Then I glanced at the clock.
6:47 p.m.
The game was over.
Surely people would start leaving now, right? They’d head home, recover from day-drinking, and prepare for work tomorrow?
I might have a moment to breathe. Jacks could catch up on cleaning glasses. Rod might be able to restock without ten tickets piling up.
But no one left.
In fact, the line outside got longer.
“They’re waiting forHorny Rivals,” Jacks said, appearing at my elbow with a tray of empty glasses. “Everyone’s staying for the watch party.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone. And from what I’m hearing on the floor, they’re all about to order apps or dinner. I hope Rod’s ready.”
I wiped my brow with a bar towel and looked around.
The original five were still here. Lightning Jersey and his friends were still holding court in theircorner, now with a solid dozen people gathered around, everyone laughing at something I couldn’t hear over the noise. The sweet couple had stayed at their high-top. They were still holding hands despite now eatingtostoneswith their non-clasped hands. They looked content.
Mark returned with vodka—six bottles, because he “figured we’d need extra.” I laughed and said, “We’re going to need more than that. And check with Rod. He’s about to get slammed with dinner and app orders. He may not be stocked for this.”
“Jesus,” Mark said, his elated expression morphing into something akin to shock.
By seven-thirty, I’d lost count of how many people were in the bar. A hundred? Probably more. There were too many, way too many, but everyone was happy and the energy was still electric.
At 7:55, someone near the big screen shouted, “FIVE MINUTES!”
The crowd started cheering.
At 7:58, the opening credits ofHorny Rivalsappeared on screen.
The bar erupted in actual, genuine, enthusiastic applause.
And cheers.
Someone whistled so loud I was pretty sure my eardrums burst.
The theme song started playing—something dramatic and sweeping and vaguely sexual—and the entire bar sang along.
Everyone knew the words.
Literally everyone.
Even Jacks was humming the tune as he restocked my glasses for the millionth time.
I darted back and forth behind the bar, exhausted and exhilarated, as I poured drinks and watched a room full of grown-ass men sing the theme song to a hockey romance TV show at the top of their lungs.
This might’ve been the gayest thing I’d ever seen.
And I loved it.
“Finn!” Jacks appeared at my elbow. “Three rum drinks, two beers, and something called a ‘Pirate’s Puck’?”
“What the hell is a Pirate’s Puck?”
