Breaking the Ice (9 page)

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 too 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 need 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.”

   She held out her hand, so I shook it. But instead of offering her name, she simply asked, “And?”

   “
And
, you said you were a hockey fan.”

   “So?”

   “You don’t recognize me, do you.”

   “Should I?”

   Jesus, this was just going nowhere fast. Had I become so irrelevant to the game in only four years of absence? “Well, it’s been a few years, but I used to play for those guys right there.” I gave a point to the TV, taking note of the score. Still not even on the board yet, dammit.

   “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

   “Most people are.”
Is that smoke I smell? Because I’m pretty sure I just crashed and burned
. “I only played three seasons with them before I got shipped down south.”

   “Short career.”

   “Hey. That’s better than most. We can’t all be Gordie Howe.”

   “Who?”

   I bring up the name of Mr. Hockey himself and she asks me ‘who’?
Who?
Only the first player to ever score a thousand goals, the guy who holds the record for most consecutive games ever played, and one of the greatest athletes to ever play the game? Did she really not know who Gordie Howe was? Even a non-fan has at least heard of the guy!

   Red hadn’t been receptive to my advances throughout our entire exchange, but her complete lack of knowledge about a game she “really liked” was when
I
checked out of the equation.

   I’m sure the shocked look of disgust must have been written all over my face when I answered, “Yeah. I think this conversation is over.”

   And at that, Red gave a shrug, gathered up her change, and left.

   Relief flooded my bruised ego, but then a familiar bark of laughter filled my ears. “Wow. Does that ‘owning-the-ice’ line usually work?”

   I turned to see Avery a few stools behind me. She must have slipped in while I was chatting with Red. “Usually.”

   “I thought you didn’t use lines. Maybe you’re losing your touch.”

   I came out to the floor and walked over to where she was sitting. Leaning an elbow against the bar and raising my eyebrows, I shot back, “Impossible.”

   That made her laugh. Good. I was hoping it would. I waved Alice over to hook Avery up with a drink, taking note of her order.

   Attention, gentlemen: You can tell a lot about your odds with a girl from her chosen cocktail—at least according to what the old-timers have always told me. Let’s pause here for a moment so that I may share their wisdom with you. You may want to grab a pen and some paper to take notes in case there’s a test at the end:

   THE COOL CHICK: A beer girl is laid-back, the kind of woman who’s content to stay in for the night with a pizza and watch the games with you on your couch. She might be a friend of yours already. Maybe she used to date one of your buddies, but if it wasn’t serious, she can be put on the Prospectives List. She can be found most often frequenting ball games, sports pubs, frat parties… and gives one hell of a blow job.

   THE SURE THING: Shots of hard liquor indicate party girl, which can sometimes be a lot of fun, provided she doesn’t do too many and turn into a crazy bitch. This is a special breed and must be handled with extreme care. Fun for an evening or two, but not necessarily the type you’d bring home to Mom. She can be found dancing on any random bartop, but tends to frequent loud establishments, normally when a rowdy band is on stage. Hell, she probably came with the bass player. She will fuck like nobody’s business, and probably leave you sore the next morning.

   THE NEWBIE: Piña Coladas and Daiquiris are for the young and inexperienced, so an I.D. check is suggested immediately before proceeding. Provided her license isn’t a fake, she’s fair game. And that’s a good thing, because the Newbie is eager to please. She can normally be found in a darkened corner, making out with a random dude she just met five minutes prior. With any luck, he’ll ditch her to seek out a girl who will be down for more than just kissing. In about twenty minutes, she’ll be looking for her next hookup. Heartbroken and insecure, she’s just waiting to prove her sexual prowess with the
next
guy she meets, and if you play your cards right, that guy can be you. A fake name is advised when encountering a Newbie, because she tends to be rather clingy after sex. The last thing you need is a starry-eyed stalker calling you at all hours for the next month because she hasn’t yet learned the rules and can’t take a hint.