“Maybe twenty?”
I scanned the bar. We were over capacity. The fire marshal would have a field day if he saw this, but everyone was having a good time. No one was causing problems, and I wasn’t about to turn people away when this was what we’d been hoping for.
“Let them in as space opens up,” I said.
“You got it, boss.”
“And Jacks,” I said without looking up from a fruity concoction. “I need you behind the bar with me. You’ll have to handle dishes when we catch upon drink orders.”
Jacks had never bartended before in his life, but right now I’d take anyone who could pour a beer without spilling it. I showed him the basics—how to pull a tap, where the glasses were, how to open a bottle without slicing his finger off—and then we were both moving, a chaotic dance of pouring and serving and trying to keep up with the constant stream of orders.
Mark returned with English muffins, ham, eggs, and a dozen other things Rod had texted him about while he was at the store. He dropped everything in the kitchen, then came out to help manage the crowd.
“This is insane,” he said, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
“This is what we wanted, right?” I said, sliding three beers across the bar to Lightning Jersey and his friends who were already looking shit-faced. It wasn’t even two-thirty yet.
The game started at four.
By three-fifteen, I was pretty sure we’d violated every fire code in the city of Tampa.
The crowd was shoulder to shoulder, everyone’s eyes glued to the screens, everyone shouting at the commentators to, and I quote, “Shut the fuck up and drop the puck.”
When four o’clock rolled around and the Lightning scored in the first period, the entire bar erupted. Their cheers were so loud I was surprised the windows didn’t shatter.
Someone—I never figured out who—started a drinking game around the second period. He stood on a chair and announced to a hushed crowd, “Every time the Lightning takes a shot on goal, everyone drinks!”
It was a terrible idea. The Lightning took a lot of shots.
But the guys ate it up, hefting their glasses and bottles while chanting, “Shots! Shots! Shots!” at the top of their lungs.
By the end of the second period, Lightning Jersey and his friends were beyond drunk, laughing and shouting and holding court in a corner where at least six other people had gathered to listen to their nonsensical commentary. They hadn’t understood the drinking game’s rules, thinking they had to take an actual shot every time the Lighting smacked the puck toward the net. I was beginning to worry they might pass out before the game ended.
The couple who’d arrived that morning had moved from their booth to a high-top closer to the big screen. They were still holding hands while watching the game with the same quiet intensitythey’d had all day.
By the end of regulation—a tied game, headed to overtime—I’d run out of vodka.
What self-respecting bar owner runs out of vodka, for fuck’s sake?
“Mark!” I shouted over the noise. “Liquor store. Now. We need vodka. See if they’ll sell it by the case. We still have the watch party after this.”
“On it!” He was gone before I could add anything else to the list.
The overtime period was chaos.
Tension filled the air more than Rod’s Venezuelan spice rub.
The bar had gone from deafening to eerily quiet as the puck dropped.
Everyone held their breath.
When the Lightning scored at 3:47 into overtime—a beautiful shot from the blue line—the bar exploded.
Actual explosions might have been quieter.
Guys hugged anyone within arm’s distance, whether they knew them or not. Others jumped up and down, spilling drinks they were too excited to care about. Lightning Jersey climbed onto a chair and started leading a chant that I’m pretty sure violated Utah’s decency laws but was too drunk to be coherent anyway.
I stood behind the bar, sweating through my shirt. My feet ached, and my hands were cramped from opening so many bottles. But the smile on my face wouldn’t go away as I thought,This is what success looks like.
