The bartender approached, but my mind drifted back to a certain roadside shoulder. I thought about the way the humidity had curled the hair at the nape of Kayla’s neck, and how her son had looked at me as if I were an intruder in a world I could barely navigate.
"Bourbon. Neat," I said to the bartender. "And a menu. I'm staying in tonight."
I pulled my phone from my pocket and stared at the blank screen. There was no one to text, no one to check in with. Just a game tomorrow and a body that felt every season in its bones. And as the sounds of the Chicago nightlife started to bleed in from the street, I’d never felt more like a footnote in someone else’s championship story.
My drink arrived, the liquid a deep, honeyed amber that caught the low light of the overhead lamps. I turned the glass in a slow circle, watching as condensation streaked the sides. The bar itself was all dark wood and velvet, a cocoon of expensive quiet that almost muffled everything else. Almost.
"That looks like a drink for someone who’s thinking too hard."
A woman had claimed the stool two down from mine. She was unsurprisingly beautiful, wearing a silk blouse the color of a bruise and a smile that suggested she was used to getting what she wanted. Her bright green eyes tracked the movement of my hands, thankfully giving me time to set my expression into something other than surprise.
"I didn’t realize there was any other way to think," I said, my voice losing some of its edge. I signaled the bartender. "Another one for the lady. Whatever she’s having."
"A French 75," she told him, then turned to face me entirely. "And thank you. I'm Elena. Are you always this focused, or do I just have bad timing?"
"Michael. And your timing’s perfect." I offered a small, tired smile. "I'm in town for work, but could probably stand to focus on something else."
"Hockey," she said, her eyes dropping to the line of my shoulders before returning to my face. "You play for the Surge, don't you? The ones everyone says can't be beaten."
"The ones everyone says," I repeated, taking a measured sip of my drink. The burn was clean, settling in my chest. "Some of us are just trying to keep up with the legend."
Her laugh was a light, melodic sound that didn't feel forced. Didn’t make me feel as if she were looking for social media content. Elena reached out, her fingers hovering near the sleeve of my jacket, but never quite making contact.
"You don't strike me as someone who struggles to keep up.” Her long lashes kissed the skin under her eye as she dipped her gaze. “I’ve seen you play. You’re the one who knows exactly where the finish line is while everyone else is still looking for their shoes."
"Oh, I know where it is, just fine," I said, my thumb tracing the rim of my glass. "The problem is the line keeps moving the closer I get to it."
The conversation flowed easily for a while. Dry observations about Chicago winters and the strange, transient life of a professional athlete. She was charming, sharp, and the invitation in her eyes was as clear as the gin in her glass. For a second, the idea of not going back to a silent hotel room held a certain pull. It would’ve been easy. A few more drinks, a shared elevator ride, a temporary distraction from the ache in my back and the hollow in my gut.
But as she leaned in, the exquisite floral scent of her perfume hit me, and all I could think about was the smell of citrus dishsoap and stale beer. About a woman who drove around with a flat spare in her trunk and zero fucks to give. I owed her nothing, of course, and could’ve worked around that. But there was still the Blackhawks…
Elena set her empty glass down, her gaze lingering on mine. "So, Michael. Is the plan still the early skate, or is there room for a late-night detour?"
I reached for my wallet, laying a few bills on the counter to cover the tab. "The plan is the plan. It was a pleasure, Elena. Truly. But I’ve learned that badly timed detours are hell to recover from."
"A gentleman," she sighed, though there was a twinkle of genuine respect in her expression. "A rare find in this zip code."
"We’re out there; I swear. You just have to know where to look."
I walked away from the warmth of the bar and the silk-clad promise of company. The lobby was empty now, the gold leaf overhead looking cold under the night lights. I stepped into the elevator alone, the silence of the rising car a familiar weight. There was a game tomorrow. A legacy to protect. And somewhere back in Texas, there was a bartender who probably hadn't thought about me once since I’d dropped her off at her kid’s school.
*
The United Center was a tomb of cold air and hostile noise. The puck dropped, and within five minutes, the Surge looked like they were skating through waist-deep slush.
"Move your feet, Landon!" I yelled from the bench.
He just stared at the play with glassy eyes, his face a shade of gray that didn't belong on a pro athlete. Next to me, Coach was a statue of vibrating fury, his jaw working a piece of gum as if he planned to grind it into dust.
"Michael, Shawn, get out there. Wake them up."
I hopped the boards, the transition a shock of frozen oxygen in my lungs. But even with that, the purpose firing up my legs was way more than anything the other guys showed. The Blackhawks were faster, hungrier, sniffing the blood in the water. A Chicago winger tried to burn past me on the outside, but I angled him off, finishing the check with a shoulder that sent a jolt all the way to my teeth.
"Pick it up!" I yelled, digging the puck out of the corner.
I fed a crisp pass to Shawn. It hit his tape, but he fumbled the handle, the puck sliding harmlessly into the neutral zone. Chicago pounced. One pass, two, and the red light was strobing behind Hunter. 1-0.
The bench was a morgue during the first intermission.
