Page 2 of That Thing You Brew
He gestured toward the coffee shop. “The news is all over social media. They announced it this morning while Montoya Construction was hanging up the new signs. The Bevvie Bar has been sold. I’m not sure what we’ll find when we get there.”
Penny.My first thought went to the barista who invented my lucky coffee. Was that what he wasn’t saying? That Penny wouldn’t be there.
I shook my head to clear it and focus on the facts.Sold?It had never crossed my mind that the Bevvie Bar might ever be sold. The businesses along Main Street hadn’t changed as long as I’d lived here. I gripped the wheel tightly as I edged closer to the light, stopping just shy of the intersection as the yellow signal turned to red.
If I couldn’t get my toffee coffee … I was toast. I didn’t think it was magic, of course, but when something was going right, you kept doing it.
It’s bad luck not to.
I wasn’t Irish—half German and half First Nations—but I was born on St. Patrick’s Day. I knew luck. And, as a rule, hockey players were overly superstitious. I was probably on the higher end of that spectrum.
I also hated coffee, but superstition dictated how seriously I took my pregame coffee routine, and I’d done everything possible in the last three-plus years to make sure I hit up the Bevvie Bar before each home game.
If I lost my streak, I could be bounced straight back to the minors. Then I wouldn’t just be living in Palmer City, I’d be playing here again, too. Or worse, they could put me on waivers and trade me away if I cleared them. Who knew which team might pick me up?
I’d never been happier than where I was now.
Not that it was a bad thing to play in this close-knit small town. I still lived here, not minding the hour or so drive to Denver. But it was backward motion for a defenseman in his early twenties. I’d finally landed a full contract last summer after years of two-way play with the Voltage, filling in for defensemen on the Edge when they needed a D-man to fill a spot if one of the rostered players was out. The thought of being put on waivers so they could send me back to the minors made me physically sick.
Practice earlier this morning had been brutal. I hadn’t played hockey in a week. Jet lag combined with anxiety and grief kept my body awake and my mind racing. Opa had taken a turn for the worse just before Christmas. He’d been ill these last few years, one thing after another, but the pneumonia over Thanksgiving had done a number on his lungs.
Needless to say, it hadn’t been the happiest Christmas. My littlest sisters begged me to stay longer at the chateau, for Opa’s last days, but he insisted I get back. I took the last flight out of Munich last night to be here for today’s morning skate so I could play tonight, knowing he’d be watching online, maybe for the last time.
The season was almost half over, and this was crunch time for us if we wanted to make the playoffs. Management had been gracious enough to let me miss the road trip before Christmas, and they’d lost all three games. Those losses while I was away knocked us down to fourth place out of eight in our division and only two points ahead of Montana, who’d come out of nowhere in the last few weeks with a run rarely seen this time of year.
Opa was my biggest fan, and I was his. I knew he hated me seeing him in his condition and it troubled him that I was missing work on his account. He’d always referred to hockey as my job, which I appreciated. It was more serious than “play,” as my dad viewed it.
I would have violated my contract in a minute if Opa asked me to stay, and he knew it. But that wasn’t his way. Hard work and service were his way of life. He’d grown up wealthy in the chateau with expansive grounds and gardens—but you’d never know that if you met him on the street. Schwannenschloss was our fairytale family home, and it was especially enchanting at Christmas. But this year, I hardly noticed.
We played at home tonight, and I needed some good to balance out the bad. Once I got my toffee coffee from the Bevvie Bar, I’d be ready to go. I had a perfect record on the ice at home on the days when Penny, barista extraordinaire, was at the Bevvie bar to make my special drink. For the last few years, every time I’d drunk her custom-made pregame toffee coffee, I’d scored a goal.
Penny.Was her job safe? The beautiful, shy barista who played the harp during the slow afternoons, taught American sign language to preschoolers at the library, and…
And had barely said three words out loud to me in as many years.
We communicated through coffee cup messages.
A month ago, she’d written,Get the 3 points you need to “edge” out the others for the Norris trophy! #14MVP2024
The Norris trophy went to the best defenseman in the league. In that game, I’d scored once and gotten two assists. After that, the points kept coming, and I was way ahead now.For the last game I’d played before I left for Europe, she’d writtenHug your Opa.She must have overheard me talking about him in line. I scored a goal in that game, a snappy wrister through heavy traffic during a penalty kill, and got an assist on a pass to our captain, who always found the net from the left circle.
Speaking of not speaking, I didn’t reply to Jason. What was there to say? Instead, I drew in another deep breath and let it out slowly. The light turned green, and as I crossed the intersection and turned left, I glanced up the block.
What I saw made me take in another deep gulp of air.
“Never seen that before.” Jason leaned forward in his seat. Three buildings up on the right, the Bevvie Bar was thronged on both sides by a crowd of people, some holding signs. Across the street, cars were parked bumper to bumper in front of Karta’s Kitsch, the antique shop, and the bookstore. Only one parking space was available on the whole block, right in front of the coffee shop, but there were people standing in it.
As we approached the sea of people in the marked space, they parted, motioning for me to take the spot. I pulled up alongside a pickup and glided backward into the spot easily.
While I parallel parked, Jason read aloud some of the signs. “Swanny, we love you! I’ll make your coffee. Hashtag Bevvie Bar Forever! Coffee Loft Stinks.Yikes.”
I stared past him, through his window, to the old saloon-turned-coffee shop. A new awning and lettering on the door and windows matched the unlit logo on the front of the building. The crowd, a mix of ages, wore the royal blue, red, and silver colors of the Edge. Some in jerseys. Some with scarves. It looked like half the town had shown up to support the end of my toffee coffee.
I groaned, immediately recognizing a particular trio of twentysomething season ticket holders who sat a few rows up from our bench and were always trying to get our attention.
“Bubbles, Blossom, and Buttercup are here,” I muttered. The trio had been so nicknamed after a jumbotron spotlight lookalike cam had likened these three to the PowerPuff girls because of their similarities to the blond-, red-, and raven-haired cartoon characters.
“We should go in.” Jason unbuckled his seat belt and stroked his short-trimmed beard, reminding me I hadn’t shaved this morning. I was sporting a scruffy anchor beard this season, and it was a little out of control. I’d need to fix that before the game tonight.
