Page 2 of Broad Shoulders

“I knew you looked familiar!” the guy exclaims. He shakes his head as he looks at the bartender. “Alana, you’re serving drinks to one of the best outfielders in baseball!”

She looks at me, clearly not recognizing my name. “Sorry, I don’t really follow baseball.”

“Are you serious?” The guy seems personally offended. “Jackson was a machine in the outfield. Man, I’ll never forget that diving catch you made in the World Series.”

I laugh, appreciating the enthusiasm. But as much as I enjoy a fan who remembers my glory days, my attention is fixed on Alana. She doesn’t look impressed or unimpressed by the revelation—just curious, her head tilted slightly as she studies me with new interest.

“You don’t play anymore?” she asks.

“Nope. Retired a few years back.”

“And what do you do now?”

If I were being completely honest, I would tell her that I’ve felt lost since hanging up my jersey. That the traveling isn’t just for fun—it’s me searching for something to replace what baseball gave me. A purpose. A reason to get up in the morning that feels as important as the game once did.

Instead, I answer with a shrug. “A little of this, a little of that. My post-baseball identity is still a work in progress.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

A customer at the other end of the bar signals, and she excuses herself. When she’s out of earshot, the guy near me grins. “Don’t go getting any ideas about Alana. She’s sweet with everyone, but that’s just her way. Half the guys who come in here think they have a shot.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, even though my heart is still racing from talking to her.

“Sure you don’t.” His tone is knowing. “Just giving you the local wisdom.”

I spend the next couple of hours nursing my drinks and chatting with the bar’s patrons. A middle-aged couple tells me about the best hidden beaches on the island. A young guy who works as a diving instructor shares stories about the marine life. All the while, I find myself tracking Alana’s movements around the bar, listening when she joins conversations, watching her laugh with the regulars.

She’s good at her job—attentive without hovering, friendly without being fake. I try to stop stealing glances at her, but it’s impossible to pretend like I’m not completely, utterly taken by her.

Around ten, someone switches on the karaoke machine in the corner. A few locals take turns performing, some better than others, but all met with enthusiastic applause from the small crowd. I’m content to watch from my spot at the bar.

But then Alana leans across the bar, nudging my arm with the back of her hand. “Your turn, Superstar.”

“Not a chance,” I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m strictly an audience member.”

“Everyone sings,” she insists, her eyes challenging me. “It’s practically the law.”

“It’s true,” the guy a few seats down chimes in. “Visitors especially. Mandatory cultural experience.”

“Come on,” Alana coaxes, looking right at me. “One song won’t kill you.”

The other patrons join in, clapping and encouraging until I finally raise my hands in surrender. “Fine. One song.”

I make my way to the small stage and scroll through the song list, selecting a ballad I know well enough to not embarrass myself. As the music starts, I watch Alana lean against the back counter, an amused smile playing on her lips.

The first words of the song leave my throat. A little off-key, but fuck it. It’s karaoke. I’m standing up here to entertain, not to win a singing contest. That’s all this is.

Except halfway through the first verse, something shifts. My voice grows stronger as I find the melody, and Alana’s smile changes from amused to attentive. She tilts her head slightly, actually listening. The rest of the bar blurs around the edges of my vision until she’s the only thing in clear focus.

Then the chorus hits, and it feels like I’m singing directly to her.

I finish to hooting applause and a wolf whistle from the gorgeous bartender I can’t keep my eyes off of. When I return to my seat, she slides a fresh whiskey toward me. “On the house. You earned it.”

Not too long after that, the bar starts to gradually empty out. I know it’s probably obvious that I’m lingering just for Alana, but if she minds, she doesn’t show it. As they leave, the locals calltheir goodbyes. The guy who recognized me claps my shoulder as he leaves, telling me to come back tomorrow. I nurse my drink, watching as Alana wipes down surfaces and stacks chairs.

“Last call was twenty minutes ago,” she says when she catches me watching her, but there’s no edge to her voice.

“Just savoring the atmosphere,” I reply, finishing my drink.

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