Page 3 of Hard Check
Coach Deluca had called the day after the trade. Gruff voice, no small talk, told Leo to stop by a bar called The Penalty Box when he got to town and ask for Gunnar. Leo had written it off as some kind of team-building hazing ritual—show up at the local dive, buy the old guys a round, prove you’re one of them. Whatever. If this was what he needed to do to prove he could be a team player, so be it.
The Penalty Box sat on Main Street with a hand-painted sign and a neon beer light in the window. Leo parked his Audi into one of the angled spot out front—it looked like a spaceship next to the pickup trucks—and sat there for a second with his sunglasses pushed up on his head. Dive bar. This was where his new coach had sent him.
Inside was dim and smelled like fryer oil and wood polish. His eyes swept the room, looking for a hostess stand that didn’t exist—just a long bar, framed jerseys on the walls, TVs dark and waiting for the season, a booth in the corner built to look like anactual penalty box. A guy behind the bar was restocking a cooler, lean and easy in his movements, and behind him stood someone who looked like he belonged on a construction site instead of behind the bar. Tall, broad, silver streaking through blond hair, watching Leo with an expression that said he’d been expecting him.
“Hi.” Leo pulled his sunglasses off his head. “I’m looking for—” He glanced at his phone. “The Penalty Box?”
“You found it.” The big guy came around the end of the bar and extended his hand. “Gunnar Bergström. I own the place.”
Leo shook—firm, practiced, the handshake he’d been giving since his father taught him at twelve. “Leo Vargas. I just got in. Coach said I should come by, meet some of the guys.”
“Most of the guys won’t be around ’til closer to camp. Ford Callahan, Tommy Kowalski, and Tate Novak are local, but the rest start trickling in over the next couple of weeks.” Gunnar gestured at the empty room. “But you’re welcome to a drink.”
Leo slid onto a stool, set his phone face-down on the bar, then turned it face-up, then angled it. His hands needed something to do. “You got a vodka soda?”
The other guy—the one who’d been restocking—was already reaching. “We’ve got Tito’s or Svedka. And the soda gun.”
“Tito’s. Thanks.”
Leo watched him pour. When Gunnar passed behind him, his hand found the small of the guy’s back—and the guy leaned into it in a way that made it obvious they weren’t just coworkers.
Interesting
Something in Leo’s chest pulled tight. He looked away before either of them caught him staring. Port Haven was already surprising him.
“So you’re just the bar guy,” Leo said to Gunnar. Not dismissive—sorting. Trying to figure out why a coach would send a new player to a dive bar to meet a bartender.
“Just the bar guy.” Gunnar set a napkin under Leo’s drink. “I volunteer at the rink too. Drive the Zamboni, help with the youth program. You’ll see me around.”
“So,” Leo said. “What do people do here?”
The bartender—Wes, Gunnar called him—leaned his hip against the bar. “Here like the bar, or here like the town?”
“Both.”
“Bar: drink, watch the games, argue about the games, drink, and eat greasy food. Town: same, but outside.”
Leo’s mouth twitched. “Coach said it was cozy.”
“Coach is diplomatic.” Gunnar pulled a stool around to his side of the bar and sat. “Port Haven’s small. You’ll know everyone’s name inside a month, whether you want to or not. The grocery store has eight aisles. The nearest Target is forty minutes away. People will bring you casseroles when you move in, and they’ll want the dish back empty.”
“Casseroles.” Leo said the word like he was tasting something unfamiliar.
“Get used to hotdish. You’re in Wisconsin now.”
The front door opened, and a guy walked in, trailing heat from outside. Grease on his forearms, hair pressed flat from a hat,heading for the far end of the bar without looking up. He dropped onto a stool and stopped when he saw Leo.
“Dawson,” Gunnar said. “This is Leo Vargas. New forward for the Stags.”
Dawson gave Leo a once-over. Nothing on his face moved. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Leo lifted his chin in greeting. Dawson didn’t move from his end of the bar.
“Dawson’s a mechanic,” Gunnar said. “Works at his brother’s garage. He’s good with anything that has an engine.”
“Good to know.” Leo heard himself reach for the charm, the easy polish that usually worked. “Though I’m not sure my car qualifies as ‘anything with an engine.’ It’s more of a specialist situation.”
Dawson picked up his beer and drank. If he had a response to that, he kept it behind the glass.
