Page 5 of That Time We Faked It (Time On The Ice #3)

CAL

Bartenders, Redesigns, and a Risky Goodbye

T here was a strange sense of déjà vu as I woke up from another short but heavy sleep. My cheeks ached from smiling and talking all night, muscles stiff and protesting every movement—courtesy of pulling a double shift of skate training and bussing tables.

College me would’ve handled it better. Post-college me? Not so much. Still, lying there with my face half-buried in the pillow, I couldn’t seem to care.

It was a different kind of exhaustion—the good kind. The kind where you were so happy, you forgot about the loneliness. For once, the ache in my body wasn’t matched by an ache in my chest.

Sure, Jack had been his usual grumpy self, barely sparing me a glance, let alone a “thank you” for practically reviving his business and jumping in to save the night. He was still a caveman of the highest order, growling orders behind the bar like I’d waltzed into his territory uninvited.

But oddly enough, I kinda liked it.

I was so used to guys being sweet as honey to my face—charming me with compliments, whispering all the right things—only to disappear when the novelty wore off, leaving me shattered and feeling like too much… or maybe not enough.

Jack was different. There were no sugary words, no pretend sweetness to trick me into believing I was special. He was gruff and blunt, his brow always drawn tight, like life owed him a fight he was ready to win. But there was an honesty in him, something real and solid, and I found myself appreciating it more than I thought possible.

It felt safer this way—admiring him from a distance, appreciating the rare glimpses of softness when his grumbles slipped into something almost… kind.

It let me breathe. I didn’t need to fall into romantic fantasies or spin daydreams about us.

With Jack, there was no risk of heartbreak because there was no game being played. It was perfect, really.

I stumbled out of bed, limbs heavy, and dragged myself to the kitchen. My morning routine was predictable as hell, especially since Tyler always managed to beat me to the punch, taking control of the stove like it owed him something.

"Morning," I muttered, just as he breezed past me, wielding a spatula like a weapon. I tried to lean in for some counter space, but he nudged me aside with a practiced ease that came from years of being roommates. He looked like hell—dark circles under his eyes, his usually neat hair a mess, the weight of the world sitting squarely on his broad shoulders.

“You okay?” I asked, reaching out to place a hand on his forearm, giving it a squeeze. It was meant to be comforting, but I wasn’t sure anything could touch whatever storm he had going on in his head.

He managed a half-smile, weak but there. “Tired,” he said on an exhale, voice heavy. “And… I don’t know, man. I’m still wondering if this is what I want, you know? Don’t get me wrong, the moment I hit the ice, I forget the question. But… I miss him.”

Ah. Him .

Hunter.

The calm to Tyler’s chaos, his other half. Except lately, with the different teams and packed schedules, they were more like two halves orbiting on opposite sides of the planet. I’d seen it eating at Tyler slowly.

The distance made him fray at the edges. He wasn’t the same without Hunter to center him, and I could tell Hunter probably wasn’t much better without Tyler.

“He’s back soon, isn’t he?” I said, forcing some cheer into my tone as I grabbed a mug and poured myself a cup of black coffee.

Tyler slumped against the counter like the mention of it was almost worse. “Yeah. I know it’s not long, but… fuck, I just want to kiss him, you know?”

The pang that hit me was quick, sharp, and as irrational as ever. I knew what it was—jealousy, plain and simple. Not of Tyler or Hunter, but of what they had. That kind of all-in, no-question love that stuck even when distance pulled at the seams. I shoved it down. This wasn’t about me and my chronic third-wheeling heart.

“I know,” I said softly, trying not to let my own insecurities leak into my voice. “It’ll go by quickly, Ty. Then you can kiss him like your life depends on it.”

That earned me a small, almost-smile, which counted as a win in my books.

But then—right on cue—the commotion started down the hall.

Tyler and I both turned toward the sound, sipping our coffee in shared amusement as Mouse and Jarman appeared, waddling along like two overgrown penguins. Shane had his face buried against Mouse’s neck, practically draped over him like a backpack, while Eli beamed beside them, his smile bright enough to light the entire hallway.

