Page 7 of Puck Yes

“Aww. I always love sharing with you,” I say.

An eye roll comes my way. “Yes, I got enough for you. I’m thoughtful like that.”

“Also, you’re welcome—I replaced the smoke alarm battery in the bedroom and fixed the lighting fixture so it doesn’t fall on your head. I didn’t even have to. That’s just how generous I am.”

“You own this place. You literallydohave to,” he points out as he takes cartons out of the bag.

“Details.” I gesture to the railing lights that the interior designer picked out when I bought this investment property a year or so ago. “But admit it, I do everything well.”

Hayes stares at the ceiling, asking the heavens, “Why did I accept the trade to this city?”

“Because you missed me,” I say, clapping his back. Then, we tuck into this chicken eggplant dish, and it is pretty fantastic.

I know my buddy needs his beauty sleep. He’ll be stressed about tomorrow, worried about meeting the team, and he’ll never let on. I also know he’ll never forgive me if I mention that aloud. So I make myself scarce once we finish. “I need to check on The Great Dane,” I say, devising a reasonable sounding excuse.

“Thanks again for the rental,” he says.

I leave the building and walk through the city as night falls, taking pictures on my phone as I go. Just like I did in Copenhagen, where I spent the summer with my parents and my brothers and sisters. Too bad it’s not raining in San Francisco. Nothing makes for a great black and white photo like a rain-soaked street. A puddle. A shop with a closed sign in the window.

But as I glance up at the night sky there’s not a raindrop in sight. Shame.

Then I realize I’m lamenting the weather as I haunt Fillmore Street, looking like a fucking tourist, snapping random photos of shops and shit to pass the time. As I turn the corner, I thumb through them. These slice-of-life shots are, objectively, excellent. Well, of course they are.Itook them. I don’t believe in doing anything half-assed. Hockey, school, sex, handiwork, partying—a man should go all in or not fucking go at all.

But my photography hobby doesn’t excite me like it used to.

Maybe because you have a career you like, you asshole.

Oh good, now I’m talking to myself. Shaking my head, I put my phone away and circle all the way back to the building that houses the restaurant-slash-bar I bought a few months ago. The elevator whisks me up. I was here last night, but my father always said it’s a good idea to check on your investments. Plus, employees move a little faster, work a little harder when the boss is around.

I push open the door and find the place is bustling with energy. There’s a sense that things could happen here—deals, dates, hookups. With an open kitchen and a full bar, the vibe is modern and sleek, but the wall is lined with quirky caricatures of a big dog—lounging at a table, chatting with a canine bartender, bustling through an eatery holding plates on its paws.

After I greet the hostess, I weave through the crowds. Mere seconds later, I spot Yasmine, the manager, marching my way, determination in her eyes. She reaches me and arches a skeptical brow. “You don’t trust us,” she says, teasing.

That’s not it. “I just like to know what’s going on.”

“Or maybe you have nothing better to do,” she says pointedly, and ouch. She can’t know how true that feels lately.

But I won’t let on, and I flash my party boy smile. “Please. My nights are packed.”

The bartender catches her eye, and Yasmine takes off.Shehas plenty to do. I cruise through the tables, heading to the patio, parking my elbows on the edge of the balcony to gaze at the city.

Yasmine’s too damn right, and it pisses me off. I’m the team captain, the bar owner, and an amateur photographer. I can count friends across the world, and here in town, but I’m still lonely. Have been for the last several months. Ever since things…ended.

Not that anyone can tell.

But with hockey having started up once more and my friend in town again, I can throw myself into the game and ignore the feeling that something’s missing.

I know how to put on a good face. I’m the good-time guy, after all. And maybe with one of my former teammates, Ryker Samuels, just traded to our cross-town rivals a few days ago, I can see about a girl I’ve been curious about since the end of last season.

His sister.

Didn’t she move into his apartment when he moved out a year or so ago? A handful of hockey players bought in that building, and I’m pretty sure she took over her brother’s place. I saw her around a few times, but she was with some jackass who wore fedoras. Never liked that guy.

The thought of her gives me a plan for the rest of the night. I head to the place I call home, a mile away, and settle into the endless living room with its expansive view of the bay and pour myself a glass of scotch.

With the drink in hand, I conduct a little recon to see what she’s up to these days. Like whether she’s finally kicked that asshole to the curb.

4

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