Finn (Breakaway Hockey #4)

Chapter One

Sammie

“ B ye, guys. Thanks for coming.” I lift the damp rag I’m wiping down the far end of the bar with and use it to wave goodbye to two of our regular customers as they stand and push in their stools. “See you next week.”

Ben and Jason are brothers, both in their midtwenties, like me. They’re decent dudes, and Boots—the bar and restaurant where I’m usually waitressing, but tonight am filling in for an out-sick bartender—is their faithful Thursday evening stop.

I walk down as they’re zipping up their jackets and catch Ben slipping their usual big cash tip under his beer mug.

I know the customers and their habits from bartending in the past.

Once Ben is sure I’ve seen the tip, he says, “You know it, Sammie. We’ll be here. Same time, same place.”

Catching his gaze, I mouth, “Thank you.”

He smiles and nods.

As they turn to leave, Jason calls over his shoulder, “Have a good rest of your night, girl.”

A laugh escapes me. It’s not a cheerful chuckle; it’s more of a scoffing snort. I’m glad Ben and Jason are closing in on the exit and can’t hear me, as it’s in no way directed at them.

It’s just this night.

There’s nothing about it that could ever qualify in any way as “nice.” Not with it being the anniversary of the absolute worst night of my life.

But I don’t want to think about that.

The whole point in picking up this late bartending shift, even after I already waitressed both lunch and dinner, was to keep my mind on anything but that awful evening.

So far, it’s been working.

Well, for the most part.

I’ve been fortunate that Boots has been busy all day and into the night. It’s kept me preoccupied.

But things are slowing down now. Not a surprise, since it’s past eleven, and we’re only open until midnight on Thursdays.

Two more customers pay their tabs and get up and leave. I’m down to just Old John at the far end of the bar. He’s a harmless sort, even if he does look a tad scary.

Old John is a hulk of a man with a long gray ponytail and a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard. He’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that he’s Georgia-born and raised, and that he always knew once he retired that he’d settle down here in Atlanta.

Hey, I get it. I’m from this town too. And though I have a lot of reasons to move, I doubt I ever will.

But back to Old John, which is what he prefers to be called. He was once a long-haul truck driver but has since retired. He likes the food at Boots and is always telling me we grill up the best steaks he’s ever had.

“I’ve been all over this damn country too,” he’ll always add in his smooth Southern drawl. “So I know what I’m talking about, young lady.”

Shaking my head and laughing softly, I generally tell him, “I’m sure you do, Old John. I’m sure you do.”

Our food is pretty good, so he’s probably right.

Before I head back down to the end of the bar to see if he needs anything, I take a look around the restaurant.

It’s empty now. Dinner hours are long over, and the few folks who were still here eating are gone.

I smile because, despite the occasional obnoxious patron, I really do like working here. Boots is a great place. Our boss, Annie, is the best, as is the whole staff.

And the tips are amazing.

Of course, our “uniforms”—a short red-and-black plaid skirt layered over boy shorts, a white blouse that we all leave unbuttoned down a bit, and high-heeled black leather boots—play a big part in those hefty gratuities.

And then there’s the fact we tend to attract a huge clientele of mostly men.

Big surprise, huh?

That’s okay. I’m secure in myself and wouldn’t have it any other way.

Besides, Boots has become like my second home, which is great since I live by myself and hate sitting around my townhouse feeling lonely.

Even if that is what I really deserve.

To combat this new bout of self-loathing, I tuck back a strand of my auburn hair, one that had escaped from my ponytail, sigh, and head down the bar to finally check on Old John.

“Are you good?” I ask once I’m standing in front of him. “Do you need anything?”

He holds up a dark bottle and says, “Maybe one more beer.”

He’s been here for a while, so I raise a brow. “You’re taking an Uber home tonight, right? You didn’t drive here?”

“I didn’t, and I am,” he assures me. “Uber is how I got here, and that’s how I plan to go home. So don’t worry your pretty little head about that nonsense.”

He means no harm; this is just classic Old John.

I chuckle and reply, “Okay, good to know.”

Since he likes to talk, I’m not surprised when he lifts his phone and informs me, “I actually have one of those there Ubers on the way. But it says here he’ll be another fifteen minutes. That’s more than enough time to down one more.”

“It sure is,” I agree as I reach down into the cooler under the bar and grab a cold bottle of Old John’s favorite beer. “Here ya go.” I twist off the cap and set it down in front of him, adding, “Oh, and by the way, this one’s on me.”

Smiling big, he says softly, “Why, thank you, Sammie.”

I see two new customers coming in and heading this way, so I walk back down the bar to see what they need.

Over my shoulder, I call out, “You’re welcome, Old John.”

As I close in on the other side of the bar, where the two guys have just sat down on the same stools Ben and Jason were occupying, I mutter, “Ugh.”

Not these two again.

I roll my eyes.

I’m not sure if these dudes are brothers, like Ben and Jason, or just friends, but unfortunately I know from experience that they definitely fall into the category of “obnoxious patrons.”

Just my luck that they decided to come in tonight.

They’ve been here before, to eat and to drink, and I’ve found them to be rude. They never cross the line, or else their asses would get thrown out and banned, but they give off a creepy vibe, nonetheless.

Hopefully, tonight they’ll just have one drink each and leave.

Plastering on my best fake smile, I saunter up to where they’re seated and ask what they’re having tonight.

“Mmm, maybe you,” the one with the darker hair mutters.

“Excuse me?” I snap.

They’re usually not this aggressive.

Well, one thing is for sure—I will not put up with their shit. Not tonight. I will hit the buzzer under the bar—the one that alerts our night manager, Evan, who’s in the back and doubles as a bouncer in situations like these—so fast it will not even be funny.

I guess my serious demeanor and sour look get my message across, as the jerks just quietly order two drafts that are on special tonight.

After I give them their beers, I walk down to where Old John is still seated.

I’d much rather engage in conversation with him than deal with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, the two new names I just came up with for these clowns.

Unfortunately, though, Old John is on his way out.

“My ride is here,” he shares as he stands and pushes his bar stool back in. “Seems like they got here a little quicker than they were supposed to. Anyway…” He sighs. “I’ll see ya later, okay?”

“Okay.” I give him a sad smile. “Have a good rest of your night.”

He walks away, waving. “Thanks, Sammie.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me with the Tweedle boys and over half an hour to go before I can kick their butts out.

Great.