by T. Torrest
“Yeah?”
“I’m really sorry. I thought you knew.”
We hung up the phone and I sat there staring at the floor while I caught my breath. The news was churning my stomach, and I couldn’t make sense of it. As badly as I wanted some verification, I was too afraid to make it real.
I needed to talk to my father.
I went downstairs and found him sitting at the dining room table, going over his roster—or, as he normally referred to it: his bible. I repeated the words that had been swirling around in my brain for the past ten minutes. “Hey, umm… McAllister’s traded?”
Dad didn’t look up from his book. “Yep. Dallas.”
I already knew it was the truth, but hearing Dad say as much actually confirmed it. I tried to remain calm as I asked, “Who’d we get for him?”
“Boucher. From Montreal.”
“Boucher is good.”
“Yep.”
I stood there flipping my slipper on and off my heel. “Did he… Did Zac want to leave?”
“He wants to win a championship, just like any other player.” Dad looked up from his bible and finally gave me his full attention. From the look in his eyes, I wasn’t sure I wanted it. “Avery, what is this? You seem awfully interested in my job today.”
I gnawed on my bottom lip as I checked my cuticles.
Dad wasn’t buying my attempt to look unaffected. “I thought you knew better than to get involved with any of those guys. McAllister is one hell of a player, but I can’t imagine…” Thankfully, he didn’t finish that line of thought, and simply let out a sigh. “Look, honey. He was good for me, but he wouldn’t be good for you. Understand?”
Oh, I understood it perfectly.
I couldn’t believe I’d actually fallen for his line of bullshit. I knew he was a dog the first night I met him, and he’d only proven it to me a million times in the years since. Hell, he went out of his way to show me how he did it, how easy it was for him to talk a woman into bed.
Though, I supposed if I was going to be honest, I guess I was the one convincing him the other night.
And oh God! The way I looked at him! All adoring and pathetic, virtually confessing my love for him in the backseat of my freaking car for godsakes! Three whole years I spent building up an immunity to his advances, and after a few drinks and some wooing words, I was practically begging him to sleep with me.
I couldn’t believe he was only lying when he said all those amazing things. I couldn’t believe I bought into it so easily. If this was how he treated his friends, I couldn’t imagine how he treated his enemies.
“No, yeah. I know. I just didn’t see him out last night and was wondering about it.”
Dad’s attentions refocused on his bible. “Well, no need to wonder about it anymore. He’s gone.”
Yes, that was true. I knew it all too well.
He was gone.
PART TWO
ZAC
2003
Chapter Eight
“Goddammit, Brodeur! Block the shot!”
I threw a towel into the sink and brought my fist down on the bar. Jerry Winters moved his drink out of my line of fire and let out a low whistle. “Take it easy, Maniac. It’s only the first period.”
I topped off his beer and brought my attention back to the TV. Only the first period. Yeah, I got it, but every second of this game could make the difference between a win or a loss, and they had one hell of a chance to actually make the finals this year. I supposed I was a bit more invested in this battle than your average sports fan, seeing as how I used to play for them. And even if I got shit-canned well before my prime, I didn’t hold that against the team. Some of the guys out there on the ice were actually my friends.
Out of pure routine, I took a quick scan down the bar to make sure everyone’s glasses were filled, even though Denny was on shift and the stools were hardly filled. I wasn’t a bartender anymore, but old habits die hard. I spent way too many hours slinging drinks just to turn it off when I was on the other side of the taps. It was hard to stay out from behind the bar.
I was the owner and self-proprietor of The Westlake Pub in the tiny suburb of Norman, New Jersey. Second generation in ye olde family business, which I inherited a few years ago. My old man first bought the place back in seventy-eight, and it hasn’t changed much in the twenty-five years since then. It was a large but ancient structure situated on the west shore of Lenape Lake, a small community within the larger town of Norman.
The neighborhood had undergone some major renovations over the years, the tiny vacation bungalows razed in favor of the ostentatious McMansions which every newly-suburbanized up-and-comer seemed to require. All that construction may have elevated the beauty of the landscape, but was nothing compared to the heightened egos of its dwellers. Through all the changes, The Westlake remained untouched. It was still the same, broken-down dive that had been the bane of this community’s existence since Day One.
I grew up thinking it was the coolest place in the world.
My brothers and I spent every summer of our teen years working the kitchen or as bar-backs and every winter skating on the ice of that very lake on which this building sits. I knew every inch of this place almost better than I knew myself. Every leaky pipe, every dusty corner. The Westlake was a true “old man bar,” a beer-and-shot joint, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Let the snobs tip back a martini at the country club one town over; The Westlake was where the real humans went. Some of those ‘real humans’ were absolute drinking machines, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t appreciative of that. My regulars were the ones who’ve kept this place afloat all these years.
Well, that and my father.
