Izzy pops up from under the bar. “Don’t forget Todd’s ‘garnish thumb.’ He almost sliced it off last week cutting lime wedges.”
I grimace, thinking of how much our workers comp insurance would go up if that really happened.
“Can I get a refill?” someone at the bar asks. “Puck drops in one minute.”
“Sure.” The Cougars are playing Calgary tonight, and everyone’s got playoff fever. I grab the guy a clean glass and fill it with beer.
Fregular leans halfway across the bar, waving his arms like he’s coaching from the rail. “If Powers starts Vitek with DiCosta on D again, I swear to God I’m walking out.”
“You say that every week,” I mutter, shaking up a martini like it owes me money.
“They have no chemistry!” he yells. “Vitek couldn’t clear the puck out of a cardboard box.”
Onscreen, the arena lights flash and the Cougars' announcer starts bellowing into the mic:
“Starting on defense, number 51, Jiri Vitek!”
Fregular throws his hands in the air. “You see?! That’s it. I’m done. I’m done!”
“Uh-huh.” I pour the martini into a chilled glass, toss in an olive, and pick up the glass to deliver it.
“Last but not least, starting in goal tonight,” the announcer continues, “in his NHL debut—number 90, Becker James!”
I drop the martini. It just slides right out of my hand and onto the floor, treating the whole bar to the sound of breaking glass.
But nobody looks in my direction. They’re all watching the screen.
“What the fuck,” Fregular breathes.
“I’ve seen that guy in here,” someone else says in a shocked voice.
Nobody is more shocked than I am. I’m staring up at the screen, and there’s Beck, in a literal spotlight on center ice, lined up with the other starters for the Cougars.
Then the arena’s house lights come back on, and Beck skates toward the goal. I’d know that lanky stride anywhere. He’s got a weird, little hunch when he’s nervous. Like the weight of the world just dropped onto his shoulders.
And I didn’t know he’d be there tonight.
I didn’t know.
“Holy shit,” Scully says beside me. He’s staring up at the screen. “Did he tell you?”
“No.”
“He didn’t call?” He sounds like he doesn’t believe me.
“No,” I say again, quieter this time.
On the screen, Beck drops into the crease, taps each post with his stick, and pulls down his mask. Ready to play.
His first big league game, and I’m not there. I’m behind the bar, with gin on my shoes.
“I…I have to go,” I say suddenly.
“Yes you do,” Scully agrees, voice sharp with urgency. “Izzy! Check StubHub. What’s the cheapest seat in the building?”
She already has her phone out. “We don’t want the cheapest. We want the best. Here’s one in row fourteen for three hundred.”
“Oof,” I say, because I can’t not say it.
