Page 38 of Head Over Skates

The bartender ambles over and I realize I have no idea what to order in a place like this, so I say the first thing I can think of, like they do in movies.

"I'll have what he's having."

The bartender pours me a foaming glass of tap beer. I didn’t think this through very well. I take a sip, wincing from the sourtaste. I do not care for this beverage one bit. I should have ordered a Shirley Temple. That’s my regular drink when I go out.

Mark eyes me warily. "Don't take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here talking to me?"

I force out a laugh. "What, can't I enjoy a drink after a long day at work? Boy, what a day, am I right?"

What if I try to burp? Seems like an appropriate thing to do.

“I… guess.”

“How about that stolen trophy? I’ll bet you didn’t expect that to happen.”

Transitions are not my forte, but I’m already feeling the buzz from only two sips of beer, so I kinda don’t care about being subtle.

Mark takes a long, hard look at me, then cracks a small smile. Apparently, I’m amusing him, or maybe he’s feeling tipsy, too.

“No, I sure didn’t. Whoever stole it has got big… well, you know.”

I reach over the bar for the bowl of mixed nuts. I need to offset this bitter taste in my mouth. Popping one in my mouth, I tilt the bowl to Mark.

“Nuts?”

“No thanks. I’m allergic.”

“Oh, sorry.” I shove the bowl far away from Mark and take another swig of beer. Nope, still not yummy.

As we chat over the din of the crowded bar, I decide to make up a story about my money woes (not too far from the truth, actually), hoping he’ll feel comfortable talking about his financial troubles, too.

It doesn’t take long before he opens up about his mounting debts, the years of compulsive gambling, the intimidating loan sharks who keep hounding his phone at all hours of the day and night.

I shake my head sympathetically as he describes how he started betting on sports recreationally in college, but it spiraled out of control after graduation. Now he's desperate for cash, taking risky bets he can't afford to lose.

As the alcohol loosens his tongue, Mark goes into more detail about his gambling addiction, his voice tinged with shame. He tells me how he started small, just placing a few bets on games with his buddies. But once he graduated and was working for the team, he had more access - and more money. He found himself betting bigger and bigger amounts, chasing losses and borrowing from loan sharks.

Before he knew it, Mark was in deep, owing tens of thousands to dangerous people. He skipped rent payments and stopped going out, trying to scrounge up enough to pay just the vig, let alone the principal. But the hole only got deeper. The stress was unbearable.

But the fear in his bloodshot eyes tells me he's running out of options fast, and that’s when I realize he didn’t steal the trophy. He's too deep in debt - he would have pawned it right away for cash. And he genuinely seems like a good guy who's just made some bad choices.

"Sometimes I just feel so hopeless, you know? Like I'm never gonna get out from under all this," he slurs, getting emotional.

I pat his arm sympathetically. "Hey, it's gonna be okay. You'll figure it out."

After a few more drinks, Mark thanks me for listening and stumbles out of the bar. I watch him go, sighing in frustration. Back to square one on suspects. But at least I'm confident I can cross Mark off the list.

I signal the bartender for my check, lost in thought. I'll have to tell Owen it couldn't have been Mark. Which means Owen and I are back to square one.

I weave through the crowded bar, heading for the exit, mentally exhausted after my chat with Mark. I just want to go home, slip into my comfiest pajamas, and veg out in front of the TV. This whole mystery is turning out to be way more complicated than I anticipated.

Suddenly, a meaty hand clamps down on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks.

"Hey there, where are you going so fast?" a gruff voice rumbles in my ear.

I whirl around to see the leering face of a mountainous man looming over me. He's got to be at least 6'5" with arms like tree trunks. A bushy beard covers his face and tattoos snake up his neck. Definitely not someone I want to tangle with.

"I was just leaving," I reply evenly, trying not to let my unease show.

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