Page 45 of Breakaway
"I didn't have the sliders."
"You missed them?"
"I was busy being watched from across a room by a man in a tux who was rating the napkin folds."
He opens the spreadsheet. The screen glows between us in the dim room.
"We should rate the gala," he says.
"The gala is not a restaurant."
"The gala served food. That makes it ratable."
"Fine. Food was a six-eight. Ambiance was an eight-two. Company was a ten."
He looks at me. His hand stops on the keyboard. "A ten."
"The company was a ten."
He doesn't type the number. He closes the laptop and sets it on the table and pulls me into him, both arms, my face against his neck.
?
Chapter 16: Luca
One block separates the bar from the hotel. Dark wood, brass rails, a television behind the bar showing highlights from games nobody in here played in. The team has pushed three tables together and the noise is right, the post-game frequency where winning sounds like beer glasses and retold shifts and Thompson's voice carrying over everything. Mouse has enough food for two days. She will not forgive me for three.
I am ranking the bartenders before we've finished our second round.
"The one on the left has technique. Watch the pour. Consistent wrist, no wasted motion, respects the glass." I point with my beer. "The one on the right is improvising, and it shows."
"Berger, we've been here ten minutes," Thompson says.
"And in those ten minutes I've gathered sufficient data for a preliminary assessment."
Mueller leans back and looks at the bar. "The one on the left is faster."
"Faster is not better, Mueller. I'm evaluating craft."
"You're evaluating bartenders."
"There is no difference," Mueller says, flat, and drinks his beer.
Marchetti is in the center of the table telling the story of his goal for the second time. The second telling adds a detail about the defenseman's face that I am not sure happened.
"His eyes, though. He knew. He saw the puck leave Hájek's stick and he knew it was over."
"That's not what happened," Thompson says. "You scored because his partner was out of position. The eyes are fiction."
"Brooks. You saw the eyes."
Brooks shakes his head. "I'm off the clock."
"Your goal was beautiful and the eyes are unverifiable," I say. "Seven-point-nine. Docked for the fiction."
"You can't dock my goal."
"I just did. The spreadsheet will reflect it."
