Page 87 of Puck Daddies
At seven, a news van parks at the end of the block. They want a shot from inside. I offer the doorway instead and bring them two coffees and a bag of honey bars so they stop asking questions.
By eight, the shop is full of jerseys. Kids point at the honeycomb wall and find their names. Parents tell them the story of Aunt Bea. A grandmother who has never missed a home game holds court at the corner table, and Tom brings her water and a honey latte without being asked. A line forms at the counter, and we move in practiced steps.
At nine, the first chant rolls up the street. The parade hits the top of the hill. Drums, horns, whistles, a truck bed with speakers, then three open trolleys carrying the players. I catch a glimpse of Rocco on the second trolley, waving his hat. Hudson is on the third, shouting thanks. Oliver rides guard on a bike near the trolley because, of course, he volunteered for crowd safety.
The lead trolley stops in front of the shop. The team hops down for a stage set on the flatbed. The captain lifts the division banner, and the crowd noise hits the inside of my chest. I keep pouring lattes because the line doesn’t stop for banners. Bex points at the “limit two per person” sign and people actually follow it.
Aqua slides into glam at ten. She’s in a black dress with a gold bee pin and heels, and the crowd parts to let her onto the flatbed. She announces the route’s end ceremony with house rules—no pushing, tip your baristas, sing loud. She hands the mic to the mayor, who speaks sixty seconds and then steps away, which is a miracle I appreciate.
The captain thanks the city, thanks the staff at the arena, thanks the families. He points at Bea’s and says the last stretch of the season started in this block. Hudson takes the mic for a secondand shouts out Meals on Wheels. Rocco thanks the shelter. Oliver waves off the mic and keeps his eye on the edge of the stage so no one trips off the back.
The parade dissolves into a block party. We serve drinks until the shot counter says we hit the number I thought we might hit by dinner. We blow past it by noon. The line never ends. I rotate staff. We have more staff now. We hired Mira, who moves like she was born behind a counter. We hired Hassan, who can prep three orders while answering a question and never lose his place. We hired Jaz and Eli for weekends. I built a morning shift and a parade shift and a night shift, and all of them show up early.
Since Luke’s scam hit the news and the class action formed, people come in and say they chose us because we stood up when it counted. Thousands of his buyers joined that suit. People bring each other here after they file because they need a place to sit with their receipts and a drink that tastes like something. I didn’t plan to be that place. I am honored and tired and ready to keep being it.
The scholarship applications doubled this week because the parade is headed here, and a guidance counselor posted a link. Oliver set up a separate inbox and a review tracker. Lila came by and checked the hives at dawn, then texted that the first full jars were ready. We’ll sell them next week, limited run, capped, so the bees stay healthy. Today, one jar is for later.
The team comes inside in waves, quick hugs, quick waters, quick orders on the house. They slip tips into the jar even though I tell them to stop. The captain buys twenty gift cards for the training staff. The equipment manager buys a bag of beans for his neighbor and thanks me for the way we keep the block safe on game days. The strength coach brings me a bottle of water and says to drink it. I do.
By two, the noise shifts down a notch. The first families peel off for naps. The reporters go back to the station. The traffic cones come down. The kids who camped out at the corner table go outside to wave at the last truck. The smell in the room changes from sweat and coffee to sugar and wax. The BRAVE shelf is empty again and we haven’t even set the last case from the back.
By five, the block is manageable. I switch from register to rove and check ropes and trash and people leaning too far into the bar line. Anthony swaps out the tip jar for a fresh one and takes the full one to the safe, and I watch his back until he comes out with his empty hands.
At six, the lights shift warmer. The honey wall glows. Aqua takes one more mic walk and thanks the crowd for coming. She announces last call and the shop’s hours for tomorrow, and people clap for closing hours like it’s a show. We sell the last tray of honey bars and the last latte and the last tea. We prop the door and let the air in.
By seven, the block is empty enough to sweep the sidewalk. Oliver rolls the trash to the alley. Hudson breaks down stanchions and stacks them by the back. Rocco brings three pitchers of water to the counter and sets out four cups. He knows what I need before I ask.
We lock the door at seven thirty. The four of us stand in the quiet and listen to the building settle. We are wiped out. My feet hurt. My voice is scratchy. I’m still smiling.
At nine, it’s just me and the guys. We turn off the big lights and leave the small lamps on. The bee painting looks like it has always looked. Aunt Bea’s photo watches from the frame above the office doorway. I wipe my hands on a clean towel and set it on the counter. It’s time.
“I have something for you. For us. For today.”
Hudson leans on the bar with his forearms. Rocco sits on a stool. Oliver hops up to sit next to him and bumps his shoulder lightly.
I reach under the counter and pull out three small packages. I hand the first to Hudson. It’s wrapped in brown paper and tied with yellow string. He opens it and laughs, a short, real laugh that makes me feel like the gift landed right. It’s a stress ball that looks like a bee. It has a little smile.
“For your hands. For the bench. For the days when notice, name, and navigate need a prop.”
He squeezes it. “Perfect.” He tosses it and catches it twice, then tucks it into his pocket.
I hand the second to Rocco. It’s a small box with a wax seal on the top. He breaks it and opens the lid. Inside is a thick card stamped with a music note in gold wax.
“I melted some BRAVE and used a note stamp,” I explain. “This is for the song that saved me. For the way you sing in this room.”
He runs a thumb over the seal. “I’ll keep it on the piano.” He kisses my cheek and sets the card on the shelf by the register so it sits in the room first.
I hand the third to Oliver. It’s heavier. It’s a jar of honey from the rooftop, the first jar Lila spun this week. The label says Bea’s Roof, small and plain. The color is rich gold.
“For the man who always made time. For the man who built the stage and the balcony and the space that let my courage show up. For the man who makes sure we get home.”
He holds the jar with both hands like a thing you don’t drop. “We did this together. Thank you for trusting me with the first.”
We stand in that small circle of giving, and it makes the day make sense. We did the work, and the city showed up, and the day ended here, where it started with my aunt saying, “Wipe the counter slow to make it feel like a ritual,” and me rolling my eyes and then doing it.
Hudson sets a row of BRAVE testers on the back counter and lights them. The smell rises. Honey, cream, coffee. It smells like the morning I thought I had lost this place and the night we made a wall of names and the day we won a pause and the week we recorded an album.
It smells like us.
