Page 12 of Play Along With Me
But I'm not here for Audrey. I'm here for my future, my career. I pull my attention back to Kevin.
"About Burnham," I say. "I'm definitely open to exploring options. The goal is the NHL, obviously, but I need to be somewhere that gives me the best chance at that."
Kevin nods approvingly. "Smart answer. Look, Boston's giving you a look, and that's great. See where that goes. But if it doesn't pan out the way you hope, or if you want to explorea different path up the ladder... keep me in mind. The Polar Bears' goalie situation is more unsettled than Boston's. Could be a faster track."
This is good. Options are good. Suddenly I'm not just waiting for one phone call, pinning all my hopes on one practice with the Saints. There's another potential path emerging.
Audrey returns with our drinks. "One fancy-pants Manhattan for the gentleman from Burnham, and one beer for the guy who can't read apartment numbers."
"Thank you," I say with exaggerated politeness.
She leans on the bar, eyeing me. "So, you're a hockey player? Like, professionally? People pay you actual money to skate on ice?"
"Hard to believe, I know," I respond.
"And what position do you play? The guy who sits in the penalty box? You've got that look about you."
I can't help but laugh. "Goalie, actually."
"Ah," she nods sagely. "The crazy one who voluntarily stands in front of flying pucks. That tracks with the door situation."
Kevin is watching our exchange with amusement. "Audrey gives everyone a hard time," he tells me. "Means she likes you."
"Or it means I'm doing my job and being entertaining for tips," she counters, but there's a playful glint in her eye. "Food will be up shortly, gentlemen. Try not to get bored before I get back."
As she walks away again, Kevin chuckles. "Spunky, right? Never met anyone quite like her."
I take a sip of my beer, watching as Audrey banters with another customer down the bar. Collin's infatuation makes a bit more sense now.
"She's definitely something," I agree, before deliberately steering the conversation back to hockey. "So tell me more about Burnham's system. How would you describe your defensive structure?"
For the next hour, Kevin and I talk shop while Audrey periodically checks on us, each time with a new quip about goalies, hockey, or my door-knocking technique. By the end of the meal, I have a solid lead on another opportunity, a full stomach, and a strange, nagging interest in Collin’s neighbor's.
The beer isn't helping.
As we're leaving, I find myself dropping an extra twenty on top of the already generous tip Kevin left, scribbling on the receipt: "For your Lego-free future. —The Door Pounder."
Chapter 3
A professional hockey player? The door-pounder is a professional hockey player? The universe has a twisted sense of humor—like when it serves you a parking ticket and bird poop on the same day.
I watch as Jake Marshall and Kevin Wooledge exit the bar, Kevin's hand clapping Jake's shoulder in that distinctly male "we've just bonded over sports and red meat" gesture. Jake glances back at me briefly, and I pretend to be suddenly, intensely interested in wiping down an already clean section of the bar.
"Audrey!" Kevin calls out, returning to drop his credit card slip. "Dinner was excellent, as always."
"You say that, but you ordered the same thing you always do," I point out. "One day I'll convince you to try the scallops."
"Life's too short for seafood experiments," he says with a wink. "Jake is heading out. Good kid, don't you think?"
I shrug noncommittally. "Seemed less murdery than when he was trying to break down my door, so that's a plus."
Kevin chuckles, settling back onto his barstool. The restaurant has emptied out—Tuesday nights are always slow after 9—and I can see he's gearing up for his usual post-dinner soliloquy.
When Kevin first started coming to the Liberty Bar, I thought his habit of lingering to chat was sweet. Fifty-something guy, probably divorced, missing human connection. Now I realize he's just a hockey obsessive who's found a captive audience. I'm essentially a performing pony for a lonely old man, but his tips are consistently 30%, so I've learned to nod at appropriate intervals while mentally outlining chapters of my unwritten novel.
"So what'd you really think of him?" Kevin asks, swirling the ice in his water glass. "Marshall, I mean."
"I don't know. I met him for approximately twelve seconds before tonight, and he was threatening my door's structural integrity."
