Page 8 of Puck Happens

“Bud,” he said. He did a double take when I handed it to him.

“Dillon?” he said, cracking a rare Sullivan smile. “What the hell are you doing behind the bar?”

“NHL doesn’t pay him enough,” Neil said. That had been his joke all night and it was old the first time he said it. “He needs a better agent.”

“Just helping out my sister,” I said.

“Team’s looking good this year,” Sullivan said.

“I like that new kid you got,” Neil said. “Novice?”

“Novek?” Sullivan shook his head. “He’s a prima donna.”

Sullivan wasn’t wrong, but I had yet to meet our new European hot shot, so I was keeping my mouth shut.

“How are you doing?” I asked Matt. “I hear Carrie’s back in town. It must be great to see…”

Neil was making some shut the hell up gestures over Sullivan’s shoulder.

“Her,” I finished lamely.

“She’s a menace,” Matt said, and walked away from the bar. Neil shrugged and took a big swig of his beer. I wasn’t a believer in true love, really. But in high school Matt and Carrie had seemed like a fairy tale. It was sad to see it fall apart.

“How you doing?” Wendy asked, coming up beside me. “It’s after eleven.”

Shit. That late. As a professional athlete, I was serious about a lot of boring stuff that made a huge difference in my career. Getting enough sleep was at the top of the list.

“Past your bedtime, Dillon?” Neil joked. I ignored him. Wendy didn’t.

“How’s that professional hockey career working out for you, Neil?” Wendy asked. “You drink beer out of any big trophies lately? Break any league records? No?” She cocked her head and Neil had the good grace to look abashed.

“My defender,” I said, slinging my arm around her shoulder. “I wish I could take you out on the ice with me.”

“Me too,” she said. “I’d have given Kadri a little payback after that cheap shot he gave you in the playoffs last year.”

I gave her a squeeze and she rested her head on my shoulder for just a second before whirling back into action, pulling a rack of clean glasses from the dishwasher.

“Good night, huh?” I asked her.

“You, my dear sweet older brother, are very good for business,” she said.

Wendy had long black hair that she wore up on her head while she worked, and bright blue eyes that men kept falling for. She was a dead ringer for our mom who’d been Miss Maine when she was twenty years old.

But Mom didn’t have 10-inch biceps, a championship judo belt and a wicked arm bar.

“Happy to help,” I said. “I don’t like you closing up on your own.”

She rolled her eyes at me. We’d been down this road before. A million times. “I’ve got Sheriff Bobby on speed dial and Neil here is almost always the last one to leave and he walks me out.”

So if someone jumped Wendy she’d have to defend herself and Neil. Awesome.

“I need a keg switched out,” she said.

“Fine. But then I’m going home. I’m tired.”

“Aww, is my poor bitty bwother twired?”

“Some respect, Wend. That’s all I ask.”

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