Page 10 of Play Maker

“Honestly, nothing. I’m just going to tinker a bit.”

Dad hugs me. “Unwind time.”

“Always.”

“Dad, Jackson, and I will be here a couple of hours before the game to help set up.”

“Shouldn’t take long. I can handle?—”

“We’ll help.” Dad winks. “Love you, kid. See you tomorrow.”

“Love you both. Go before you’re stuck here.”

When they walk out, I see it’s just Jackson, who has moved to drying glasses.

“I can finish up,” I tell him, flicking off the light over the register.

“You sure?” He dries his hands off, and I toss him the cash bag.

“Yeah. Drop this in your safe?”

He hesitates, ever the older brother. “Text me when you’re in for the night.”

“I always do.”

“Shit’s not the same right now. Lock up behind me.”

“I will. But again, I’m good.”

He walks over, kisses the top of my head, then nods once and heads out, boots thudding heavy across the floor, door thumping closed behind him.

And then it’s just me.

The silence settles in slow, almost like the snowfall has tonight. Everything softer, quieter, still. The barn creaks like it’s exhaling, old wood and long nights.

I move through the space, flipping off lights, resetting stools, making peace with the mess that tomorrow morning me can deal with.

Outside, the world is all white. Snow coming down in thick sheets, blanketing the parking lot, smoothing out the landscape, covering tire tracks, leaving behind no trace that we had a couple hundred people in and out for the last several hours.

I grab my notebook from under the register and flip to the tab that reads:

Closing Check List

Wipe down bar top—check

Drain, clean, and reset tap lines—check

Restock garnish trays—check

Lock liquor cabinet—check

Count tips and cash drawer—check

Update inventory binder—check

Wipe all tables—check

Push in chairs—check

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