Page 12 of Break Away
She had spent seven months learning to stay as far away from me as possible.
1
Several months later
Aura
The Sin Bin had two rules on hockey nights that mattered to me: keep the drinks moving, and never let a man in a KFU jacket think he was funnier than he was.
Technically, there were more rules taped behind the bar in Bliss’s bubbly handwriting, laminated because she had faith in humanity and no respect for spilled tequila, but those two were the ones I trusted. The Sin Bin sat three blocks from The Furnace and carried itself like Kimball Falls University had personally ordained it the official church of wings, beer, bad decisions, and men who thought knowing hockey stats counted as foreplay. On game weeks, the place filled until the walls sweated and every table smelled like fried food, cologne, and somebody’s unresolved need to be the loudest man in the room.
I could work with loud because loud was easy. Loud tipped better when you had fun with it.
“Table twelve needs another pitcher,” Bliss said as she slid behind me with a tray balanced on one hand, a straw wrapper stuck to the sleeve of her referee shirt, and the expression of a woman who had already served three men named either Kyle or Brad and survived by the grace of sarcasm. “Before you make that face, I already warned them you’re mean and emotionally unavailable.”
“I wasn’t making a face,” I said, filling two drafts and checking the ticket printer before it could start screaming again.
“You were absolutely making a face.”
“That’s my customer service expression.”
“That’s your I hope your beer is flat expression.”
“Some people deserve carbonation-based consequences.”
Bliss laughed, bright and warm beneath the bar noise, and bumped her hip against mine as she reached for the grenadine. She looked ridiculous and adorable in the striped shirt and short black skirt The Sin Bin called a uniform, her blonde hair twisted up with a pink claw clip and her cheeks flushed from running the bar like a glittery little dictator. I wore the same cropped referee shirt with black shorts, black sneakers, and a whistle around my neck I refused to use after the third drunk business major asked if I gave penalties for bad behavior.
I told him I gave them for weak pickup lines.
He tipped twenty percent and avoided eye contact for the rest of the night.
“Do we have extra ranch in the lowboy?” Bliss asked, already reaching beneath the counter.
“If we don’t, table fourteen is about to start a community uprising.”
“Table fourteen is freshman football.”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
She grabbed two plastic cups of ranch and set them on my tray. “Speaking of emotionally delicate men in sports, you know the Fury are coming in tonight, right?”
My hand paused for half a second over the tray, which was annoying because my body had no loyalty. “A lot of people come into the bar, B.”
“The Fury hockey team, I meant.”
“My condolences to the floor.”
“Ay.”
I hated when she used the soft version of my nickname because she only used it when she wanted me gentle. Charm used it when she wanted me honest. Both of them used it when they were about to make my life harder in the name of love.
I picked up the pitcher beneath the beer tap and watched amber foam rise too fast. “Yes, Bliss, I know the hockey team is coming in tonight. I work at the most popular sports bar in Kimball Falls. This shocking turn of events may never leave my nervous system.”
“They’re celebrating.”
“Men celebrate finding matching socks.”
“They announced captain today.”
