"You ever touch my gear again, and they’ll be looking for your teeth in the nosebleeds." My knuckles were white as I bunched his shirt.
"Get off him!" Cash yelled, grabbing my shoulder, but I threw him off with a snarl.
Tucker clawed at my arms, his face turning a dark, bruised purple. I had him pinned, the raw, animalistic urge to finish it pulsing in my ears like a drumbeat.
"Michael! Tucker! ENOUGH!"
Coach’s voice was a thunderclap. He was back in the room, shoving through the circle of players surrounding us. He grabbed me by the back of my jersey and hauled me off Tucker with a strength that took me by surprise. Hunter was on the other side, stepping between us like a human riot shield.
"You guys need to grow up, and fast!" Coach said. “I’m over this bullshit. It’s done. You hear me? Done!”
I stood there, my chest heaving, my hair matted with sweat as I stared at Tucker as he slumped against the bench, gasping for air. We’d only landed a few hits, but the locker room was a wreck. Benches overturned, gear scattered, and the heavy, suffocating silence of a team that had just been torn wide open.
Coach looked from me to Tucker, his straight face barely hiding his fury. “Get up and get the hell out of my locker room.”
I didn't move. I just watched Tucker wipe a smear of blood from his lip, the war in the room finally, irrevocably, declared.
8
Kayla
The bar was a pressure cooker of stale hops and desperate hope. Every television in the place was a glowing altar to the Surge, and with the playoffs hanging in the balance, the air felt thick enough to choke on. It was the kind of night where I didn't just serve drinks; I managed heart rates. I played counselor to the fans losing hope, and a mirror to the ones refusing to give up.
I moved in a blur of practiced violence, thumping heavy glass mugs onto the wood, snapping the caps off longnecks, and dodging the erratic elbows of patrons who were too keyed up to sit still.
"Two Shiner Bocks and a tequila neat! And make it snappy, would you, beautiful? They’re about to drop the puck!"
"Keep your shirt on, Dave. The game isn't going anywhere.” I poured a line of perfect two-ounce measures with a flick of my wrist, and slid the tray to the waitress station.
There were things I could do in here without even looking and tonight it played in my favor, because my eyes were glued to the screen above the taps.
The Surge were facing the Ducks, and the energy at Frost Bank was translating into a frenetic, fractured pace on the ice. I wipeddown a spill, my rag circling a damp patch of mahogany, while the commentary droned through the speakers.
“And a line change for the Surge. Landon and Mason heading to the bench, replaced by the second unit…”
I stopped mid-swipe. There he was. Number 22.
Michael looked different on the screen than he did standing in front of my bar. Here he was a quiet, looming presence who smelled like cold, fresh air and looked at me with too much clarity. On the ice, he was a predator. He moved with a heavy, deceptive grace, his shoulders squared as he crashed into the boards to pin a Ducks defenseman.
"Look at that old man lumbering around," a voice grated from the end of the bar. “Some people never know when to quit.”
I reached for a stack of clean coasters and started fanning them out, my jaw tightening. Good, ole Steve. We could always depend on him to have a lot to say. A regular who regularly held the loudest, most contrary opinion in the place. It didn’t deserve my attention, no matter how much I wanted to give it to him.
"Landry," he scoffed. “More like statue with two left feet.” His voice was loud enough to cut through the crowd. He wore a faded Ducks jersey and had the puffed-up chest of a man who’d had three too many mid-shelf whiskies. "Surge are idiots for trading for a washed-up Seattle reject. He’s dragging the whole second line down. Guy’s probably just looking for a retirement check and a place to hide his walker."
The biggest part of my job was to be invisible behind the bar. In moments that called for it, it was to be whatever the paying customer needed. I’d heard every insult, every bad take, and every drunken slur directed at the home team. My job was to nod, smile, and keep the tab running. Faucet protocol.
But as I watched Michael take a cross-check to the ribs on screen, only to scramble back up and fight for the puck in the dirty areas of the crease, something in me snapped.
I walked down to the end of the bar, the damp rag still gripped in my hand, and leaned over the wood. "You’ve got a lot to say for someone who’s sitting on a stool instead of a bench, Steve.”
"Hey, I'm just sayin'—"
"No, you're flapping your gums because you think a jersey gives you a hockey IQ.” I tapped a finger on the bar, right in front of his drink. "That washed-up reject just took a hit that would put you out of action for a month. He’s the reason the Surge have a physical presence in the neutral zone for the first time in three seasons. He's doing the work while you’re busy complaining about the flavor of your free pretzels."
Steve blinked, his mouth hanging open. The customers nearby went quiet, a few of them hiding their amusement behind their beers.
"You want to talk smack about the team? Go to the sports bar down the street," I continued, narrowing my eyes. "But in here, we don't dump on the guys who are actually bleeding for the city. And Landry? He’s got more heart in his taped-up ankles than you’ve got in your whole body. You want another drink, or are you on your way out?"
