Page 76 of Forbidden Hockey

I check the doors, but don’t see any special security detail. That doesn’t mean there isn’t one, just that they’re not in plain sight. Maxwell stumbles toward the bar top and slides into one of the empty stools.

One of the perks of dating a younger man is being in on the gossip. I don’t know all the details—nor do I want to—but pretty sure he’s coming off the heartbreak of a lifetime.

“Rhett and Logan got married, on the damn ice,” Dirk said when we’d finally gotten a phone call in. I swear, dating a hockey player is like dating someone who’s gone off to war. Thank Christ for text messaging, or I’d barely get to talk to him at all.

Long story short, Maxwell tried to sabotage his son Rhett’s relationship with Rhett’s man, Logan, and it backfired. As a result of the fallout, Maxwell’s man left him. Looks like he’s not handling it well.

He attempts to sit on the barstool, his ass slipping. He catches himself on the bar top, his elbows just managing to save his descent to the floor. He peers up at me as if he made a grand save.

Yeah, I cannot serve him alcohol.

I should kick him out, but he’s the damn mayor, and he’s an Elkington. What kind of bureaucratic nightmare will he unleash on my establishment if I do? If it comes down to it, I’ll do whatI have to do, but I’ll play nice for now. I slide a soda with a lime garnish toward him.

“What the fuck is this? Your finest cognac, neat,” he demands.

“Next time.” I narrow my eyes. “What are you doing here, Maxwell?”

“I came to get a drink.” He sips his soda like a petulant child, his nose wrinkling with disgust. “Don’t you have any finer sparkling water? This tastes like old pipes.”

“I don’t. Try the corner store down the road.”

I turn back to the game on the screen. It’s a Vancouver game, which means I get to watch Stacey and Casey. I got into hockey for my son. When he started playing, I learned everything I could, so I’d have something to talk to Dash about. He’s never said, but pretty sure he got into rock and alternative music because of me, and I always sent him concert shirts, even when his mom wouldn’t let me see him. Over the years, I came to love hockey like he does, and he fell in love with the music I like, and we’ve bonded over both. So I catch as many games as I can, even when he’s not playing. But the Alderchuck brothers—Casey and Stacey—are family. I don’t miss their games if I can help it.

“…Orcas are oh for three on the power play, still trailing one to nothing here in Vancouver tonight. Alderchucks move in, Casey toward the goal … round the net, now centers… throws a backhand pass out to Stacey. He shoots, he scooooores!”

The pub erupts with unbridled excitement, and while we’d get excited about any Vancouver goal, something extra warms the eyes of the fans in the restaurant because those men are ours. I pass out a round of beer for Alderchuck goals. Maxwell scowls when I skip him.

“I don’t get one?”

“You need to sober up.” I won’t budge on that. He’s too drunk to serve. Of all people, he should know how BC liquor laws work, but maybe his brain is pickled.

“Get me some food, then. I’ll sober up, and you’ll serve me what I want.”

Fucking Christ, this guy. But food’s probably a good idea. I order him a burger and fries, both good for soaking up the alcohol. He complains when it arrives because he doesn’t eat anything deep-fried and hasn’t had a carb since nineteen ninety-five.

“Just eat it, Maxwell. I’m sure you can have the fat sucked out of your ass or something. Whatever it is you rich people do.”

I refill his soda and watch the rest of the second period. By the time I turn to check on him, all the food’s gone, and he’s licking his finely manicured fingers.

“Okay, Nolan. That was fucking delicious. I’ll make sure to send all my friends.”

Please don’t.“Thanks,” I growl.

Halfway through the third, he sobers up, but I’m still not serving him. He seems to sense that, demanding another soda refill. This guy needs to get some fucking manners. The man is as big as I am, which is a rare encounter for me. I’m usually the largest thing in a room, but we’re on par. He’s a weird choice for mayor; Elkington’s always reminded me of an arrogant frat boy. But I guess it pays to have friends in high places. It also pays to be beautiful. I know for certain he gets votes based on his looks and charm.

Wouldn’t the internet like to know he came in here falling down drunk? But I can’t kick a man when he’s down, even if he’s mostly a snake.

“Aren’t bartenders supposed to give advice?” he asks right in the middle of play. He’s a hockey buff, the whole world knowsthat, which is why he should know you don’t do anything but play backseat hockey coach and yell at the refs during play.

Besides, I’m not technically a bartender. I like to stand behind the bar to watch the games, and I help out when I’m needed.

He’s lucky I’m intrigued.

“What kind of advice do you need?”

“Rhett’s angry with me.”

I wondered where he’d go first—his relationship with his son or his lover. The latter’s probably too personal, whereas I have a son and can relate.