“Yeah. We found the issue pretty quickly, actually.”
I glance toward the door, the low rumble of the game carrying through the wall. “I’m at work right now. How late are you open?”
“We’ll be here about another thirty minutes.”
I check the time again. Still an hour left on my shift.
“Okay,” I say, nodding even though he can’t see me. “I’ll come by tomorrow then.”
“Sounds good. We’re open until six.”
“Thank you.”
I end the call and stand there for a second before walking back behind the bar. By the time I do, the third period is nearly over. The place gets louder as the clock runs down.
We’re headed into overtime, and I feel the room shift with a mix of groans and cheers.
They mentioned before the game that Rixton won the last two matchups against Kolmont. Neither one was close.
Overtime seems to stretch on longer than it should have, but thankfully, Rixton manages to pull out the win. The bar erupts as the puck hits the back of the net.
I don’t see who scores. I don’t even watch to see if they show Cooper on the bench, not wanting to see the look of defeat knowing he hadn’t been out there.
The last hour of my shift passes quickly after the game ends. By the time I untie my apron, my earlier fatigue is starting to weigh on me again.
I clock out and head upstairs, kicking off my shoes as I change into something more comfortable. I don’t have the energy to shower tonight. I’ll save it for the morning.
I settle on the first show Netflix suggests, not planning on watching it. I curl up on the air mattress, my laptop balanced on the arm of the couch, and doze off.
The following morning, I call a rideshare and wait outside with my coffee until it pulls up.
The driver doesn’t say much when I climb in the back seat, and I’m thankful for it, as I watch Rixton pass by out the window.
County Line Towing isn’t too far away. Only a couple of miles from my place.
A bell rings when I step in through the front door. It smells like oil. A couple of guys are laughing loudly. The older one steps toward the counter, wiping the grease off his hands when he sees me before Caleb comes up behind him.
“Hey, Brinley,” he says, clapping the older guy on the shoulder, muttering under his breath that he’s got this one.
“Hi, Caleb.”
He flips through some paperwork and slides a receipt across the counter to me.
“How bad is it?”
He scratches the back of his neck. “It wasn’t bad. Just… a little weird, I guess.”
My brows furrow. “Weird how?”
“Have you had any work done on your car recently?”
“No. I mean, not since before I moved here. I had the oil changed and the tires rotated, but I didn’t have any issues when I drove it from Kentucky to here.”
“Nothing else? No one’s touched it since?”
I shake my head.
He glances toward the doorway that leads back into the shop. There’s a car up on the lift, but no one else is around.
