Breaking the Ice

by T. Torrest

  I stopped picking at the label and started rolling the scattered scraps of paper into balls with the tips of my fingers. “I’ve been good, too. This place keeps me on my toes. It’s uh, it’s normally a little busier than this, especially once the happy hour crew gets here.”

  “I remember.”

  Shit. Of course she did. “Yeah, well, it used to be a lot busier. These days...” I trailed off, not knowing how to explain the lack of customers. We still had decent weekends, but even then, the money we brought in was nothing compared to what it used to be. But why the hell was I letting her know that?

  “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

  My throat clenched at the mention of my old man. He’d been gone for four years already, but there wasn’t a day that went by when I didn’t feel the sting of his loss. It’s not easy to find out your childhood superhero is actually a human.

  Fuck cancer.

  “Yeah, it uh… it was rough. Figured I’d try to keep his legacy alive by keeping this place afloat, you know?” I made myself meet her eyes to add, “Failing fucking miserably, however.”

  I gave a harsh snicker at that, less embarrassed than I thought I’d be about admitting my shortcomings. To her, anyway.

  Avery looked as though she didn’t know what to say. A flicker of sympathy broke across the steel reserve in her eyes, and it was enough to make me want to end this little reunion. What the hell was it about her that had me spilling my guts all of a sudden? We used to know each other. We used to be friends. She knew my dad, but...

  She knew my dad. I guess that’s all it was. I’d been through this routine with every single patron of this bar. Listened to their stories and endless reminiscing about my old man, the individual accounts each and every person had to relay those first few times they came back through the door. Eventually, the stories turned into mere mentions, a sentence here and there, a quick snippet about my father’s life recalled in tiny anecdotes, a few well-meaning, nostalgic words. Four years after his death, and people didn’t feel the need to talk about him anymore. They’d gotten over it.

  But Avery and I hadn’t been through this song and dance yet. And hearing her talk about the guy just brought all those old frustrations back to the surface. It’s no fun watching someone you love fade away, not being able to do a damned thing about it.

  I was steeling myself for the conversation that was sure to follow: her telling me what a good man he was, how he was at peace now, blah, blah, blah. But instead, she just gave a nod in acknowledgement and changed the subject. “Well, maybe we can help each other on that front.”

  I snapped out of it enough to ask, “What? With the bar?”

  “Mm hmm. It’s why I’m here.”

  I suddenly realized that what I’d believed to be a little social call was nothing more than a professional visit, and fuck me if that wasn’t an unexpected revelation. Because here I thought she’d come back for me.

  Zac, you’re an idiot.

  Chapter Ten

  I looked Avery over, wondering what “business” this pristine vixen in a designer suit could possibly have with a shithole like this.

  She folded her hands over the black folder on the table and got right down to it. “I’m sure you’re aware that the Devils are in the playoffs.”

  Who isn’t? “Uh, yeah, I think I may have heard something along those lines.”

  “And, I’m sure you’re also aware that if your boys bring The Cup back to Jersey, there’s going to be just a bit of cause for celebration.”

  I was both touched and peeved that she’d referred to my old teammates as your boys. “Just a bit.”

  “Well, I’m here to arrange that the celebration be held here.”

  That threw me. “Here? At my bar? Why?”

  “By request.”

  I supposed any number of people could have requested my bar for their venue. I got my teammates hooked on this place as one of our regular hangouts back in the day. Johnny’s was the closest bar to the arena, but The Westlake wasn’t too far of a trip whenever we wanted to change things up every now and then. I was still friendly with a few guys in that circle, and heck, my bar was the preeminent hockey-themed pub in the area. Just because it was the only hockey-themed pub didn’t take away from that dubious honor.

  To say that it was the obvious choice for their party may have been taking things too far, however. It sure as hell wasn’t obvious to me.

