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“Invite?” Cal scoffed. “You and that scary fucking wife of yours practically kidnapped me.”
“Maybe if you weren’t such a hermit since you moved to Harbor City, I wouldn’t have to,” Blackburn said as he scanned the crowd for his wife, his entire face transforming the second he spotted her cutting her way through the crowd to their table.
In that moment, Blackburn went from grizzly bear to gummy bear. If he was another kind of guy, Cal might have thought it was cute or some such touchy-feely shit. Fuck, he might have even been jealous.
But he wasn’t some other guy. He was Cal Should’ve-Been-One-of-the-Hockey-Greats Matsen, and he had one last chance to kinda sorta be in the game again.
No, teaching some punk how to pull his head out of his own ass wasn’t anywhere close to getting between the pipes again and shutting down a wristshot when the game was on the line, but it was as close as he was going to get. He rubbed his leg that was aching like a son of a bitch. Life rarely gave second chances, and this time he wasn’t about to let hockey slip out of his grasp again.
Not after what had happened before.
One beer and three fans asking him if he was that Cal Matsen later and he was on the train headed across the water and back into Harbor City. He got off the train and walked the three blocks to his building, the bottom floor of which was The Flying Sow Pub. He paused and looked at the sign on the door. His fridge was empty, and it promised cheeseburgers. Per usual, his stomach made the decision. He pivoted and headed inside.
There were five TVs on closed captioning, and thank fuck none of them were tuned into hockey. He’d had enough of the is-he-that-guy-who-had-the-thing-happen-during-that-playoff-game looks for one night. Four of the screens were showing football, and the last one had on a rerun of some reality show wedding out in Wyoming that had sucked his mom and sisters in over the summer.
Cal sat down at the bar and made eye contact with the bartender, a short and deliciously thick brunette filling two pints. She did a quick chin jerk of acknowledgment and then set the drinks down in front of a guy in an Ice Knights hat and an empty chair that presumably belonged to the guy standing in front of the jukebox next to the bar.
The guy punched in some numbers on the machine and sauntered over to the empty barstool, a smirk plastered on his punchable face. What made it a target? Cal couldn’t say, just an instinct that had always served him well when it came to knowing where the next shot was coming from.
The bartender—really, her hair was more black than brown and pulled into some kind of braid that went down her back like an arrow pointing to her very smackable ass—turned and started toward Cal. But then the first five notes of a sappy Taylor Swift song about Romeo and Juliet came out of the speakers. The bartender’s eyes narrowed half a second before she whipped around and marched over to the jukebox. She yanked the power cord out, cutting the song mid-lyric. The two dipshits at the bar chuckled into their pints as if they’d just played the ultimate prank.
The bartender glared at the men and then made her way down to the end of the bar where Cal sat.
“What can I get you?” she asked as she laid a cardboard coaster down in front of him.
“Cheeseburger and extra fries.”
“Sorry,” she said with a sympathetic wince, “kitchen’s closed.”
And to think he used to have the best timing in the league. “What time did it close?”
She glanced behind her at the two guys at the bar, whose gesturing was increasing along with their volume, then looked back at him and said, “Three years ago.”
So much for truth in advertising.
“Can I get you a drink?” she asked.
Fuck it. “Sure. Whatever stout you’ve got in a bottle.”
She nodded, walked over to the cooler, and grabbed a beer before pausing halfway back and snagging an unopened snack-size bag of Cheetos from beside the register.
She set both down in front of him. “Don’t want you starving.”
They weren’t flaming hot, but they were better than the sleeve of saltines or uncooked pasta upstairs. “Appreciate it.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but the two guys at the other end of the bar picked that moment to get really loud.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” complained the guy with the shaggy blond hair. “The Knights just need to trade him and be done with it.”
The bartender’s jaw tightened before she gave Cal a tight smile. “Holler if you need anything.”
Then, without waiting for his answer, she turned around and walked over to where the two men continued to manage the Ice Knights from the comfort of their barstools. She grabbed a gallon-size glass jar filled with dollar bills and plopped it down in front of the men.
“You know the rules,” she said, the tone of her rough alto voice and annoyed set of her jaw telegraphing clearly that she meant business. “Five bucks. Each.”
One man glared, but he pulled his wallet out of his pocket and fished out a five that he stuffed in the jar. When the shaggy-haired guy didn’t make a move, the bartender crossed her arms and glared at him.
“Who besides Theo here even carries around cash anymore?” the guy asked, sounding as petulant as a teenager who’d just gotten grounded.
