Ezra
“No.”
“Please?”
“Absolutely not.”
“But—”
“No,” I cut her off with a glare.
Odette crosses her arms over her chest, piercing me with a heated stare. “You’re a real jerk sometimes, you know that, right?”
“I’m aware.”
“And this doesn’t bother you?”
“Not in the least.”
She huffs. “All I’m saying is that adding an arcade would make this place absolutely perfect. Can you imagine how fun it would be to play pinball when you’re tipsy?”
“Can you imagine how obnoxious that sound is going to be all day? No, because you’re not here all day. Actually, wait, yes, you are.” I narrow my eyes at her, and she glowers right back.
The truth is, I like Odette Chambers. She’s funny and bright. Plus, she puts up with Noah, her fiancé, who also happens to be my business partner. She’s also done a lot to help make Stick Taps into not just one hell of a successful cidery, but a sought-after wedding destination too.
This new harebrained idea of hers, though? While it does have its appeal, I’m not completely sold on it. I already have a headache from staring at my computer for far too long. Adding the incessant noise from pinball and video game machines would only exacerbate the issue.
“What the hell are you complaining about?” Noah Stevens, my best friend and the man responsible for cooking up the idea of two former NHL players opening a hockey-themed cidery together, appears from the hall leading to the bathrooms and stands at the bar beside Odette. “You spend most of your time holed up in your office anyway.” He turns to his fiancée. “And I thought we agreed that I would approach the sourpuss on my own first, then tag you in?”
Ah, so they planned this. Great.
Am I glad Noah found bliss and is now madly in love? Sure, I guess I’m as joyful as someone who doesn’t believe in happily ever afters can be. But am I stoked that I’m now being ganged up on by his wedding planner fiancée and him? Abso-fucking-lutely not.
It’s not the first time they’ve done this either. The last time ended with us getting miniature cows. While I admit they’re cute, they’re just another thing we have to add to our feed budget, thanks to all the other animals we have roaming around the picturesque Washington property.
But Noah doesn’t always think about that side of it. Of the two of us, he’s the doer, and I’m the numbers. While it works great most of the time, there are moments like these—like when Odette gets a “brilliant” idea—that I just want to hold his head over my ledger so he can take a look at our numbers and realize why we don’t need to keep adding shit to the business.
We’re doing good. Really fucking good. Why add the stress of more just for the sake of more?
Some days I feel like I’m already being stretched too thin as it is.
Can I truly manage another thing?
“Did you tell him about the benefits?” Noah asks Odette.
“No, that was part of your pitch to him,” she responds, as if I’m not standing right here.
“Why don’t you just both get on with it so I can tell you no, and I can go back to my office. I was busy, you know. Working my way through applications. Something important since we need help around here.”
With business picking up in ways none of us could have imagined, we officially need to expand our employee list. Not just to keep the cidery running, but also the farm. Between the chickens, goats, mini cows, and the cats that continue to show up, we’re running thin on people to help keep it all in check.
Odette rolls her eyes, which only makes her fiancé grin, then he clears his throat and leans against the bar.
His face is hard, his eyes serious as he says one word: “Fun.”
I quirk a brow. “Congratulations. It looks like hockey didn’t beat everything out of that head of yours, and you know a three-letter word. Anything else?”
“I’m not surprised he doesn’t get it,” Odette chimes in. “He wouldn’t know fun if it ran him into the boards.”
“I know fun,” I argue like a moody teenager, ignoring the way her words ring a little too true, all things considered.
My hand goes to my hip, and I press on the dull ache that always seems to be there, rubbing at the spot where I did collide with the boards, effectively ending my professional career.
Odette snorts disbelievingly. “Name one fun thing you’ve ever done.”
“I played in the NHL.”
She tosses her arms in the air. “That’s a cop-out answer, and you know it!”
“I don’t know, Odie. It’s pretty damn fun,” Noah says, and I’m not sure if she can hear it, but I certainly don’t miss the longing in his voice.
In addition to running the Stick Taps cidery, Noah and I launched the Stick Taps Community Iceplex six months ago because we craved the game so much. Once it’s part of you, it never truly goes away, and considering I started playing twenty-five years ago, it’s damn sure a part of me.
While my answer might seem like a cop-out to Odette, she has no idea what it feels like to step out on two hundred feet of ice in front of a roaring crowd and get to play the greatest game on earth. There’s nothing else like it, and I miss it more than I’d ever admit.
As if my body aches for it as much as my heart does, my hip throbs even more. I suppress the pain like I have so many times before and continue staring down Noah’s fiancée.
