Page 134 of Every Beautiful Mile

Travis died, and it was against my will. I couldn’t stop it any more than I could stop the endless sadness that followed. But Ethan? I walked away from him all on my own. The ache in my chest is by my own design.

Me: I did it.

Ethan: You did.

The words, Because you told me I could, go unsent along with every other thing I want to tell him.

Fifty-two

Rocks glasses line the bar as a group of jersey-clad bartenders eye them with skeptical boredom.

“Aside from making excellent cocktails and being someone people actually like talking to behind the bar, the best way to enhance the bar experience for your guests is to add a little flair to how you do it.”

My voice is overly enthusiastic as I ignore the phone that’s vibrating in my pocket.

“This is a sports bar, with actual sports being played while watching sports being played.”

I smile, meeting each of their eyes.

“Consider what we have going on in here. We have people golfing.” I point to two putting greens. “Basketball.” I nod toward the arcade-style basketball hoops. “Ping-pong tables, shuffle boards… whatever that punching bag thing is called.”

My finger bounces through the air and points to more sporting activities than I knew existed. While the covered seating area leads out to a courtyard of games without walls or a roof, the enclosed space around the bar is covered in team pendants and sporting equipment.

It takes the concept of sports bar to a new level. The dull staff? Not so much.

“So… who are your people? Who wants to come here?” I ask with a too-big smile, compensating for their lack of cheer with an abundance of my own.

When the Tampa sports bar owner booked this consultation, he told me there was a disconnect between the vision he had and the way the atmosphere felt. The eight blank faces that stare at me confirm his thoughts. “Anyone?”

“Sports fans,” a girl answers in a monotone voice.

“Good. Sports fans. Who else?”

“Men,” another one says flatly.

“Men. Good, but let’s go deeper than that. Forget about gender or if they watch the Bucs every Sunday. Who are these people?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Competitive.”

The slightest bit of enthusiasm peeks through the answer.

“Fun.”

“Laid back.”

“Playful.”

“Bingo!” I clap my hands. “The people that come here want to play. You might get people who randomly complain about the volume on the TV, but for the most part, your guests come here to have some fun, and play. The bar needs to follow suit. You need to follow suit.”

I drop a bucket of ice on the bar, and their eyes lock onto it.

“Do we get to dump it on the heads of bad tippers?” a guy with a shaved head jokes, making the others laugh.

“I won’t say no, but your boss might not love it.” I smile. My phone vibrates in my pocket.

Again.

This time, I pull it out to make sure it isn’t a family emergency before seeing a number I don’t recognize and shoving it back into my pocket.

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