My heart fluttered despite myself.

Over time, Shane and I had grown close. He’d probably never call me his bestie—Mouse had that locked down—but he had a way of being in my corner that meant more than I could say. He showed up to every competition, made sure I never felt too alone, and let me ramble at him when I needed to. It wasn’t something I was used to, having people like that. It was enough to make me swallow hard behind my mug.

“Good morning!” I sang, injecting enough volume to burst their overly cute bubble before it smothered me entirely.

Eli laughed, his voice light. “It is a good morning, isn’t it?”

Oh, I knew. I definitely knew. I was the unfortunate bastard whose room was sandwiched between theirs, and let me tell you—thin walls, happy couples, and morning sex were a hell of a combination. It was enough to have me up and out of the house most days before sunrise, convinced my vibrator wasn’t cutting it anymore.

Eli, oblivious to my misery, filled us in on his plans—quitting his family’s agency, moving to Canada, and living his happily-ever-after with Shane. It was too cute for words. The only thing that seemed to trouble him was how his family would take the news. I made a mental note right then to make sure Eli knew he had us. If his family couldn’t handle it, then fine—we’d be his family instead.

By the time Eli threw in his soft little comment about me “putting myself out there” because the love of my life could be “demisexual and not even realize they’re into men,” I nearly choked on my coffee.

The optimism was sweet, really, it was—but my brain, being the traitor it was, went straight to Jack.

Jack with his gruff voice, his broad shoulders, and his annoyingly hot lumberjack arms. Jack, who was about as demisexual as a cinder block and ten times as stubborn.

I scolded myself. Hard.

Jack was not the guy for me. Jack was the kind of man who’d break my heart and not even notice he’d done it. No, I was perfectly happy with my little plan to just exist in his life like a sparkly nuisance. That was safe. That was fine.

And yet, as I took another sip of coffee, I couldn’t stop the traitorous smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

“God, I hate you all,” I grumbled, earning a chorus of laughter as the entire group filed into the kitchen, filling it with warmth.

I hid my smile behind the mug, but inside, the flutter in my chest didn’t stop.

The rink wasn’t far, and as I arrived, I barely had time to catch my breath before Petra came storming toward me, her expression sharp enough to slice through glass.

“You’re late!” she snapped, her voice cutting through the cold air like a blade.

I sighed, brushing past her without meeting her eyes and heading straight for the dressing room. Dealing with Petra was like navigating a minefield—every step dangerous, every move requiring precision, patience, and the kind of thick skin that could endure relentless explosions. She was intense, but so was I.

You had to be at this level.

The weight of it all pressed down on me. We were gearing up for the crème de la crème of competitions—the World Championships in Montreal. It loomed like a storm cloud, dark and unrelenting. The same three pairs always seemed to be neck-and-neck at every event, and this year we were determined to edge ahead.

“I’m not late,” I muttered under my breath as I tugged off my coat and stripped down to my practice tights.

“You’re two minutes behind,” she shot back, arms crossed, her tone as sharp as the steel of our blades. “That’s dress time. Right now, we should be stretching.”

I rolled my eyes, a little harder than I meant to. “Then go stretch, Petra. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Her huff echoed through the small space, but I didn’t let it faze me. She could huff all she wanted—I knew how to work under pressure, how to tune her out when I needed to.

Once I finished dressing, I ran through my stretches quickly, forcing myself to focus. The ice was calling. Centering myself, I stepped onto the rink, and everything else melted away. It always did.

Donovan Federov, our coach, was already there, standing at the boards with his arms crossed. He was as tough as they came—no-nonsense, brutally honest, and entirely without fluff. There were no soft words, no pats on the back. You either earned a nod or you didn’t, and I respected the hell out of that.

Out here, I wasn’t the chaotic mess I could sometimes be off of the ice. I was a soldier. I had a job to do, and I did it.