“Fine,” she relents. “But you still don’t know fun. You never come out with us when we invite you.”
Yes, because I want to spend my time hanging with my friend, his girl, and his family, acting like the . . . well, I’m not even sure what number wheel I’d be at that point, but I’m not doing it. I have better things to do with my time.
“Is ‘fun’ your only selling point?” I ask.
“Well, yes. Sort of. But also, it would be great for business. Help bring even more customers here. Imagine little Timmy running around the arcade, feeding quarter after quarter into the machine because his parents keep handing them to him so they can have a few blissful child-free moments.”
“If you think bringing more kids into here is a selling point, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“You love children, and you know it. You wouldn’t have started the iceplex if you didn’t.”
“I started the iceplex for a free place to skate, and that’s it,” I argue, though that’s a lie.
I did start the iceplex for the kids. Hockey saved me when I was small, and I wanted to give that back in any way I could.
“Come on, Ezra,” Odette whines, saving me before the memories of my childhood start rushing in and put me in a crappy mood. It’s not that it was a bad childhood, but it isn’t exactly something I want to reminisce about either. “Just say yes and stop torturing me. You know you’re going to eventually.”
“Oh, am I, now?”
She gives me a look that repeats her Come on.
And fuck me, she’s probably right.
I’m fully capable of saying no—I do it all the time to my employees when they ask for extra days off—but saying no to Odette? It’s a bit harder. Just about everyone is wrapped around her finger, including Noah, who is looking at her like she’s the most beautiful woman in the world, and that’s after she’s been rolling in the dirt with the goats for the last thirty minutes.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to love someone like that. Then I remember that it’s not something I’m capable of. I’m more equipped for flings or one-night stands. I could never give myself to someone fully when I hate what I see in the mirror every day. That wouldn’t be fair to them, and the last thing I want is to waste someone’s time.
“No,” I tell her again.
She growls—actually fucking growls—then points to Noah. “You deal with him. I’m going to find Tootsie, who has somehow managed to escape her pen.”
“Again? That’s the third time just this week. I swear, that fucking chicken is going to end up as a nugget.”
When we bought the property for the cidery, it came with a bunch of animals already, including Tootsie, our resident escape artist chicken, who we can’t seem to keep locked away, no matter what we try. The number of times wedding photographers have had to photoshop her out of pictures is almost comical at this point.
Odette ignores me. “And tell him he has to have a plus-one to the wedding too!”
He presses his lips together, smothering a laugh as she walks away, muttering to herself about what an ass I am.
Noah watches her go, and once she pushes through the front doors of the cidery, he looks over at me. “So, we’re doing the arcade, right?”
“It’s probably a horrible idea because it means more work, more money, and more shit to take care of before your wedding, but can you imagine the stress relief after a long day of poring over ledgers? We should have thought of this sooner.”
Noah chuckles. “We’re starting a separate book for wagers on high scores, right?”
“You bet your ass we are.” I point at him. “But you can forget the date for the wedding. That’s not happening.”
“Dude, come on.”
“No, no way. I’m already caving on this arcade thing—”
“Because you want it too.”
“—but I’m not budging on that. No date.”
He rolls his eyes but lets me have it. He knows how I feel about love and relationships and shit. He was just like me before Odette came along, and just because he went and fell in love with his younger sister’s best friend nearly two years ago doesn’t mean it’s “my turn now” or whatever. I mean it when I say no relationships. I’m doing just fine on my own.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I know without checking that it’s an alarm to get on the road before I’m late for yet another physical therapy appointment.
This one will be different, they said. It’ll work. We swear it.
I want to roll my eyes just thinking about it, but there’s a small part of me that hopes they’re right. I gave up the PT for a few years, but lately my hip has been bothering me more, so I decided to start it back up again just to see what happens.
“Listen,” I say to Noah, “I’ve got to run, but don’t tell Odette it’s a yes to the arcade right away. Let her stew.”
“Oh, I planned on it. She’s hot when she’s mad.” He grins in a way that makes me want to roll my eyes again.
I grab the nearest thing I can find—a wet rag—and toss it at him. “You’re disgusting.”
He just laughs as he peels the cloth from his face.
I let tonight’s shift leader know I’m heading out, grab my laptop from the back office so I don’t have to stop by here after my therapy, then climb into my blue Porsche 911 GT3 RS.
I’m fully aware that folding my six-foot-three frame into a tiny sports car isn’t the best idea, nor is the manual transmission, especially given my mobility issues thanks to my bad hip, but I refuse to give up my fun just because of my injury. I’ve already lost so much due to it.