  My initial elation over the idea of a victory party being held here was overshadowed by my encroaching apprehension. I’d started playing with the team the season right after their 1995 win, and was handed my walking papers the year before their 2000 win. Talk about a missed window.

  Adding insult to injury, I’d been sent to the Dallas Stars back in that winter of ‘99. Texas, for chrissakes. It was like being shipped off to another planet. But hey. I guess things could’ve been worse. Fact is, a few months after I’d joined their team, they ended up winning The Cup.

  Too bad I was in a hospital and watching it on TV.

  Not only were my Championship hopes shattered, but so was my knee, ensuring that my career was crushed right along with it. My injury guaranteed that I’d never be playing for any other pro team ever again. After a lifetime of working toward my dreams, they were suddenly cut short. Three and a half years. That’s all I got. I came home to convalesce and brood about it, but that was just about the time my father received his diagnosis.

  Within a matter of months, the two things I’d loved most in my life were dead.

  If I’d had half a minute to sit and reflect on the shitty hand I’d been dealt that year, I probably would have sunk into a pretty deep depression. But the reality was, there was too much to do. I didn’t have time to sink.

  Now here it was, four years later, and my Devils were serious contenders for The Holy Grail once more.

  Once more, without me.

  But I guess enough time had passed, because I managed to find a way to love the game again. I’d been obsessed with every second of this past season, rooting my boys on once more from the sidelines. Hell. I’d done it my whole life. All those years when the reality of playing for them was nothing more than a far-fetched dream. Could I really be anything other than excited about their success?

  “That would be... phenomenal, Ave. Where do we start?”

  She smiled slightly and took a sip from her drink. “I was hoping you’d be happy about it. Truth is, the guys are really looking forward to it.”

  “Well, of course they are. They’re looking at three Cup wins within a decade. That doesn’t happen every day.”

  “Yes, but they’re also excited to see you, Zac.”

  I knew “the guys” wouldn’t have said much about such a matter, but it was nice to know that at the very least, they hadn’t completely forgotten their old teammate.

  “Yeah. I guess I kinda... dropped out for a bit, huh?”

  “You certainly did.”

  I caught a hint of bite in her comment, but there was no way I was going to open up that can of worms. Besides, we both knew where I’d been these past years. Which was more than I could say for her. I tried to meet her eyes as she picked at a stray thread on her cuff.

  “I had my reasons, Ave.” I cleared my throat. “But what about you? What have you been doing with yourself? Aside from looking fantastic while taking on the world, of course.”

  I offered her a sidelong smirk at that, which she managed to catch once she stopped the inspection of her sleeve. Her face met mine in the first genuine smile I’d seen since she stepped into my bar. Something stirred in my chest at the sight, and it was strange to realize that the mere sight of her unreserved grin could have such an effect on me.

  I suppose I shouldn’t have been so surprised. I mean, I was crazy about this girl back in the day. We used to have a blast together. She was smart and fun and she knew how to have a good time. She also had this great dimple that would appear in her right cheek whenever she laughed to
o hard. For some reason, I started to wonder if I’d ever get to see it again.

  She looked at me for a moment longer than necessary, and then, just like that, the smile was gone.

  She shot a skeptical, half-lidded stare in my direction before placing a palm on the folder and sliding it across the table. She was back in all-business mode as she said, “The preliminary contract is in here. Just your standard, non-disclosure kind of stuff. Look it over, or just send it off to your lawyer for review. I’ll be in touch.”

  At that, she grabbed her briefcase, straightened her skirt, and walked out the door.

  I watched the door close behind her, then sat there for a few extra minutes, trying to pull myself together. Too many questions had just been unloaded into my brain and I didn’t like not having the answers.

  Aside from the fact that Avery’s mere reemergence into my life had thrown me for a loop, I now was faced with the possibility of having to see my old teammates again, too. I liked a lot of those guys, but it was pretty humiliating to think about seeing them again as an ex-player. Hell, if I hadn’t torn up my knee four years ago, I’d probably still be knocking around the leagues. As it was, I hadn’t returned to the ice even for fun. The day of my injury was the last day I’d ever put on a pair of skates. I could say it was because I’d been too busy running this place, but if I was going to be honest, I knew my avoidance was due to more than just a lack of free time.

