Page 32 of Run Home
Capital Grille at 8.
Our texts overlap, sending and arriving simultaneously.
ME
You’re so predictable.
WEST
Jeff would be devastated if I cheated on him with another restaurant’s bartender.
ME
You sure you’ll be able to stay awake past 8 now that you’re a retired old man?
WEST
I could still take you any day. Don’t you forget it.
His threat lodges in my chest even though it’s a joke. I haven’t talked to Sam since the gala two days ago, even though I’ve thought about her every second since. Every time I debate with myself whether to talk with Griffin first or ask Sam out first, a different side wins. Which means no side has truly won, and I haven’t decided what to do.
I need to get inside to change for practice before I get in trouble for being late, so I send a typical Adrian joking response to end the conversation.
ME
Take me at what? Shuffleboard? Whatever, viejo. See you at 8.
After passing my keys and a tip to the valet, I enter the front doors of The Capital Grille at the Country Club Plaza in Kansas City, Missouri. This has been Griffin’s go-to spot for years, and for as much grief as I give him over his restaurant rut, I can’t really blame him. The food is great, the service is excellent, and the privacy is a relief. I don’t think we’ve ever been approached for photos or autographs any of the times we’ve met here.
The host recognizes me and says, “Mr. West is sitting over at the bar. I’ll walk you to him.”
Although I know the way, I follow her to the back corner of the U-shaped bar where Griffin is already laughing with Jeff, his favorite bartender-turned-friend. I clap Griffin’s shoulder as I take the seat next to his.
“Adrian, good to see you again. It’s been a while,” Jeff says.
Smacking Griffin’s back again, I squeeze his shoulder hard. “That’s ’cause I’ve been replaced. He brings a different companion now instead of me.”
“Yeah, well, she’s a lot prettier than you. Her hair is way better than this mess,” Griffin says as he flicks the damp curls on my forehead.
“Whoa, whoa, I have it on good authority that this longer hair and goatee is a good look for me,” I jest before realizing I shouldn’t be alluding to any comments Sam has made about my appearance. At least, not before I decide when I’m going to broach that topic with Griffin.
Thankfully, Jeff cuts in, asking me what I’ll have to drink. “Give me the West special,” I say, referring to Griffin’s signature mocktail consisting of club soda, lime, and a splash of cranberry juice.
Griffin raises his eyebrows. “No punchier drink for you tonight?”
“Nah, I’m following in your footsteps. The party days are behind me now—no more alcohol during the season,” I say. After all, I want Griffin to take me seriously as a responsible adult whenever I do bring up the topic of dating Sam.
Jeff smiles and says, “Good, this will give me a chance to teach my protégé, Noah, how to make the drink. He was busy restocking the large ice cubes when I made Griffin’s.”
At the sound of his name, the other bartender appears by Jeff’s side. He holds out a hand to shake ours and says, “I’m Noah. Just started here a few weeks ago after moving from Chicago.”
“What Noah didn’t mention is he was the head bartender at a very trendy club there. He already has our whole system figured out,” Jeff says. “So the West special will be the final piece of his training.”
Jeff moves to hand menus to a couple that sat down at the bar, and Noah returns to the drink he was mixing.
“Sorry about the loss this afternoon,” Griffin tells me. “You can still win the series tomorrow, though.”
Sighing, I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah, today was ugly. Hendricks in the seventh inning . . .” I let the statement trail off as I shake my head.
