Page 23 of Puck Yes

Hayes: Now it is.

Ivy: Then I mascotted my furry butt off tonight. And it was…weirdly fun.

We trade friendly messages until we reach the car and I force myself to put the phone away.

* * *

“What’s it going to be,Hey You?”

The question comes from my buddy Gage a little later as I scan the chalkboard offerings at Sticks and Stones, a bar he opened recently.

With a chuckle, Stefan offers Gage a fist for knocking, clearly delighted Gage is using the nickname he told him about when we arrived a few minutes ago.

I stare sternly at my longtime friend on the other side of the counter. Now my enemy. “Dude,youdon’t get to call me that name.”

The smartass wiggles his brows. “Bartender rules. Someone serves up a story, I get to use it.”

Stefan leans back in the stool, parking his hands behind his head as he casts a glance my way. “Just be glad I helped hand-select a good nickname for you. It could have beenLittle Buddy.”

I groan at the reminder of my awful nickname from freshman year. “Fuck you. Fuck you. And fuck you some more.” I offer him the bird for each one.

“Why, thank you. That’s my favorite sport,” Stefan says.

“Yeah, mine too,” I say.

With a smirk, Stefan adds, “I’m aware.”

I shoot him a look. We don’t usually talk up the things we’ve done with women in public. But he’s not quite serving anything up. Still, privacy’s privacy.

He returns my look with a reassuring one of his own that saysdon’t worry. I know the deal.

I relax. I’m also seriously glad he didn’t pickLittle Buddy. A bunch of the seniors on our college team gave me that nickname because I was the freshman hotshot. It sucked, obviously, and it’s not like I’m little. I’m taller than The Viking. When those jokesters graduated, I became The Iceman, which suited my style of play. Emotion-less.

From behind the bar, Gage grins. “I can start usingLittle Buddythough.”

“I certainly hope you’ll use it frequently,” Stefan puts in.

I drag a hand down my neck, then throw in the towel with these two clowns. “You’ve got your pick of ammo,” I say to Gage. “Now, how about a burger and a pale ale?”

“Coming right up,Little Buddy,” he says, then sighs faux thoughtfully as he pulls the tap on the brew. “See? I just can’t decide which one to use.”

“I’m never going to live this down, am I?” I ask.

“I’m not sure why we’d let you,” Stefan answers, then gives Gage his drink and food order too.

A minute later, Gage sets a mouth-watering glass of golden brew down in front of me, along with a stout for Stefan, then turns to the kitchen presumably to put our order in. Gage is a couple years older than I am, and I grew up living next door to him. He’s the older brother I never had. Hell, he’s the sibling I never had, and I love seeing his success. He worked his ass off managing a bar in Sacramento for several years while raising his kid solo after his wife died. He’s wanted to run his own place for some time, and he recently opened this new spot that’s teeming with people. I’m glad to see business is good.

When he returns, he glances around the joint, filled with sports memorabilia and dark wood, leather booths, and brass hardware. There’s a youthful vibe too. If you don’t want to watch sports, you can play Ping-Pong or pool. Fun and games for everyone. “Not too shabby?”

“Not at all,” Stefan says, clearly proud of his fellow proprietor.

Then, Gage’s green eyes meet mine straight on. “And you didn’t play too badly tonight either.”

“Thanks,” I say, but I feel like I’m holding my breath. “I’ll just need to do it for eighty-one more games.”

Stefan sets down his glass and fixes me with a serious gaze. No bullshit this time. “And you will, Armstrong. You fucking will,” he says, and that makes me smile for real.

“Thanks, man.”

---