I should go home. IknewI should go home.
I had work to do, more work than I could ever finish.
I looked at the flyer.
Looked at the darkening blue sky.
Blue like the Lightning jerseys.
Blue like Finn’s eyes—though not quite the same shade, but still—
“Fuck it,” I said to no one.
I climbed out of my car, locked the door, and headed toward the edge of Ybor.
Barbacks was packed. Again.
Unlike the smattering of team spirit from Sunday night, nearly every dude in the bar was wearing a Lightning jersey. The sea of blue and white was almost overwhelming. The noise level was already at “need to shout to be heard” and the game hadn’t even started yet.
I stood in the doorway, debating whether I should just leave, when I spotted my corner booth.
Two guys and a girl were collecting their credit cards and readying to stand.
Somehow, miraculously, I was about to land my booth again. I made a beeline for it before anyone else could claim it, sliding into the seat and feeling like I’d won some kind of prize.
Finn was behind the bar. He wore an electric blue tank top that set his hair on fire and made his skin look even more pale than it already was. The stretchy fabric of his shirt gloved its way across his pec, leaving nothing—and I mean nothing—to the imagination.
His hands flew—pulling beers, mixing drinks, pouring shots—all while he talked to customers and occasionally shouted something toward the kitchen. His hair was messy, like he’d been running his hands through it, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead that suggested he’d already been at this for hours.
Jacks was running between tables with a tray of drinks, his golden retriever enthusiasm somehow still intact despite the chaos. The older guy with the graying beard—the one I’d seen on Sunday—was alternating between restocking glasses behind the bar, running food from the kitchen, and doing what appeared to be seventeen other tasks at once.
It was controlled chaos.
And Finn was the captain of the ship.
He was commanding, competent, and completely in his element.
I couldn’t look away.
Then the older guy appeared at my table, slightly out of breath but smiling. “Hey there. You’re the corner booth guy? The lawyer? Right?”
“I, uh—yeah, I guess I am.”
“Thought so. I’m Mark.” He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. “Co-owner. Business partner. Professional errand-runner. Whatever Finn needs, basically.”
“Chase,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. What can I get you? Brady Burger again?”
I blanched. He knew my burger? I’d just met the guy. “Actually, what’s the Penalty Box?”
Mark’s grin widened. “Oh, you’re gonna love this. It’s Rod’s take on a Japanese bento box, but Venezuelan.Arepas,tostones,empanadas, and some kind of grilled protein that changes depending on the day. He packs everything in these little compartments. It’s like a sampler platter but fancy and Latin.”
“That sounds incredible.”
“It is incredible. Rod’s a genius. You want a beer with that?”
“Please.”
