I sat in my stall, methodically unlacing my skates. My fingers were stiff, the cold of the rink still clinging to my joints. Across the room, the younger guys were already halfway dressed in tailored suits and expensive denim, trading chirps about which North Side bar they were going to colonize tonight.
I reached for my bag, planning my own route: a quiet drive, a hot shower, and a bottle of ibuprofen.
"Landry."
I looked up. Hunter stood there, leaning against the neighboring stall. Six-foot-four of quiet authority and a face that looked like it had been carved out of a granite cliff. He didn'ttalk much, and when he did, people usually stopped breathing to hear it.
"Yeah?" I kept my voice neutral, my hands busy with the laces.
"A few of us are heading to the Faucet.” He grabbed his keys from his locker, the metal jingling in the sudden pocket of silence that had formed around us. "I’m driving. You're coming."
It wasn't a question, but an opening. Landon paused mid-sentence, and even Cash looked over from the training table. In the hierarchy of this team, an invite from Hunter wasn't just a ride; it was a stamp of legitimacy. It was the goalie saying the "rental" had earned his keep.
I felt a strange, tight knot in my chest, a flicker of something that felt dangerously like belonging. But I couldn’t let it reach my face. I just gave a slow, measured nod and shoved my skates into my bag.
"The Faucet, huh?" I stood up, testing the weight on my bruised shin. "Hope your driving’s better than Tucker’s defense in second period. I’d like to get there in one piece.”
Hunter’s mouth didn't move, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. It was the closest thing to a laugh I'd seen from him all season. "Just get your gear, Seattle. We're leaving in five."
I zipped my bag with a subdued laugh. I was still an old man at the end of a long road, but as I followed Hunter out of the locker room, the night didn't feel quite so cold anymore.
6
Kayla
The Leaky Faucet was drowning in a post-game swell, the kind of heavy, humid crowd that smelled like stale smoke and beer. I moved in a blur of muscle memory, my hands working the taps while my brain ran a frantic background tally of the seventy-five gluten-free cookies currently hijacking the industrial ovens in the back.
I had bribed the line cook, Marco, with a case of premium IPAs and a promise to cover his closing side-work for a week. It was a gamble, but I was desperate. Gabe’s school group chat was a firing squad, and I wasn't about to be the one pinned against the wall.
I was mid-pour on a double stout when Stacy, one of the floor servers, leaned over the bar. Her eyes were wide, and she looked like she’d just seen a ghost.
"Kayla, the batch in the bottom oven is starting to smell a little... crispy. Marco wants to know if he should pull them or if 'gluten-free' means they’re supposed to look like charcoal," she whispered, her voice carrying just a bit too far over the low rumble of the jukebox.
I felt the blood drain from my face. "Tell him five more minutes. And tell him to keep the timer quiet."
"What timer, Kayla?"
The voice vibrated with a specific kind of corporate disappointment that made my stomach do a slow, nauseating roll. I didn't have to turn around to know it was Miller, my manager. He was a man who lived for the strict adherence to "Company Resource Management."
I finished the pour and handed the stout to a regular, my smile feeling like it was held up by scotch tape. I wiped my hands on my apron and turned around. Miller stood by the service well, his arms crossed over a chest.
"Step over here," he said, gesturing to the end of the bar where the shadows were deeper but the patrons were still well within earshot.
"Miller, look, it’s just a small batch. The ovens were empty anyway—"
"I don't care if the ovens were hosting a tea party for the Queen of England," he snapped, his voice dropping into a sharp, jagged whisper. "You’re using company ingredients and company labor for a private bake sale. Again, Kayla. This is the third time in as many months that I've caught you treating the kitchen like your personal pantry."
"The sports expo is a big deal for Gabe, and I didn't have time—"
"Nobody has time," he cut me off, stepping closer. The light caught the sweat on his forehead. "You’re a hell of a bartender. The regulars love you, and you’re the only reason half these guys don't go down the street to the sports bar. But you’re on thin ice. Thinner than those damn cookies. If I see one more non-menuitem coming out of that kitchen, you can take your tips and find a bar that doubles as a bakery. Do we understand each other?"
I stared at a scratch on the mahogany bar, the heat of humiliation crawling up my neck. I felt small. Smaller than the girl who’d changed her outfit three times that afternoon. "I'm sorry, Miller. It won't happen again. I'll pay for the flour out of my tips."
"You're damn right you will," he muttered, turning on his heel and disappearing toward the office.
I stood there and closed my eyes, trying to force the lump in my throat back down. I needed this job. I needed the health insurance for Gabe and the cash that kept the lights on. With a steadying breath, I wiped my face using a damp cocktail napkin, and turned back to the center of the bar..
“Everything okay?”
