Page 95 of My Last Dance

“You guys think about your free dance music yet?” Patrick asked as soon as we walked up the sidewalk to the bar.

“Nope.” Kappy popped thep.

“It’s been, like, two seconds since we left practice, Patrick.” His future students were lucky because his mind was constantly circling the rules.

He grabbed the door and held it open for us. “Fair. Keep your ears open tonight during music trivia for some potential songs.”

The smell of beer overwhelmed me as we walked into the already crowded bar. With old articulate wood designs and framed sports memorabilia, O’Callahan’s had an authentic Irish pub feel.

One particular jersey stood out behind the bar: a signed Windy City Whalers #14 jersey with the name Kappers stitched to the top. But this jersey was different from the usual dark blue, light blue, and white design. Instead, it was green and white.

“It was the St. Paddy’s day themed jersey from a couple years back,” Kappy explained with a slight flush coloring his cheeks.

“Are you blushing?” I teased, gently elbowing him in the gut. It was cute. I hadn’t seen his shyness in years.

He gave a sheepish little grin and kept his eyes on the bar. “Barry, the bartender, he really wanted that jersey.”

“That’s cool.”

He dipped his head a little, the tips of his ears turning red. “Thanks.”

“So, what’re you drinking?”

His eyebrows slammed down. “We don’t drink yet, Piper,” he said, like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “This is serious business. We have to keep our winning streak.”

“Yeah, don’t throw us off, P,” Patrick added. “We’ve got some serious superstitions here.”

The older bartender with a mop of graying hair, shining green eyes, and a weathered face smiled at them. “Ah, ye buddies are back,” he said in a thick Irish accent. “The usual?”

Patrick nodded. “Plus whatever she wants.” He jerked a thumb at me.

“Wow, I’ve never felt like such a third wheel before,” I mumbled, crossing my arms over my chest. “And I have spent alotof time with Colt and Mer.”

Kappy and Patrick both chuckled as they saddled up to their “usual spot” at a high-top bar table. They both produced matching green pens out of their pockets and grabbed the trivia papers sitting between the condiment container at the center of the table.

A few minutes later, the bartender slid two baskets of wings and cokes onto the table. “Here ya are, lads.”

“Thanks, Barry.” Kappy nodded, but his eyes were focused on his trivia paper.

“Gotta say, I’m missing hockey season. Can’t wait to see ya back out there, boy.” He patted Kappy’s large shoulder.

Kappy’s dark eyes darted to mine for a second, like he’d been caught, before he gave a warm smile to the bartender. “Thanks, Barry.”

The realization felt like a kick to the stomach—Kappy still hadn’t told anyone he was skipping next season. It was the first week of August. The whole city thought he’d be suiting up in another week or two for preseason training.

Guilt crushed into me from all sides, making my breathing go ragged.

Why was he giving this up?

The city loved him.

And he loved hockey.

“And what’ll you have, miss?” Barry asked, jolting me out of my mental spiral.

I rattled off my order, but my mind spun through a series of different questions, all pertaining to Richard Charles Kappers the Third.

A hand went to my leg making me jump. Kappy squeezed my thigh and leaned in to whisper, “Stop overthinking. I’m doing whatIwant.”

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