Every day after school, I’d come in to find him either holed up in his little office upstairs or serving drinks down here. He couldn’t seem to stay out from behind the bar, either. It was addictive. Not the liquor, but the environment itself. Because even though he was surrounded by alcohol practically twenty-four hours a day, my father rarely touched the stuff. I got it. You couldn’t watch all those boozehounds getting their drink on night after night without becoming the slightest bit disgusted. The same guys, day in and day out, stopping in for a drink or twelve at the end of their shifts, trying to put some space between their miserable jobs and their miserable home lives. It wasn’t uncommon to find an angry housewife come storming through the door at any given moment in this joint. There were a few guys that just didn’t know when to call it a night, but most of my regulars were actually pretty cool.
My four best were presently sitting at the bar.
There was Jerry Winters (better known as Jerry Liverwurst, named after his favorite sandwich), a transplanted, retired security guard from the Scrapple factory down in Philly who practically lived here. He commanded the same stool from three o’clock every afternoon to six o’clock every night. Then it was home to the wife for a leisurely dinner before he headed right back here for the evening shift, nine to closing.
Every. Day.
Most often occupying the stool to his left was Roy Bread. I don’t know his real last name, but he drove the bread truck, so that’s what everyone called him. He had dyed black hair and a Snidely Whiplash mustache, the kind that hasn’t been in style since back when guys threw medicine balls around the gym and referred to everything as “the cat’s meow.”
Nobody really knew Richie Rum-N-Coke’s story. He worked full-time down at the industrial park off Main, some sort of machinist or something. He put in a lot of hours here, though, I’ll tell you what. He would come to the bar straight after work, and stay until we locked up for the night. Sometimes, he’d even stop in during his lunch hour.
The last member of the quartet was The Incredible Hank. Don’t ask why everyone called him that, because I don’t know. Maybe he was a really amazing HVAC repairman? A good guy, but down on his luck, so he couldn’t really pour the same amount of booze down his gullet at the equal rate as his friends. He spent his time drinking water or club soda
, anything that didn’t cost too much but would allow him to hang out for a little while, and he always left a tip. The guys would normally spot him a couple beers on their tab, and more often than not, I’d make sure Denny “lost count” on the totals.
There were some secondary regulars—Chuckie Fabulous, Joey Tile (not to be confused with Joey Bricks), Frankie Zero, Garbage Day, Jimmy Crooner (who never spoke a word, much less sang a note), and a bunch of others—but they were only part-timers. Pikers, if you took stock in Jerry’s assessment.
Whether any of them came in for one drink or twenty, I didn’t judge. It wasn’t up to me to decide how much was too much, except when it was time to call one of them a cab. I was just happy they kept coming back.
Even with all its drama, I was mostly grateful that I had this place to fall back on. My whole life had been built around hockey, and that motivation left little room to impart any sort of failsafe in case it didn’t work out.
But it’s not as though failing was even an option in my mind. Hockey was the only thing I ever wanted, so it was the only thing I ever concentrated on. Why in the world would I have pursued a degree in finance when I could make a living on the ice?
I dropped out of Boston College two years shy of getting my diploma and took the Devils up on their offer to come play with them. I went in the first round, eighteenth pick in the ’95 draft, which was pretty fucking phenomenal in terms of validation. I couldn’t believe it. The frigging Devils! The team that made me fall in love with the sport to begin with. My home team.
All of a sudden, I was one of them. I was one of the pros. Bobby Orr, Wayne Gretzky, and now Zachary McAllister. My name was going on a goddamned NHL sweater.
The elation only lasted about ten minutes, however, because then it was time to focus on making it to the show. A lot of guys, even if they’re good, don’t see much action their first year on a pro team. I didn’t leave myself too much room to celebrate when there was still work to do.
And work I did. I busted my ass every practice, gave it my all, left everything I had on the ice. No one would ever be able to say I coasted through those early days. I rode the pines more than I would have liked during pre-season, pissed off and insulted that I was so close to tasting the dream, yet not quite there yet. I put my time in, paid my dues, and then kicked ass during every moment they let me off the bench. All that work finally paid off, because miracle of all miracles, I was put on the first line during our very first matchup, where I stayed throughout the bulk of my career.
That first year in the pros was a dream come true. I was part of a winning team that had just come off a championship the year before.
And now, eight years later, my team was a contender for the Stanley Cup once again.
Preoccupied with the game on my TV, I was only mildly cognizant of the sound of the bell ringing over the door. The thing jangled a million times a day and rarely captured my attention anymore. Just another thirsty customer, and Denny was quite capable of handling it. I topped off Jerry’s beer again and went to wipe down the hightops. The bar rag slipped free of my belt loop on the walk, so it was in the midst of crouching down to retrieve it that I heard a woman’s voice ask, “Zachary McAllister?”
I raised my head at the sound, just enough to see a pair of black fuck-me heels, and followed a tantalizing line of flesh as my eyes took in a gorgeous pair of legs. By the time I finally met her face, I’d already taken this girl to bed twenty ways to Sunday in my mind.
Only, she wasn’t just any girl.
Sitting on a stool in my bar, eyeing me with raised brows and a scowl that let me know I’d been busted, was Avery Brooks.
The Girl Who Got Away.
Chapter Nine
“Zac?”
At the sound of her voice, I shook myself out of the stupor and finally found my bearings. “Avery.”
The corners of her lips turned up slightly, seemingly pleased that I actually remembered her. How could I forget? Sweet, but shy. Smart, but fun. Down-to-earth… but extremely fucking beautiful. The kind of girl that could give a guy a physical reaction just from looking at her, if you know what I mean.
