Page 15 of Rookie Season
Drinks are so much more than thirst quenchers. They bring people together. They tell our stories.
“Oooh, that looks fantastic,” Nova observes.
I make her a drink and slide it over. Brooke takes a sip.
“Too much booze?” I ask.
“Maybe we can do no booze?” Nova requests. “I’ve been sleeping like crap lately working on this art show.”
“You got it.” I make her one without.
My dad always loves giving people what they ask for—usually beer—but I get a thrill out of coming up with new combinations. He’s a traditionalist. That applies to what we serve but also how the bar operates. A lot of things he hasn’t changed in twenty years.
As I keep reminding him, we’re overdue, but he doesn’t listen.
The entire crew eats around a big table. Nova suggests she and Clay take first shift cleaning up since Clay picked the first room. Clay’s not sure about her logic, but she shoots him a look and he promptly follows her to the kitchen to wash dishes.
“We’re having a holiday movie fest. Let’s vote on it,” Ryan decides.
The crew argues their cases for The Santa Clause, Elf, and Home Alone.
They land on Elf. The movie starts, and I resist the tug of being charmed watching Buddy eat candy, make friends, and essentially try to find his home away from the North Pole in the most adorably cringe-inducing ways.
We’re sitting around on couches and chairs, a few of us on the floor. Ryan’s at the opposite end of the couch from me. Once in a while our feet brush.
Tingles in my stomach have me glancing over to find Ryan watching me. He cocks his head, lips curved.
“All good?” he mouths.
I nod quickly and look back at the TV… except the words are in my brain long after I retrain my eyes on the movie.
So is the feeling of Ryan’s attention on me.
It’s one thing to ignore how hot he is when we’re in a busy bar and his picture is hanging on the wall of my family business. It’s another to do it up here, in the secluded woods, where he’s close and personal.
An hour into the movie, I duck back into the kitchen on the pretense of refilling drinks and use that opportunity to hit a contact on my phone.
“Hey, kid,” Dad answers. “Did you make my favorite drinks?”
“How’d you know?”
He laughs. “I know everything about you.”
Not everything. I want to say it even though it’s childish.
“Don’t forget, the new stools are coming tomorrow,” I remind him.
“Tell me you didn’t order those.” I can practically hear him grimace.
“They were on sale. We’ve needed them for months. The old ones have holes.” My voice is firm.
“So, we’ll patch them up. I’ll return these.”
“Dad…” I groan, rubbing a hand over my face.
New stools barely scratch the surface of what I’d do if Mile High were my bar, but Dad’s beyond resistant to anything I try to bring in, from new menu offerings and suppliers to décor. Even so, fighting me on replacing seating that saw its best days twenty years ago is ridiculous.
“They don’t come here for change, honey. They don’t want fancy stools. They want cold beer, the team winning, a place that feels like it’s theirs. It’s not about me, and it’s not about you.”
