Page 10 of Justice for Puck Bunnies

“This is an inside joke with yourself?”

“I’m great company.” I give him a cheeky grin.

That’s it, Izzy. Turn it on. Everything will be fine.

He tosses his towel onto the drink well and leans on the bar with crossed arms. “You good, Izzy?”

Critical fail.

“Never better.”

“You caused quite the scene on Sunday.”

“You’re welcome. Does the entertainment get a staff meal?”

Dane considers me for a moment. He’s been the barkeep at Fluke’s longer than I’ve been coming.

“Sure,” he says.

“Then I’ll have what they’re having.”

He delivers a definitive nod, scribbles gibberish onto a pad, and stabs the ticket onto a metal spike near the pass through.

My phone swoops the assigned sound in my pocket, but I don’t have the energy for Mason. He kicks off horny golden retriever energy so hard.

A bit of flirting would renew my spirits, but Mason won’t want to merely flirt this late at night. He’s usually at invitations within a handful of texts.

And there’s no one here for me to meet with. No one to talk to. There’s no one except Dane to smile for and have them smile back, and he’s disqualified. I don’t shit where I sleep.

Sulking, and to pass the time, I set up a half dozen new emails and create user names for Brad’s favorite fantasy hockey league site. It lets you rate and review the players, and I know from personal experience that Brad checks his rank and rating several times a day.

So, of course, my first step is to up-rate Wyatt, Vinson, and LaMille and down-vote Brad. It’s no effort at all to post several varying takedowns of Brad’s modest stickhandling, heavy skating, and lack of on-ice focus last season.

To give the accounts more legitimacy, I have them engage with each other and then with other users regarding various players and games.

Addevale’s star captain could use humbling. I only wish I could be there when he opens the app. His face is gonna be fucking hilarious.

Another two accounts and a fun exchange with someone about the Century City Leafs’ season prospects pass by before Dane sets a double cheeseburger, a pile of fries, and a slice of cheesecake in front of me.

“This isn’t a staff meal,” I say.

“Entertainment gets special treatment.”

“I didn’t ask you to do this.”

“Stop bein’ pissy about how I feed my staff. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back.”

This, friends, is why you never jeopardize a sanctuary.

“No need to be rude,” I reply with a wink.

He harrumphs but then exchanges the abandoned stout glass for a freshly poured one.

Bobby Vinson emerges from the crowd of college kids and finds his way back to his beer at the bar.

The man’s deep, mahogany eyes skim over me and quickly avert, which is just as well. I probably look unhinged, desperately scanning the room and cackling at my phone.

Still, he doesn’t acknowledge me when he sits, which hurts for some reason.

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