Our routine was ambitious. It had to be. The spins and lifts pushed us to the edge of our limits, testing everything we had. Last season, I’d ended up with a gash to the head after a failed quadruple twist lift—a brutal reminder of just how dangerous our sport could be. But this season? We’d nailed it. Along with the elusive quadruple axel. It wasn’t perfect every time, but we were so damn close. Close enough to feel the gold brushing against our fingertips.

“Again,” Donovan barked as we finished our first run-through. He was already dissecting our footwork, our jumps, his sharp eyes seeing every flaw.

We did it again. And again. By the time Donovan finally gave us his signature nod—the only sign of approval we ever got—I was drenched in sweat, muscles vibrating from the effort.

As we stepped off the ice, Petra still found time to critique. “Your landing on the second axel was sloppy,” she muttered, wiping her face with a towel. “And my arm wasn’t at the right angle during the twist because you didn’t grip fast enough.”

I gritted my teeth, locking the air in my chest. I took it, because saying what I wanted to say— How about we celebrate what we did right for once? —wouldn’t change anything.

Petra was Petra.

And at the end of the day, she was right. Perfection was the only acceptable standard.

We finished our stretches and trudged into our meeting with the weight and nutrition consultant. It was the kind of thing I dreaded, especially after the holidays. One extra piece of cake could turn into another pound of pressure. But, to my relief, I was down a pound from my target.

“Bump up the protein,” the consultant told me, adjusting my meal plan. “You need to stay fueled as we head into competition.”

I nodded along, the numbers swirling in my head. Calories in. Calories out. It was all part of the game, part of the expectation to keep my body in peak condition.

It was a relief to know I was physically where I needed to be, even if the mental pressure still pressed on me like a thousand-ton weight. The session had been as successful as it could be, considering the minimal sleep I was running on. We’d ticked every box on the checklist, but it still wasn’t enough for Petra.

It was never enough for Petra.

I swallowed back the urge to snap, shoving my frustration deep down where it belonged. Because that was the line you didn’t cross. This wasn’t friendship. This wasn’t love. This was war, and we were soldiers fighting for gold.

And I had no choice but to keep fighting.

As I eased into the driver’s seat, exhaustion pressed against my limbs like weights strapped to my ankles. My legs quivered slightly, each muscle still throbbing from the morning’s training. I took a slow breath, lifted my phone, and hit the familiar number, listening to the ring that no one would ever answer. It was a strange, self-imposed ritual—reminding myself that I still cared enough to try, that I wasn’t completely numb.

By the time I stepped through the front door of the house, the gentle hum of the television met me first. A documentary’s narrator spoke in hushed urgency, and there, illuminated by the flickering blue light, sat Eli.

I paused in the entryway for a moment, taking in his face. He wasn’t the hollowed-out figure I’d worried over recently. Instead, he offered a warm smile, something that stirred a quiet relief inside me, like a warm blanket after a brutal day.

“Hey,” he said, as if my homecoming was the highlight of his evening. In that simple word, I felt the tension of the rink ease from my shoulders.

I leaned in, pressing a light kiss to the top of his head. “Hey! You look beat,” Eli noted, tilting his head to measure my weariness.

I shrugged with a wry grin. “Me? Beat? Nah,” I teased, ignoring the dull ache in my calves.

Eli patted the couch cushion beside him. “Wanna snuggle and watch this?”

Snuggle. The idea of that nearly tempted me, but I winced inwardly. The last time I gave in to a casual cuddle, Shane’s protective stare nearly burned a hole through my skull. “Hmm, I don’t think so,” I said lightly, shifting my weight on my feet. “But I wanted to ask you a favor.”

Eli perked up, eyes bright as if I’d just offered him a present. “Of course! What’s up?”

