Page 1 of Zero Pucks Given
1
Josie
“Win a date with Grayson Steele, captain of your San Antonio Surge! Now’s your last chance to sign up before the winner is announced at the end of the second periodtonight!”
I glanced at the television mounted on the wall, which flashed with lights and promotional graphics. Grayson’s Steele’s chiseled face filled the screen, his blue-grey eyes staring back coldly. He was hot, but in a robotic kind of way. And he was a professional hockey player, which meant he was a douchebag of the highest order.
The next customer in line approached the counter and said, “Hi, I’ll take two large beers, a pretzel, and a bag of popcorn.”
“Coming right up,” I said, punching his order into the computer and then filling two plastic cups with beer. I still had two hours left in my shift working at the Frost Bank Center, where the San Antonio Surge—the city’s newest sports team—played. The arena was packed tonight, likely because they were announcing the winner of that stupid win-a-date competition. My concession stand was underneath the upper deck, and the entire arena rumbled with cheers and groans every few seconds. Being busy made the time go by faster, at least.
While grabbing a pretzel from the heating rack, my coworker and best friend Sharon leaned in and whispered, “Guy’s been staring atyour ass since you turned around.”
“That’s pretty much every customer,” I replied with a chuckle.
“He’s cute, is all I’m saying.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not picking up a guy at work.”
“You never know! That’s how I met Kyle!”
“You’re the exception to the rule,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. “Besides, this guy’s wearing a wedding ring.”
I carried the pretzel back to the customer, who gave me averysuggestive smile before shoving a few bucks into the tip jar. His wedding ring shone in the light.
Creep.
I was used to it, of course. Being a not-ugly woman in the service industry meant suffering stares, flirts, and outright propositions from customers. It sucked… but the tips were good. My life could be worse.
That’s what I kept telling myself while taking orders and filling cups full of cheap beer.
“Josie!” my boss called from the corner. “Grab the beer backpack. I need you to cover section 118.”
I groaned. “I covered it last game. Tonight’s supposed to be Carter’s shift.”
“Carter’s back is injured. He can’t carry the pack. Hurry up, there’s still ten minutes left before the end of the period.”
I glanced at Carter, the college kid who was always late and full of excuses. He didn’t look like his back hurt. But my boss wasn’t the kind of man you argued with—it only made him dig in his heels stubbornly. Sharon and I had learned that the hard way working here.
“Fine,” I said, taking the heavy backpack of beer. “Hope you’re feeling better, Carter.”
“Thanks!” he replied, oblivious to my sarcasm.
Sharon gave me a sympathetic smile as I left the concession stand. Ipushed my way through the crowd in the concourse, then out the tunnel into the open arena. The hockey rink below was illuminated brightly, the ice reflecting the surrounding lights and flashing colors from the scoreboard above. Hockey players decked out in pads glided around the ice, the black puck passed between them with laser-accuracy.
The temperature immediately dropped twenty degrees. That was the main reason I hated selling beer out in the stands. The heavy backpack was another. I shifted the weight from one shoulder to the other, then began walking down the stairs.
“Cold beer! Get your cold beer!” I shouted.
My hatred for hockey went back to my teenage years, growing up in Minnesota. I dated one of the guys on my high school hockey team for a month, and he walked around like he was a goddamncelebrity. My hatred deepened when I went to the University of Minnesota and discovered that the school hockey team was revered as much as the football team. Then I was paired up with one of the players for a group project in my marketing class, a project where he contributed approximatelyzero percent,yet when I complained about it to my professor she shrugged her shoulders and basically admitted that he got special treatment for being on the team.
I wasn’t a fan of the cold weather, so after college I moved down to Texas. I’d gladly take triple-digit summer days if it meant never being cold again. And I got a job working for the arena where the San Antonio Spurs played.
Then the unthinkable happened: a hockey team moved to San Antonio. And in the blink of an eye, half the games I worked at the arena were hockey. Now I had to freeze my ass off.
“Cold beer!” I repeated.
A customer raised their hand to get my attention. I lowered my backpack, opened two cans of beer, and poured them into plastic cups. If I’d known I would be working in the stands, I would have worn gloves.