  I just couldn’t bring myself to do it anymore.

  I flipped open the folder but didn’t give it more than a passing glance. I already knew I’d be giving the green light for the party.

  Now all I needed to do was wait for my team to win.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Sonofa!”

  I slammed my wrench against the side of the air-conditioning unit, a last resort to get the damned thing started again. Needless to say, it didn’t do the trick. I’d been screwing around with the stupid thing for over an hour, trying to get it up and running. In the meantime, my bartenders were becoming overly cranky from the heat, and the few patrons that decided to brave it out were melting into puddles on their barstools.

  I was going to have to call Barry.

  Dammit. I was really hoping to avoid bringing in a pro for this. With some of my vendors and on-call guys, I could sometimes work out a bartering deal, but Barry was one of my few guys for hire that didn’t accept “alternate payment” for his services. Plus, I could do without the lecture that he was sure to give me, telling me it was way past time to simply replace the unit with a newer model. Even if he didn’t gouge me with the price—this time—the couple hundred bucks it was going to cost to fix it was money I didn’t have to spend right now. Much less could I come up with the scratch necessary to spring for a brand new unit.

  But one thing was for sure, if I didn’t get some cool air flowing through this place soon, I’d be looking at an empty bar, and then no money would be coming in.

  I went upstairs to my office and put the call in. Yes, Barry. Just a fix. I know, I know. But just do whatever you can to get this thing working again, okay?

  I sat at my cluttered desk and ran my hands through my hair, dropping my head down on the mountain of paperwork that had gone unattended for much, much too long. It was depressing to try and tackle the pile of bills when the money simply wasn’t there to pay any of them. I’d gotten pretty good at juggling and was able to keep the place afloat with a bare minimum of actual capital.

  You’d be surprised how little it took to sustain an establishment like this. My wait and bar staff was paid less than minimum wage (their salaries were more dependent on tips), so their paychecks didn’t put me in the poorhouse, thankfully. The kitchen crew wasn’t breaking the bank with their hourly pay, as my restaurant manager was the only person to draw an actual salary (and a modest one at that). Our bands were only compensated with what they were able to bring in at the door, and with the piddly five-dollar cover charge, it was amazing that any of them ever bothered to come back. But thank fuck they did, because the money we made from the weekend crowds was pretty much the only thing that ever kept us in the black.

  Barely.

  I realized pretty early on that I’d never make millions managing some little hole-in-the-wall, but at least the money this place did manage to bring in was enough for me to survive. Hell. Even in its heyday, we weren’t raking in the cash. But my brothers and I had never wanted for anything, and as long as we had a roof over our heads and food on the table, Mom and Dad were content with the life they’d made.

  I, however, hadn’t made my peace with living like a pauper. It’s not as though you could blame me; NHL money was nothing to snub your nose at. But my original plan to retire with a buttload of cash in the bank was thwarted once I destroyed my knee. The money I did have socked away went toward my father’s hospital bills, funeral expenses, and debts on the bar. In one single summer, all that cash just… disappeared. There wasn’t much left to play with when all was said and done.

  I just wish I were left with a little extra so I didn’t have to constantly stress about it.

  I flipped through that black folder once more, just like I had done about twenty times in the past weeks. The Devils were up two games to one in the series finals, having just lost their latest match. Of course I wanted to see them win, but I was rooting for them to take the whole enchilada for more reasons than just my personal team pride. A high-profile victory party held at my bar would mean a certain boost in business for this place.

  Ironically enough, it looked as though my livelihood would once again depend on hockey.

  I peeked into the open door of my apartment and checked the score on the TV. It was still a scoreless game and we were already in the second period. Way too painful to watch alone.

