Some shorter guy I didn’t know but who looked like Yosemite Sam had mated with Popeye and turned to hockey.
And Skyler Shaw.
All four were looking at me.
The case of beer I’d picked up slipped in my suddenly sweaty grip. I fumbled it, caught it, fumbled it again, and somehow managed to not drop it on my foot through what could only be described as divine intervention.
“Oh shit,” Benji whispered, sitting up straighter. “Oh shit, shit, shit! It’s the hockey players. Thehothockey players. And they brought a friend.”
“Benji—”
“Finn!” Benji’s voice rang out across the bar. “The Bolts are back . . . and they’re still hot as fuck!”
I was going to kill Benji.
I was going to kill him and hide the body and claim I knew nothing when the police came asking questions.
From somewhere in the back, I heard Finn’s muffled response: “What?”
“Hockey players! CODE RED!” He looked up at me. “That should’ve been blue. They wear blue, right?”
“Blue? Yeah, right. Blue,” I stammered.
“CODE BLUE, FINN!” Benji yelled his correction.
“Benji, I swear to God—” I started.
But it was too late.
The players were already approaching the bar. Skyler and Erik were grinning as though Benji’scomplete lack of chill was the funniest thing they’d ever witnessed. The short one looked slightly maniacal. I briefly worried he might try to pull a bank heist or a card trick, though I wasn’t sure which.
“Hey!” Skyler said, sliding onto a barstool beside Benji with the easy confidence of someone who’d never second-guessed a social interaction in his life. His left arm rose to drape around a stunned Benji’s shoulders as he grinned at me. “Jacks, right? We met a few weeks ago.”
Six weeks. It had been six weeks. Not that I was counting.
“Yeah, I remember. You’re still single? Skyler. Shit. You’re still Skyler?” I set down the beer case, trying to act like my heart wasn’t doing something stupid in my chest.
“Yeah, shithead’s still Skyler.” The fireplug laughed, deep and booming. “Can’t change that no matter how much we try.”
Erik and Tyler elbowed each other and laughed.
Skyler didn’t so much as flinch. “So, I told the boys we had to come check this place out again. Murph hadn’t been yet.” He gestured to the shorter guy, who was already eyeing the menu with predatory interest. “Murph, this is Jacks. Jacks, Murph. He’s annoying but mostly harmless.”
“I am neither of those things,” Murph said, notlooking up from the menu. “I’m both delightful and dangerous, like an asp in a necktie. Ask anyone.”
“And this is Benji, the cleverest bartender in Tampa.” Skyler squeezed poor Benji until his face turned white, though the pride blooming in his features hid any discomfort.
Murph, ignoring his teammate, asked, “Do you guys have mozzarella sticks?”
“We do,” I said.
“Sick. I’ll take like four orders of those.”
“He’s not joking,” Tyler said, settling onto the stool next to Skyler. “He will eat four orders of mozzarella sticks and then complain about being bloated for three days.”
“It’s called living, Tyler. You should try it sometime.”
I grabbed menus and distributed them, hyper-aware of Skyler’s eyes following my every movement. When I handed him his menu, our fingers brushed.
