Page 15 of Wilder Puck
Ryan storms out of my coffee shop without another word. And here I am watching how tense his shoulders are with guilt that I won’t be at his game tonight.
The black leather pants paired with Ryan’s hockey jersey is my debut outfit for the sports bar tonight. I’m nervous yet excited. My nerves are on fire for Ryan too. This is a big game against his rival team. I feel horrible for missing it, and I can tell he’s freaking out over it.
I'm standing in front of my mirror, debating on what makeup to apply, when my phone chimes with an email alert. I grab it off the bed, swiping to my inbox. My heart stutters when I see the sender – it's from my landlord.
Nerves swoop through my stomach as I open it, bracing myself for more bad news. But as I read, my eyes go wide. I scan the words again. Sure, I must be misunderstanding.
The message states that the rent increase is being rescinded. My newly signed lease agreement with the higher amount is null and void. Everything will proceed according to my original lease agreement.
I sink down onto the edge of my mattress. Air whooshes out of my lungs in a massive exhale. I'm stunned. And so unbelievably relieved I could cry.
Four hundred dollars a month may not sound like much, but it's a fortune to me. Without the hike, I can make ends meet now. The second job won't be a necessity anymore, just a safety net. The vise that's been snugged around my chest for the past week loosens its grip.
I shoot off a quick reply to my landlord thanking him for the update before tossing my phone aside. For a moment, I breathe. Let the knot between my shoulder blades unravel.
This is huge. Beyond huge. It's exactly the kind of lucky break I needed. My head feels muzzy with the shock of it. My rent isn't going up. I'm okay. It’s going to be okay.
Glancing at the time, I realize I need to get a move on, or I'll be late. I quickly decide on mascara and rosy cheeks. A swipe of mascara and I'm out the door.
When I arrive at Taylor’s Sports Bar, the nerves from earlier return in full force. I take a deep breath before pushing through the front entrance.
The first thing that hits me is the noise – the loud chatting, laughter, and clinking glasses. Classic rock pours from the jukebox in the corner. Neon signs advertising various beer brands glow along the walls.
A large rectangular bar takes up the center of the space, all gleaming mahogany and polished brass. High-top tables cluster around it, with booths lining the perimeter. At least fifteen televisions are mounted throughout, each tuned to a different sports channel.
It's a lot to take in. Sensory overload. But as I look around, I know exactly how I would design my sports bar if I ever opened one.
“You must be Baddie Addie!” a voice chirps. I turn to see a petite blonde striding towards me, ponytail swinging. “I'm Sophia. I'll be training you tonight.”
“Oh, hi!” I extend my hand to shake hers. “It's so nice to meet you. And please, call me Addie.”
Sophia takes me on a quick tour, pointing out the storage room, kitchen entrance, and employee lockers. She introduces me to the other bartenders on duty – there's Nico, tatted up with gauges in his ears, and Omar, rocking a man bun.
“Alright, you ready for your first shift? It’s going to be so fun!” Sophia asks once the tour is done. At my nod, she claps her hands together. “Great! Let's get started.”
The next few hours pass in a blur of information, instruction, and hands-on practice. Sophia demonstrates how to tap a keg, set up the garnish trays, and batch the house sangria. She walks me through pouring a perfect pint and mixing up a slew of different cocktails.
It's a lot to absorb, but I'm in my element. This is what I'm good at – making drinks and chatting up customers. Combine that with the sports atmosphere and it's a dream come true. I think Ryan would love it in here.
When a group of guys walks in wearing Devils jerseys and Sophia advises me to take their orders, I practically skip over to take their order.
“What can I get you gentlemen this evening?”
They banter a bit before deciding on a round of green tea shots to start. I mix the whiskey, peach schnapps, sour mix, and Sprite with a flourish, pouring the pale green concoction into shot glasses.
As I present the drinks with a grin, one of the guys gives me an approving nod. “I like her already.”
His buddy elbows him. “Dude, she's wearing a Wilder jersey. Of course, you do.”
I glance down at my Devils tee with Ryan's name and number on the back. “He's an old friend. I never miss a game.” Except for tonight because I’m a bad friend. Shit. I smile at the guys and walk away.
This sparks an enthusiastic discussion of the Devils' prospects for the night, their playoff chances, and a heated debate over who the better Wilder is – Ryan or his older brother, Noah Wilder, or his dad, the head coach. No mention of the youngest brother who has their talent combined.
“Coach Wilder is an institution, man. Best coach out there.”
“Ryan– that kid's got raw talent coming out his ears.”
“The China Wall,” someone mocks. “Noah Wilder is pure raw fucking talent. At least he’s skating on the ice and not sitting at the net.”