  I slammed down the rest of my water and decided to head back downstairs to the floor. The bar was busy enough tonight at least—most of our regulars had come to hang out as they usually did. But considering it was Game 4 of the finals, I would have expected to see this place a bit more crowded. With twelve televisions, great bar fare, and an endless supply of booze, The Westlake was the best place within a ten-mile radius to come and watch the games. As the suffocating heat radiated around me, I snickered in frustration, realizing how many more people must have come and gone before their asses even hit a stool. Most people didn’t want to spend their evening in an oven, and God only knew how many potential customers had pulled a one-eighty once the heat smacked them in the face.

  Speaking of ovens… I popped my head into the kitchen to see how the guys were faring. It was normally hot as hell back here as it was, but when the air wasn’t working, it was unbearable.

  The bar was separated from the restaurant by the large kitchen. Both halves of my establishment were designed to face the lake, but the view wasn’t the only draw for my restaurant patrons. I might be biased, but I’ve gotta say, the food was fucking phenomenal.

  Thankfully, I wasn’t forced to spend much time dealing with the foodservice end of things. My skills were better utilized schmoozing with my bar patrons and dealing with the paperwork necessary to keep the entire establishment in business. That’s why I let Felix run the show in regards to the restaurant and just stayed the hell out of his way. He was old as dirt, but he knew his stuff. I don’t even know that my father actually hired him all those years ago. Rather, Felix appeared out of thin air to land on The Westlake’s doorstep. Tuesday through Sunday, the guy started work at the crack and didn’t leave until the last customer left the premises. Six to eleven, every day, without fail, without complaint.

  A saint, I tell you.

  I gave him an inquisitive nod which was returned with his customary, “Yes, yes. Everythin’s fine, Zac. Now get out my kitchen.” I smiled as usual, then gladly took him up on his offer to remove myself from the inferno.

  Thankfully, Barry showed up just then. I gave him a wave (which he barely acknowledged) as he headed down into the boiler room. He didn’t ne
ed me to escort him; he knew quite well where it was. But he didn’t need to be so damn smug about it.

  Despite the heat, I was happy to see that the stools weren’t completely empty. Denny gave me an exhausted salute, and I figured it was best that I didn’t bother to make eye contact with Alice. Her personality was pretty rough-around-the-edges to begin with, but add in the uncomfortable temperature and the inevitable loss of tips she’d incur because of it, and oh Jesus. This night would go easier for the both of us if I just stayed out of her way.

  I noticed a cute little redhead sitting at the near end of the long bar, and took a moment to look her over in appreciation. We didn’t normally get too many girls in this dive, much less cute ones, and almost never on a weeknight. I practically owed it to myself to go and chat her up.

  “Don’t bother, man,” Denny said over my shoulder.

  “What?” I asked on a snicker.

  “She just got stood up and she’s not looking for a replacement date. Trust me. I already tried.”

  I assessed her again, then turned toward Denny and waggled my eyebrows. “Watch and learn, my friend. Watch. And. Learn.”

  Denny grinned evilly, shaking his head and saying, “Your funeral, man.”

  I gave him the finger then made my way over to Red.

  “’Evening,” I offered on a grin. I noticed her drink was running low, so I moved behind the bar and asked, “Refill?”

  She nodded. “Gin and tonic, extra splash of lime, two wedges.”

  Grabbing the Tanqueray in a Cocktail flip, I mixed up the drink to her specifications and placed it on her coaster. I didn’t normally pull out the parlor tricks, but the ladies always seemed to like that move. She pushed her pile of money in my direction, but I waved her off. “On the house.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Came out to see the game?”

  She gave a shrug and took a sip of her drink. “Yeah. I really like hockey.”

  Hmmm. Promising.

  “Is that so?” I asked, sneaking a raised eyebrow at Denny and adding, “My name’s Zac McAllister. I own the bar, but I used to own the ice.”