Page 86 of Second Shot

Elbowing Niko, Kincaid slips out of the grasp. “I only care because I room with you, and I might need to use the bathroom at some point.”

Niko shoves him playfully, and Kincaid laughs.

We’ve been bar-hopping for hours, moving from a trendy rooftop place to a dive that probably hasn’t changed since Sherman marched through, and now we’re heading to some speakeasy that Kincaid found on his phone.

“There,” Kincaid points to a building that looks like a converted carriage house. “The Ordinary. Supposed to have the best cocktails in the city.”

“As long as they have beer,” Foster says. “I’m not drinking anything with more than three ingredients.”

“You’re so unadventurous,” Niko complains. “You should try a cocktail sometime.”

“Nope.” Foster scowls. “You never know what you’re getting with a cocktail. Beer is reliable.”

“And boring,” Niko says. “I’m getting something with a ridiculous name and at least four types of alcohol.”

Kincaid laughs. But to be honest, he almost always laughs at Niko’s jokes. They were traded to the Seadragons at the same time three years ago and I suppose that built a bond. They’re like battle buddies.

The outside of The Ordinary is all weathered brick and wrought iron, with lantern-style sconces casting a golden glow across the cobblestone sidewalk. Inside, the bar smells faintly of citrus, aged wood. The space is narrow but tall, with exposed beams and brick wall. Edison bulbs dangle from long cords, casting warm amber light over reclaimed wood tablesand a bar stocked with glass bottles in every shade of amber, green, and blue.

The bartenders all wear red suspenders, and they look like they take their jobs very seriously. They enthusiastically stir and shake, and chat up the patrons at the bar. A chalkboard near the bar lists the nightly specials in looping script. It lists things like “Smoked Peach Old Fashioned” and “Basil Blues.”

We claim a corner table beneath a vintage fan that lazily turns overhead, and not much later, our drinks arrive in mismatched glassware with fancy garnishes.

“To making the playoffs,” Kincaid raises his glass. It’s some fancy cocktail Niko suggested named Bless Your Tart.

We all cheer and take a sip of our drinks.

“Also, to surviving the media circus,” Foster adds, lifting his glass again. More cheers and sips.

Not to be out done, Niko stands and holds up his glass. “I, personally, would like to also drink to chemistry.” His eyes move meaningfully between Gabe and me. “On and off the ice.”

“Cornball alert,” Foster says, smirking.

“Fuck off,” Niko grins. “Love should be celebrated.”

“What would you know about love?” Kincaid taunts, although he’s smiling. “You’ve never slept with the same girl twice the whole time I’ve known you.”

Usually Niko would laugh off something like that, especially from Kincaid or Foster. But tonight, that barb seems to get under his skin. His gaze sharpens on Kincaid. “Are you pretending you’re an expert on love? You’ve been stringing the same girl along for a year.”

Kincaid’s face goes red. “My love life is none of your business.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Niko scowls, but when he notices us staring at him, he forces a smile and drains his drink. Coughing, he gestures the waitress for another round.

I give Gabe a perplexed look and he just shrugs. Something is definitely off between Niko and Kincaid the last month. I’ve never seen them fight, so I can’t begin to guess what might be wrong. But then the waitress arrives with more drinks, so I push the thoughts away. Kincaid and Niko can work out their own shit.

As the drinks continue to flow, the conversation jumps from hockey to a threesome Niko had last week, then to Foster’s hatred of avocados. Things seem fine between him and Kincaid now, so maybe I was just imagining things.

I find my gaze returning to Gabe all evening. We’re sitting close enough that our knees brush under the table. He’s relaxed in a way I haven’t seen since before everything fell apart, laughing at Foster’s stories and contributing his own dry observations that make everyone else laugh harder. Every few minutes we smile at each other.

“You two are disgusting,” Foster says suddenly.

“What?” I ask, probably too innocently.

“The way you keep looking at each other and grinning like fools. It’s like watching a romance movie, except with hockey and better abs.”

“Foster’s just jealous,” Niko chimes in. “He hasn’t gotten laid since the Clinton administration.”

“Hey,” Foster protests. “It was the Bush administration.”

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