Unfortunately, she was also the kind of girl who could give a guy the boot the second he got kicked off her favorite team. I’d do well to keep that in mind.
I cleared my throat, mimicked her raised brows, and asked, “Slumming this afternoon?”
Any hint of her tiny grin disappeared at that. She adjusted the belt at her waist and sat up a bit straighter, her eyes narrowing as she responded, “I’d like to talk to you, actually. Do you have a minute?”
“Running this place doesn’t normally allow for much free time.”
She scanned her eyes down the bar, taking note of all four of my customers. “Clearly, you’re swamped. I should have called first.”
Her lips were clamped together, assuredly fighting the urge to smile. Shit. Now I had to find a way to save face.
“I guess I can break away for a few.” I called down to Denny, “Den, You got this? I need to talk shop for a bit.”
Denny looked at me as though I’d lost my mind. “Uh, yeah. I think I can handle it.”
Of course he could. What the hell was I doing? Trying to seem so goddamn significant just because Avery Brooks had walked back into my line of vision. As though Denny couldn’t manage the bar without my supreme guidance. Jesus. I was being such an ass.
I mentally chided myself and jerked my chin toward the far end of the room. “Let’s take over one of the booths. We’ll have more...” privacy. I couldn’t say that, though. If I gave her any indication that I was looking to get her alone, she’d probably run screaming for the hills. Kind of like how she did all those years ago. “…We’ll be able to talk better over there. Can I get you a drink?”
Her pouty lips were formed into a perfect O as she considered my easy question. Shit. Why was it so hard for us to have a simple conversation with each other? The both of us were wound way too tight. We didn’t used to be this way with each other. We used to be pretty decent friends. I mean, yeah, sure, toward the end there, I thought she could be more, but—
“I’ll have a club soda with lemon, thanks.”
She grabbed her leather briefcase from the stool next to her and headed over to the more private booths along the wall while I hopped behind the bar to grab her drink. As I was filling the glass, I tried to pull myself together. I wasn’t having much luck.
Avery Brooks.
Avery Fucking Brooks was here. In my bar. To see me.
After four whole years.
While I still carried a pretty big chip on my shoulder regarding the way things were left off between us, I couldn’t deny that it was still exciting to see her again. Maybe she was here to hash all that stuff out finally. Better late than never, right?
I grabbed her club soda with one hand, a bottle of water for myself in the other, and set out for the booths. I stopped short, though, when I saw those bare legs peeking out from one of them.
Jerry elbowed me in my side, giving me his raised-brow approval as he nodded his head in Avery’s direction and whispered, “Nice stems on that one. You’re lucky I’m not twenty years younger, boy-o. You’d have yourself some competition.”
I scowled and dismissed his insinuation. “I’m not... She’s not...” but I couldn’t find the right words to shoot him down properly. Deciding it wasn’t worth getting into the whole story, I just shook my head at him in exasperation as I headed over toward Avery.
Placing the drinks on the table, I slid into the bench seat across from her. It’s not something I took notice of every day, but suddenly, I became aware that the wooden tabletop was dinged and scratched; the green pleather cushions had seen better days. The seats were cracked and torn in a few places, the half dozen rips repaired haphazardly with green duct tape over the years. That’s the thing about dive bars. We took our title seriously. And The Westlake was a textbook dive.
Avery was rifling around in her briefcase, seem
ingly unaware of her crappy surroundings. I took a quick second to look her over, to note the changes that the years had taken on her. The girl in front of me was a hell of a lot different than the one I remembered from back in the day. She was still stunning—no denying that—but she seemed... stiffer than I remembered. Aside from the high-heeled shoes and the tailored miniskirt that showed off her incredible gams, she was wearing a white, button-down blouse under a black, fitted blazer.
It’s almost summer, sweetheart. Lighten up.
She’d only been here for five minutes, and I could already tell that this Avery Brooks was a far cry different from the timid and unsure girl of my memories. This Avery looked as though she’d just stepped off the pages of Fortune magazine.
Okay, fine. I could play all-business, too.
“So. To what do I owe the honor of your presence today?”
Avery found whatever she was looking for in her briefcase and tossed a black folder onto the table between us. “Nice to see you, too, Zac.”
Shit. I was so intent on playing it cool that I completely skipped over common courtesy. I started picking at the label on my water bottle. “You’re right.” I offered an apologetic smile before amending, “Hello. How are you? How have you been?”
Her eyes finally met mine, and holy shit if that didn’t send a jolt right fucking through me. I’d been so mesmerized by those killer legs that I’d forgotten all about her gorgeous eyes. Light brown irises with flecks of gold, outlined in a deep chocolate. I suppose if I was a total pussy, I’d refer to them as topaz eyes.
At least I would have if I were describing them years ago. Today, they were more tiger-like than warm and inviting.
She tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, causing the ends to kick out from her neck. She’d cut it short, just above her shoulders. Business-like. Ball-bustery. “I’m good. I’m an event planner now. Working my tail off at it, but otherwise... I’ve been good. You?”