Which is precisely why I gun it the moment I’m out of the Stick Taps parking lot.
Driving fast is about the only vice I have, so I take full advantage of it every chance I get.
I pause briefly at the stop sign at the end of the long dirt road that leads to the cidery, then steer the little sports car onto the blacktop, loving the squeal of my tires against the pavement.
My lips twitch as I watch the speedometer climb much higher than the posted limit, and instead of my heart racing, it calms. This is the first time all day that I’ve felt truly relaxed. I used to get the same high from playing hockey, but since that’s not happening anymore, I find my peace doing this—going as fast as I possibly can, living life on the edge, even just for a few minutes.
I realize how messed up that is, but I can’t be bothered to care, not when I push the gas pedal harder and the engine cranks up louder, the car eating up the miles as I zoom toward town.
In the back of my mind, I know I should slow down, especially since I’ve already gotten two tickets in the last three months, but I can’t seem to make myself do it. All the thoughts that were racing around before this are gone. I’m not worrying about everything I’ll need to do to make the arcade happen, how much feed I need to order for the animals this month, or the stack of applications I have sitting on my desk that I still need to look over so we can get a little more help.
Nope, I’m not thinking about any of that. I’m letting it go, and I’m focusing solely on the long stretch of road before me.
I fly past the Welcome to Port Harbor sign. Unlike Noah, I’m not from Washington. I followed him here when we decided to open Stick Taps. It didn’t matter to me where we lived or built our business. I just wanted to do it and stop thinking about the game I was forced to give up.
I was surprised to discover that I liked small-town life far more than I thought I would. There are only roughly twelve thousand residents here, but man, they show up in droves when it counts. And it usually always counts. They have activities nearly every weekend, ranging from fundraising events to harbor races. While I think most of it is cheesy as hell and you won’t catch me attending unless I’m absolutely forced, it still feels nice to know that if I truly needed anyone, people would be there.
It’s a big change from what I had growing up, that’s for sure. I get about a quarter mile before I see them.
Red and blue lights fill my rearview mirror, and I groan, braking and downshifting as I navigate my car to the side of the road.
I flip my visor down and pull my registration and insurance card free before reaching into my back pocket for my wallet to retrieve my driver’s license.
I hold all three out of the window before the officer even reaches the car. I’ve been through this routine far too many times to count.
That’s when I see in my side-view mirror that I’m not dealing with just anyone.
“Put that away, Mr. Rawlings,” Sheriff Turner says as he approaches the car. “You think I don’t have your information memorized at this point?”
Relief sinks into me that it’s him and not one of his deputies. They’re always hyped up on a power trip, but not him. He oversees the two towns that make up our little county, and I swear he knows every single person who lives in each one. He’s just that kind of guy.
“It’s because you’re so sharp at your job and surely not because you stop me too often.” I offer him a grin as I put my papers back under the visor.
“Let’s go with the first one.” He rests his hand on the roof, leaning down so he can get a better look at me. “Do I even need to tell you why I pulled you over?”
“Because you wanted a closer look at my car?”
He sighs, but I still catch the twitch of his lips. Honestly, I think the only reason I’ve received tickets from his deputies and not him is that Sheriff Turner used to be a fan of mine back in my playing days. I heard it through the grapevine and have been using it to my advantage since.
“You were doing 110 in a 50. That’s a serious infraction, you know?”
Really? Only 110 mph?
But I don’t say that. Instead, I put on my best Aw, shucks face and say, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware I was going so fast. Am I getting a ticket?”
“Sure you weren’t,” he mutters, then sighs again. “Look, I—” “I’m sorry for speeding, Sheriff Turner, but I’m running late for
physical therapy. Got that bad hip and can’t play hockey anymore, remember?” I’m wrong to exploit people’s emotions, but in this case, I’m using losing my NHL career to my advantage to try to drum up some sympathy. “Think I could be on my way?”
His eyes narrow ever so slightly, and something about it makes my skin crawl. I like Sheriff Turner, but I don’t at all like the look he’s giving me right now.
“Sure thing,” he says coolly, and the words instantly raise my hackles.
“Sure thing?” I repeat. “Of course.”
He’s acting too chill about this. “So, no ticket?” I ask.
He laughs quietly. “No, you’re getting a ticket, but that ain’t all you’ll be getting.”
My brows slam together. “What else?”
“Oh, Mr. Rawlings, I have the perfect punishment for you.”