Sinking into the armchair across from him, I launched into my pitch. “So, I know you’re not doing advertising these days, but I’ve got a friend, Jack, who owns a bar. It’s tucked away in some back alley—sounds sketchy, I know, but it’s actually got potential. The problem is, nobody knows it’s there. No sign, no branding, nothing. It’s called ‘Side Bar ,’ which is about as memorable as calling a dog ‘Dog.’”

Eli scrunched his nose as if tasting something sour. I could almost feel his creative gears shifting into motion. Perfect.

“I was thinking we could spruce it up,” I continued. “New sign, better name. I’m leaning towards ‘ LineBack Jack’s. ’ It’s a sports bar, but so far, I’ve unintentionally turned it into a gay sports bar—funny how that happens when the queer crowd loves a good athletic display.” I smirked, and Eli smiled knowingly.

“Gays and sports bars,” he mused, raising an eyebrow. “They’re definitely not there just for the touchdowns, huh?”

“Exactly,” I laughed. “And Jack doesn’t mind—if anything, it’s saving his business. But the place needs a look. Got a sec to see the outside?” I pulled out my phone, swiping to the photo I’d secretly snapped while passing by.

Eli leaned forward, studying the image: plain glass door, plain window, no personality at all. His eyes narrowed as he considered it. “What if we black out the window but leave cutouts in the shape of athletes?” he suggested. “Hockey players, footballers, baseball guys... maybe a cowboy?”

“Add a cowboy,” I said, remembering how Jack had the rodeo on the other night. “He’s branching out.”

Eli grinned, inspired. “When the lights are on inside, those silhouettes will glow. People passing by will be intrigued, and they’ll see just enough to want to come in.”

I could almost envision it—the glow, the silhouettes, the sense of mystery. My chest tightened with excitement. “I love it. And the door?”

“Keep it clean,” he said, tapping a finger on the arm of the couch. “‘LineBack Jack’s” in bold, and underneath: ‘Inclusive Sports Bar.’ Straightforward but welcoming.”

It was perfect, like he had plucked the idea straight from my head and polished it.

“You’re a genius. And what about a top sign? Something bold and lit, so no one can miss it.”

Eli nodded, almost bouncing in place. “Yes, a proper sign on top. And once I finish the design, I’ll give you a copy of the window art so you can print it on jerseys or something.”

Jerseys. A uniform. I pictured the staff wearing them, grinning at customers, making Jack’s bar feel cohesive and real.

“You are the best,” I said, meaning it with my whole heart.

Eli turned back to his laptop, already sketching, ideas flowing fast. I watched him for a second, my smile still in place. Jack had no clue what was coming his way. And that thought—imagining his reaction—warmed me more than the coffee I’d have to chug before morning practice.

I considered telling Eli not to rush, but the truth was I was too damn excited. I wanted to show Jack right away. And besides, I had other plans to keep the interest in his bar skyrocketing. As I leaned back in the chair, exhaustion and excitement tangled together in my head, I couldn’t help but think: Jack, you have no idea what’s about to hit you.

After a hot shower, two Red Bulls, and far too much time spent ensuring my reflection looked presentable—okay, maybe I checked twice—I made my way back to the bar, exhaustion pulling at me but unable to compete with the magnetic pull dragging me toward him .

Regret hit me the second I walked through the door. The bar was packed . Bodies filled every stool, every table, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses nearly drowning out the sound of the TV playing a hockey game. Jack was a flurry of motion behind the bar, sweat dampening his undershirt as he bounced between pouring drinks and darting to the kitchen. He looked… harassed. And hot. Definitely hot. But mostly harassed.

Near the door, Taron stood frozen like a deer in headlights, wide-eyed at the chaos. “He’s been doing this alone ?” they asked, a mix of disbelief and concern lacing their voice.

I nodded, scanning the crowd. “For a couple of nights now. But if this community keeps showing up like this, he’s gonna need help—fast.”

Taron straightened, jaw set with determination. “I’m calling Sadie. She’ll drop everything to help.”

