Page 17 of Play Along With Me
I'm in the zone, though, that bartender flow state where my hands seem to know what to do without conscious direction. Pour, shake, strain, garnish. Take payment, make change, smile, repeat. My feet are already protesting, but the tip jar is filling nicely, which means I might actually make my rent without dipping into my sad little savings account this month.
"Cosmopolitan, whiskey neat, and an old fashioned," I announce, sliding the drinks across the bar to a group of women in their forties who are clearly having a girls' weekend. They've been steadily getting louder for the past hour, transitioning from complaining about their husbands to sharing increasingly inappropriate stories about their college days.
"You're a lifesaver," the ringleader says, handing me her credit card. "Keep the tab open, honey. We're just getting started."
"Terrifying," I mutter to myself as I swipe her card.
"What was that?" she asks.
"Terrific! I'll keep the tab open," I recover, moving down the bar to my next customer.
Marcus, my fellow bartender, bumps my hip as he reaches past me for the top-shelf tequila. "Table 12 is asking for you specifically. Apparently, you make the 'perfect gin and tonic.' The bar is truly a magical place of delusion."
"It's all in the wrist," I say solemnly. "And the fact that I actually measure the gin instead of free-pouring like some barbarians I know."
"Measuring is for bakers and the insecure," he retorts, flipping a bottle with unnecessary flourish.
Marcus is the showboat of our bar team, all flashy moves and flirtatious banter. The customers love him. I'm more of the "steady hand and sarcastic aside" variety of bartender. We complement each other well.
The night progresses in its typical fashion—a blur of drink orders, awkward attempts at flirtation from businessmen in loosened ties, and the occasional spilled cocktail. By 11 PM, my feet are screaming, my cheeks hurt from forced smiling, and I'm calculating how many more gin and tonics I need to make to justify ordering takeout instead of eating ramen at home.
I'm wiping down a section of the bar when Marcus sidles up next to me, an envelope in his hand.
"Kevin Wooledge dropped this off for you earlier," he says, handing it to me. "Made me promise on my life to give it to you. Very dramatic. Is he your sugar daddy or something?"
I roll my eyes. "He's old enough to be my father, so ew. And he's just a regular who likes to talk about hockey."
The envelope has my name written on it in blocky capital letters. It's not sealed, just the flap tucked in.
"Aren't you going to open it?" Marcus asks, making no attempt to hide his nosiness.
"Why are you still here? Don't you have drunk bridesmaids to impress with your mediocre bottle-flipping?"
"Already dazzled them. Now I'm invested in this mysterious envelope situation." He leans against the bar, arms crossed. "My money's on cash. Maybe he's tipping you extra for all the hockey knowledge you've absorbed against your will."
I eye the envelope suspiciously. It doesn't feel thick enough to be cash, which is disappointing. I could use a random cash windfall right about now.
"If it's a marriage proposal, I call dibs on best man," Marcus continues. "I look fantastic in formal wear."
"If it's a marriage proposal from Kevin Wooledge, I'm changing my name and moving to Wyoming," I mutter, finally opening the envelope.
Inside is... a ticket? I pull it out and stare at it in confusion.
"Boston Saints vs. New York Tanks," Marcus reads over my shoulder. "Tuesday night. Fancy seats too—that's lower bowl, near the glass."
"It's a hockey ticket," I say unnecessarily, turning it over as if the back might explain why Kevin Wooledge is giving me a ticket to a hockey game.
"Astute observation," Marcus nods. "The question is why?"
I look back in the envelope and notice a folded note I missed the first time. I pull it out and unfold it.
Audrey,
Need your final opinion on Marshall before I make a decision. Tuesday's practice, then the game that night. I've got a box, but thought you might enjoy the full experience from the stands. No pressure, but your insights last time were helpful. Plus, you might actually enjoy the game if you give it a chance.
—Kevin
P.S. I asked for a seat where you can see the goalies clearly. Marshall will be backing up for Boston, wearing #35.
