Page 33 of Icy Pour

JOHNNY

“His truck’s gone,” I gasp, out of breath as I walk back in from of the parking lot, stomping the snow off my shoes and onto the mat. “Shit. I don’t…I don’t know what to do.”

After he ran off, I gave him a minute, thinking he needed some air. But after another minute, my chest was so damn tight. I never should have let him walk out that door. Watching him punch a man for me was the most exhilarating thing in my life. I even went to a racetrack once and heard the cars roaring around me and thought that was the most exciting thing in the world.

It wasn’t.

This was.

And now he’s gone.

I heard what Bob was saying. Even from the other end of the bar, he wasn’t quiet about it. The cold sweat still lingers from his words. I pushed it down, stayed put, not wanting to add fuel to the fire. That’s the thing about being with someone who isn’t out; there’s a constant ache in your chest. You have to hide in the shadows even when every fiber of your being is telling you to go rescue the man you love. He always says he’s not as strong as I am. He doesn’t see that it couldn’t be further from the truth. If I was as strong as he was, I would have been down there backing him up.

But when I saw his fist fly, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. And I just let him walk out the door.

“Go,” Sandy says. “Find him and see if he’s okay.”

I take a step toward the door. “Fuck. I can’t leave the bar.”

“We’ll get it closed up,” Rich says as he looks at Sandy. “And one of us will stay here in case he comes back.”

My nose burns. “You sure?”

“Go, Johnny. He doesn’t need to be alone right now, regardless of what he might think.”

Dammit, she’s right.

“Okay. Thank ya’ll. I’ll call the bar in an hour if I can’t find him and see if he came back.”

“You’ve always had our backs, Johnny,” Rich says. “Let us have yours.”

I race out of the bar and sprint the couple of blocks to my car through the snow. I don’t know where he is, I don’t know what he’s doing, but I am determined to find him.

My mind is racing faster than the wiper blades on my windshield.

I don’t have a damn clue where he is.

I replay every conversation we’ve ever had that included a location. No way he’d go back to the arena. Maybe he’s at Millie’s trying to swallow down the pain with pecan pancakes? I make the turn onto St. Paul Avenue and start heading toward the diner, but I hesitate, thinking he probably wouldn’t want to be around people. I wrack my brain harder than Bear Bryant drawing up a play to lead the Crimson Tide to win the Iron Bowl—the way he had all the pressure on him before a game with that much history behind it—people up north here may not understand the rich history of my football team, the history of⁠—

I freeze. Holy shit. I look both ways before whipping my car around, driving as fast as I can to the one place I know he has a history.

After a few minutes driving down Wisconsin Ave, I finally see a lonely strip mall that looks out of place among the historic buildings surrounding it. And, in the parking lot, a truck.

His truck

I can’t pull up next to it fast enough.

Sprinting through the snow, I tap on the window. He looks stunned, broken, tears streaming down his face. I don’t even bother to ask, opening the door and pulling him in tight. He doesn’t hesitate, wrapping his arms around me like he’s falling from a tree and I’m the branch he’s grasping to for dear life.

“J-Johnny,” he says through sobs. “How…how did you know where to find me?”

“I remember everything you say, boss.”

He chuckles, his smile actually reaching his eyes. “You ever gonna stop calling me that?”

“Never. Now scoot over so I can get in.”

He moves across the bench seat as I close the door behind me.