Finn pulled out his phone for the third time since we’d sat down, checking the screen with the focused intensity of someone expecting an SOS from the crew of the Titanic.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Checking to see if Mark’s called for backup yet,” Finn muttered, scrolling through his messages with growing anxiety. “It’s a Lightning game night, the place is probably packed to the walls, and he’s behind the bar alone. I’ve never left him alone without Benji to help.”
“Oh my sweet, neurotic mother hen,” Benji said,twisting in his seat to face Finn with that manic grin that meant he was about to be unhelpful. “Are you seriously having anxiety attacks about Mark right now? While we’re sitting in prime hockey seats about to watch our sweet baby Jacks’s boyfriend play professional sports?”
“Benji, it’s game night. You do understand what that means, don’t you?” Finn’s voice was getting higher. “Every Lightning fan in Tampa is going to descend on our bar like very thirsty locusts, and Mark is going to be alone behind that bar trying to make mojitos and pour beer and handle the register and—”
“And learning what the rest of us peasants deal with every single shift,” Benji interrupted. “Let His Royal Grumpy-ass swim in the deep end for once. Maybe tonight he’ll finally understand why we deserve hazard pay for dealing with drunk gay hockey fans who think a ‘complicated’ drink order is asking for a beer that isn’t Bud Light.”
“Mark’s going to have a heart attack,” Finn said, checking his phone again.
“Mark’s going to have a character-building experience,” Benji corrected. “There’s a difference. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? He runs out of clean glasses? He has to interact with customers instead of hiding in his office doing paperwork?He discovers that making cocktails is harder than complaining about the cost of ingredients?”
“The worst that could happen is he closes early because he can’t handle the volume and we lose an entire night of revenue during our busiest time of the week,” Finn said.
“Or,” Benji said with the serene confidence of someone who had clearly not thought this through, “he discovers hidden reserves of bartending competence and realizes he’s been taking us for granted this whole time. It’s character development or plot advancement in a hero’s journey, but with more tequila!”
Mia was laughing now. “Benji, you’re terrible. But I like the authorial reference. That was very . . . literary of you.”
“I’m smart, damn it!” Benji waved his hand dismissively. “Besides, Finn, even if Mark melts down, what are you going to do about it from here? Teleport back to the bar? Abandon Jacks on his first undefined hockey game date thing? Miss the opportunity to watch our boy get serenaded by professional athletes?”
“There will be no serenading!” I protested.
“That would be so dreamy,” Mia crooned.
Finn looked torn between responsibility and friendship.
“Finn.” I turned toward Finn and said, “Benji’s right. There’s nothing you can do from here, and I want you to stay. This means a lot to me.”
Finn sighed and put his phone away. “Fine, but if Mark burns the place down, I’m blaming all of you.”
“Deal,” Benji chirped. “Now stop fretting and help us figure out which hockey player is which. I need to know who to cheer for when they get in fights.”
Even among a host of other professional athletes, Skyler stood out. From the C on his jersey to the way other players seemed to orbit around him to the casual authority in his every movement, this was his world, his element, and watching him own it with such complete confidence made my chest swell with pride.
“Which one is he?” Benji asked.
“Number 91,” I said. “The one with the captain’s C.”
I’d pointed to Skyler when a flash of blue drew my eye. Tyler was skating toward the glass in front of our section. I watched in horror as he raised his stick in a clear salute, grinned up at us, winked, and then—
Dear God—
Blew me a kiss.
Mia and Benji erupted in laughter and finger clapping. Finn gaped, his jaw slack.
I felt my soul leave my body.
“Did that hockey player blow you a kiss?” Benji demanded.
“That’s Tyler,” I managed. “Skyler’s best friend.”
“His best friend who blew you a kiss in front of thousands of people?” Finn asked, apparently having forgotten all about his Mark-related anxieties.
But before I could process that, Erik Lindqvist was skating toward us with his own stick salute. He was more restrained but equally deliberate.
