Page 14 of Hot Ice, Tennessee

Shit.

Maybe Mason was embarrassed. I didn’t have a clue what my brother thought about Mason popping a cherry into my mouth, but at the end of the day, I didn’t give a fuck.

I did whatever I wanted.

Kane could try to judge me, but I wasn’t a kid anymore, and his protective parental vibe wasn’t going to fly now that I was 21.

But Mason likely felt different about the prospect of Kane’s… very strong opinions.

“There’s plenty of spare Hard Spot T-shirts inside,” I told Mason. “I’m sure I could get him to part with one of them.”

Mason gave me a polite smile, but something in his eyes had changed. He’d made up his mind.

I looked him up and down, realizing that he wasn’t going to budge.

Well, I wasn’t going to push him, either.

I gave him a nod. “Let me at least help you call a cab home?”

“I’ve got it covered, but thank you.”

We grabbed fistfuls of napkins from the tables nearby and blotted up the rest of the spilled drink. I walked back inside with him and before he left, he dropped some money on the bar, gave me a wave, and headed out the front doors.

“Later, cowboy,” I called out, but he’d already walked outside.

Most people don’t realize that hockey is almost all about observation.

Watching the other players’ tells. Watching the puck. Watching the way a guy might juke left right before he goes right, or watching the micromovements of the goalie.

Being an observer came as naturally to me as skating itself, both of them honed skills, but also pure instinct.

I couldn’t exactly turn all of that off.

I always felt like an observer. On the ice, in a classroom, or at a bar. Once Mason had bounced out of here like a scared animal, I took my place at the end of the bar, watching it all go by. I could almost feel the fog of my normal life settling around me again like a heavy shroud. Watching. Waiting for some long-lost fire to hit my blood again.

Not that I know what that would be.

I’d spent two years fucking up my life. Meeting one random hot cowboy at the Hard Spot wasn’t going to fix it.

The bar top in the Hard Spot was gleaming, only weathered in a few spots where the finish had worn down over time. The crowd inside had thinned out by now, though there were still a few groups dancing to country music over in one corner, and others playing pool in some of the alcoves surrounded by shelves. The pattering sound of the storm came through whenever there was a lull in the noise. Each time the front doors swung open as another group left, the scent of rain floated in.

I reached over and grabbed an almost-empty jar of Maraschino cherries sitting on the inner ridge of the bar. I popped a few more in my mouth, one by one, getting lost in thought about how quickly things had deflated.

Kane was finally in a lull from serving drinks a couple of minutes later, and he made his way over to me behind the bar.

“How’s your night been?” I asked him when he came over.

“Hey. You’re cuttin’ into my bottom line with those cherries.”

I gave him an incredulous look. “The jar had about three cherries left in it. You think that’s going to bankrupt the Hard Spot?”

“No, but don’t reach behind my bar again,” he warned, giving me his signature death glare.

“I get it, I get it,” I said. “I won’t.”

Kane stretched his arms above his head. “Tonight has been good, actually. It’s been a little wild, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen more tips in my life,” he said. “Hard work, great payout. I’m not complaining.”

I gave him a fist bump. “Proud of you, bro.”

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