I grinned at that. God, I love my people . Without hesitation, I slipped behind the bar, rolling up my sleeves as I dove into the chaos. Orders were shouted, beers were poured, and I quickly slipped back into that rhythm I hadn’t felt since college bartending days. Taron followed moments later, their confidence snapping into place as they picked up orders with ease.

“What the hell is happening here?” Jack’s voice came at me like thunder, deep and sharp, but instead of flinching, I smirked to myself. I do love me a good storm.

When I turned, I nearly swallowed my tongue. Jack’s undershirt clung to him in a way that made his broad chest and thick, hairy biceps the star of the show. Body hair wasn’t usually my thing, but on him? Ugh .

“Jack, meet Taron. Taron, meet Jack,” I said breezily, trying not to look as affected as I felt. “Jack owns this fine establishment, and Taron is my friend who recently needed a job.”

Jack’s storm-cloud gaze flicked from me to Taron, suspicion etched into his face as he crossed his arms. “And why did you recently need a job?” His tone was flat, but not unkind.

Taron, to their credit, didn’t flinch under his scrutiny. They mirrored Jack’s stance, crossing their arms right back at him. “Because the owner of my last bar refused to stop calling me ‘love’ and using gendered pronouns after I repeatedly told him I use they-them pronouns. He wouldn’t respect me, so I walked.”

Something in Jack’s face shifted—softened—just a touch. He gave a curt nod. “Fair enough. If you’re happy to work, I can’t pay much—not yet—but I’ll pay a fair wage.”

“Fair works for me,” Taron replied with a sharp nod before jumping straight into action.

Jack turned to me then, eyebrows lifted in that way that screamed what the hell are you doing? I just shrugged, a grin tugging at my lips, and went back to serving drinks. He didn’t argue, though; the three of us behind the bar were managing fine. And when Sadie arrived, it was like magic—smooth, effortless, like this was how it was always meant to be.

The bar buzzed with life, the energy electric and warm. By the time 2 a.m. rolled around, the last of the stragglers stumbled out into the cold night air. Sadie and Taron had the place spotless in no time, and Jack had disappeared to handle the rest of the closing duties. I pulled out my phone to check messages and noticed one from Mouse.

Mouse : Check this out.

Curious, I clicked the link. My jaw dropped. It was perfect. The sign design, the window cutouts—it was exactly what I’d envisioned for Jack’s bar. Before I could process the full weight of it, I felt him—Jack—behind me, his presence wrapping around me like heat on a cold night. My skin prickled, nerves on high alert as his voice broke the silence.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, softer than I’d expected. His concern—real concern—threw me for a second.

I spun to face him, shoving the phone toward him with too much enthusiasm. “Look!” My voice wavered with excitement as I showed him the design. “What do you think?”

His eyes scanned the screen, flicked to mine, then back again. His hand ran over his mouth, obscuring his expression. “You did this?”

I shook my head. “No, a friend of mine designed it. I just came up with the name because—no offense—‘Side Bar’ sucks. My friend thought of the window art and the sign. So? What do you think?”

Jack stared at the screen for another moment, his face unreadable. Finally, he grunted out, “It’s… great. Really great, Pretty Boy. But I can’t afford this right now. If we keep going like tonight, maybe, but not yet.”

I nodded, trying not to let disappointment creep in. “That’s fine. I’ll send you the mock-ups so you have them. No pressure.”

I glanced at the time and groaned. “Shit. Practice starts in—” I checked my watch “—four hours. God, kill me now.”

Before I could think better of it, I leaned up on my toes and kissed his cheek, the warmth of his skin and the tickle of his beard making my stomach flip. I lingered just a second too long before pulling back, cursing my treacherous heart.

“See you around, Jack. And don’t be an idiot—hire Taron and Sadie. They’ve got ideas for drink specials, games, and Sadie’s a whiz at marketing. Let her handle your socials.”

And with that, I turned and headed for the door, leaving him standing there, gobsmacked, his eyes burning into my back. I smirked to myself as I stepped outside, the cold air hitting me like a wall. Mission accomplished.