“But you do remember I’m a champion, right, Hunt?” I hold up my hand to show him the ring. It’s not something any of us wears around all the time, but I wore it tonight to show him.
“You’re right,” he grunts. “I haven’t seen you since Christmas, and I went in full barrel.” He wasn’t able to make it to any of the games this year, but he tries. “Alright, let’s see it.”
He takes a good look at the ring. “I scored several playoff goals.”
“Well, that I know. Just because I couldn’t make it, doesn’t mean I didn’t watch you. So fucking proud of you, Dirky.”
That makes the blood pound—in a good way. I might live to make him proud of me. It might make up at least half of my identity.
The rest of the dinner is casual, but there’s always a slight edge to everything.
“Please get this cut,” he says as I’m on my way out the door. He ruffles my mop of hockey hair. “I know it’s a symbol of hockey pride, but it’ll grow back by next season.”
“I’ll get it cut,” I promise.
“Love you to death, Dirk,” he says in his most earnest tone. “You know that, right?”
That’s something I’ve never doubted. It’s his respect I worry about losing, which would kill me all the same. Tolerance versus adoration.
“I know it. Love you, too, bro.”
Since I’m not due back for my “shift” for another two hours, I swing by a barbershop on the way, leaving my hockey mullet in a pile on the floor under the barbershop chair. I step out of the Uber and enter The Wicklow with a fresh and clean cut. Ah, the smell of “deep fryer” makes me feel at home, immediately calming my nerves from that one helluva dinner.
Looks like we’re getting a post-concert rush. I head to the back to change as quickly as I can into the plaid shirt managers wear. Dash and I are usually only management when Trav is away. I’m surprised he’d do this to me, especially when Stacey’s behind the bar, Dash is on the floor, and Casey’s expediting. They’re gonna think it’s weird that I’m managing and will ask questions, but I’m leaving that shit for him to explain.
“Hey, hey,” Stace says when I exit the kitchen. “Trav told us. You’re the big man on campus now.”
I squint. “He did?”
“Yeah.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“Just that he’s giving you more managing shifts this summer to help him out.”
“Yeah, he is. I think it’s weird, though. He should give ‘em to Dashie.”
Stace raises both brows, protectiveness creeping in. “Dash can do it, but he doesn’t love it.”
“Still.”
“He picked the right man for the job,” Stacey says. He’s firm about it, too, as if being firm will protect Dash from a future he doesn’t want. And yeah, I get it. Dash doesn’t mind doing it for a little bit, but it stresses him the fuck out. Stacey would wage war if that kind of responsibility were given to Dash full-time.
“You’d make a good manager. Better than me,” I say.
“Don’t know about better, but yeah. He gave me some managing shifts, too.”
What the fuck? That I didn’t know. Did he do it as an elaborate cover-up? “Thank flip for that. I’m gonna need some time off this off-season.”
He laughs. “Say you’ve been to see your brother without saying you’ve been to see your brother.”
“Fuck.” As if the hair’s not a dead giveaway as it is. I swear worse than a sailor—but never around Hunter.
“There you go. He’s back. Trav’s on his way up from the wine room. He’s looking for a bottle that went missing.”
I smile.
“Something tells me you know about it.”
