“One of us has to run the bar tonight.”
“That’ll be you. I can’t mix drinks for shit. Jacks and I can hit the town while you cover.”
“What if we have a rush tonight?” I said, not believing it was a concern.
Mark gave me a “Really, dude” look, but said, “Then you call me and we come back to help. No worries.”
I couldn’t help but smile. This was Mark at his best—turning panic into action, fear into momentum. It’s why his construction company had succeeded. It’s also why he’d convinced me to quit my job and go into business with him in the first place.
“You think this’ll work?” I asked.
“I think it’s better than sitting here spiraling about our forty-seven Instagram followers.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Come on, sweet pea, we’ve got work to do.”
Well, fuck. He’d heard Priya last night.
By 4 p.m., we had flyers. Maya had arrived at three, taken one look at our design—which was functional but boring—and completely redone it in twenty minutes. The new version was colorful, eye-catching, and featured both the Lightning logo and a still image fromHorny Rivalsthat she’d pulled from the show’s official Instagram.
“This is going to get us shut down for copyright infringement,” I’d said.
“I doubt the network will see your flyers unless their lawyers happen to be parking in Ybor tonight. This will get you customers,” Maya had countered. “Pick your battle.”
We’d printed a thousand flyers at a copy shop in Seminole Heights. Mark called in favors from his construction buddies, and by the time we opened at four, we had a small army of people ready to blanket Ybor.
Maya scheduled fifteen social media posts to go live between now and tomorrow night’s show. Fifteen. I’d asked if that was overkill, and she’d looked at me like I’d suggested the earth was flat, which was pretty much how every Generation Whatever-the-fuck looked at anyone a hot minute older than them.
“This is the minimum for engagement. I have a group of friends programmed to like and comment. We’ll also post in Facebook groups. Maybe your grandmother will want to join,” she said with a wicked grin. “Trust me.”
I was trusting a lot of people today.
Rod refused to simply rename his menu items, creating a special menu just for the game and watch party. There were Lightning Bolts, mini burgers with blue cheese and buffalo sauce; Horny Wings, maple bourbon glaze that he swore would “make people cry with joy”; and a specialty cocktail called “Puck Bunny Juice” that was blue and involved three different types of rum and whipped cream that dripped down the sides.
“This is either going to be amazing or a complete disaster,” I’d told him.
“It’s going to be amazing,” he’d said with the confidence of someone who’d run a Michelin-recommended kitchen. “Trust me.”
And there was that word again.
Trust.
Saturday night brought better traffic than Friday. It wasn’t “we’re going to make it” traffic, but it was better than our opening flop.
One guy in his mid-thirties wearing a backward Rays cap told me he’d come because his friend had texted him about “the best burger in Ybor.”
“Is it really that good?” he asked.
“Try it and tell me,” I said.
He tried it, cleaned his plate, then ordered another one to go.
It was only after the guy had left that I realized I’d only served one burger the night before. Chase must’ve mentioned us to his friend. That was nice.
By 11 p.m., the bar had cleared out again, leaving only a handful of stragglers watching the late west coast hockey games, nursing beers, and not really engaging.
I was slumped against the register, staring at the empty space, doing math on my mental spreadsheet that didn’t look good.
Two nights.
Seventy-one customers total.
