Page 3 of That Thing You Brew
“Yeah.” I pulled at my tie, loosening it just a little, and turned the car off. He reached behind him for our suit jackets and handed me mine. I slung it over my arm and opened the door to my Audi R5. The car had been a gift from Opa when I’d signed my contract. “Zave your money, Zavey-boy,” he’d said in his thick accent. “I vant you to zave for vhen hockey cannot make you money anymore.”
I loved the Audi, but it was a little too flashy for my style. I liked to fly under the radar, even on the ice. It was one of the reasons I chose to play defense. I’d send the puck to a scorer and be happy with the assist. But Coach Conway of the Volts saw that I was holding back and called me on it at the end of last season. “Swanny, you’d be in the NHL already if you didn’t hold back. Play the two-way hockey. Score goals. Get noticed. You’ve worked hard. Show us all what you can really do.”
So I did. We made it to the playoffs and won the minor league championship.
And I got noticed.
Press was everywhere. Fans were everywhere. Bubbles, Buttercup, and Blossom wereeverywhere.
Except for at my little coffee shop in the little town between Denver and Colorado Springs where my favorite barista strummed her harp and soothed my soul during lazy afternoons.
Oh, there were always a few fans to wave and greet me and ask for selfies on game days, but it was nothing like this. A couple of kids after school, a hockey mom with a van packed with mites or peewee players on the way to practice, the occasional retirees. This display today was a shy kid’s nightmare.
I often employed the tricks I’d learned from the media training when I’d played in the World Junior championship. Slowing my breathing, I took my time, slipping my suit jacket on and extracting my six-foot-five frame from the low bucket seat. Jason did the same, and our doors slammed shut at the same moment as if choreographed. He waited by his door as I walked around the hood of the car, lifting my hand in a polite wave to the fans. We stuck out like sore thumbs in our high-end designer suits. Everyone in the crowd was dressed for a snow day in puffer jackets and jerseys over hoodies.
“Looking sharp, boys!”
“I wish my husband dressed like that!”
“Swanny! What will you do if they don’t have toffee coffee anymore?”
“The team better do something about this! It could tank our season!”
“Dex, you better step it up!”
“Swanny! We’re here for you!”
I flashed a smile and thanked the teenage fan who opened the door for us and followed Jason inside. The coffee shop was just as crowded, but being tall has its perks. I scanned over the people and through the Christmas decorations, looking to see if Penny was behind the counter. It was Tuesday afternoon, and though it was a holiday week, she should be working.
Her sister, Tasha, was at the register taking orders. Behind her, their cousin Gabby, who was engaged to Coach Conway’s stepson and my sometimes teammate, Noel Allaire, puttered about, filling orders. Their rust-colored Bevvie Bar aprons had been replaced with white aprons featuring a steaming cup of coffee. A woman I didn’t recognize, sans apron but wearing a name tag, was in a hushed conversation at the end of the counter with Adri Delicata, our local sports reporter, who had one eye on the woman and one eye on us.
Oh no.
I spoke low to Jason as Adri’s cameraman turned in our direction. “I’m going to ask Tasha where Penny is. Block me from Adri?”
He nodded and stepped out of the line to make his way toward the left end of the counter. I skirted around the people in front of us and caught Tasha’s eye. She nodded, handed her customer a receipt, and met me at the end of the refrigerated cooler.
Her eyes met mine expectantly. “You don’t ever cut the line or ask for favors. What’s up?”
I stuffed my hands into my pockets and nodded my chin in the direction of Adri and the new woman. “Trying to avoid a spectacle. Is Penny here?”
She averted her gaze, her eyes darting to the small—and empty—dais on the side wall near the entrance to the restrooms where Penny’s harp sat during her shifts. “She’s out back, in her car. Her anxiety can’t handle this today. She blew another audition.” Tasha clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oops. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Blew an audition?Anotherone? Penny was the most talented harpist I’d ever heard play. How many auditions had she blown? Opa was a symphony aficionado, hiring string players for all of his and Oma’s events at the chateau. Only the best for Ludorf and Louisa von Schwann. But no one had ever come close to Penny’s talent, if you asked me. Her fingers didn’t fly over the strings; they fluttered like butterfly wings. Her posture was straight but relaxed. And when she closed her eyes, she smiled while she played, as if she, too, were enjoying the music.
I loved to watch her play.
Not in a stalkerish way. She practiced at the Bevvie Bar when business was slow and often took special requests. My favorites were the instrumental animated film ballads. Opa used to play those for my sisters when we visited. Penny was just as good—if not better—than he was. But the first time I’d heard her, she was playing Opa’s favorite song, “Little Bird, Little Bird” from the stage musicalMan of La Mancha. I’d choked up, hit with a powerful wave of homesickness and emotion that gutted me.
I could close my eyes while Penny was playing and I’d be in Opa’s music room with him and Oma and my sisters and parents. Before cancer claimed Oma, before Opa’s lungs began to fail, before I played professional hockey. Sitting on a plush sofa with my sister Daniella, with our little sisters Karina and Edyta on our laps and Mom and Dad getting cozy in a corner.
“Xavier!”
“Huh?” I’d gotten lost in my thoughts again. “Sorry. Where do I go?”
Tasha pointed toward the door to the kitchen, just a few feet behind her. “Sneak through the kitchen and out the back door. Jannell won’t mind. See if you can get Penny to come inside.”
“Jannell?”
