wanted to do.”
For a moment, no one moved.
Then someone started clapping.
Before I knew it, everyone was clapping. The old guys at the bar were actually crying, and the energy shifted from surprised to something warmer, something that felt like belonging.
“Thank you,” someone called out.
“We love you guys!” another voice added.
Skyler smiled—a genuine, warm smile that reminded me of our resident Golden—and raised his beer. “We love you, too. Now who wants to watch some game footage and tell us everything we’re doing wrong? Because I know you all have opinions.”
The bar erupted in laughter and conversation, and just like that, the formality dissolved. The players were just three guys having beers, and my customers were just fans who loved hockey.
Jacks appeared with menus, and I watched as heverycarefully avoided looking at Skyler as he handed them over.
“Thanks,” Skyler said, his voice doing something that made Jacks’s hand falter. “And hey—Jacks?”
“Yeah?”
