I grabbed the remotes and started turning them on, one by one, making sure they were all tuned to the right channels. Pre-game coverage was already starting even though the game wasn’t until three. Talking heads discussing line-ups and predictions and whether the Lightning could pull off a winagainst the Panthers.
I adjusted the volume on each TV, making sure they were loud enough to hear but not so loud they’d drown out conversation.
Then I checked the angles.
Then I went from booth to booth to make sure every seat in the bar had a clear view of at least one screen.
I moved behind the bar and started checking stock.
Beer was cold in the coolers—check.
Liquor bottles were all full—check.
Garnishes prepped—check.
Jacks had done his job. Glassware was clean and stacked—check.
Everything was ready.
Which meant I had nothing to do.
So I wiped down the bar, straightened the coasters, and adjusted a stack of napkins.
When the napkin tower was perfectly straight, I stepped back and checked my phone.
It was 9:47 a.m.
I’d been here for seventeen minutes and already run out of things to do.
This was going to be a long morning.
I strode over to the windows and looked out at the street. A few people were walking by—couplesheading to brunch, families with strollers, one lone guy doing the “walk of shame,” heading home from a bar he’d closed down—or, more likely, staggering home from his latest hookup. The guy’s shirt was half untucked, so I guessed it was the latter.
It was the usual Sunday morning Ybor crowd.
None of them looked at the bar.
None of them seemed to notice we existed.
My stomach twisted.
What if the flyers didn’t work? What if no one came? What if we’d spent money we didn’t have on printing and promotion and it was all for nothing?
I checked my phone again. 9:48 a.m.
From the back, I heard a door creak open. Then Rod’s voice called out, “Finn? You here?”
“Yeah,” I called back, walking toward the kitchen. “You’re early.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d come in, get a head start on prep.” By the time I stepped through the kitchen door, he was already tying on his apron, surveying his station with the focused intensity of a general preparing for battle. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh.” Rod pulled out a cutting board and started laying out ingredients. “Go do something.You’re making me nervous just standing there.”
