"Give Weston my love,” she says with a smirk. “Along with the big moony eyes you always give him.”
“I don't give anyone moony eyes.”
"Just keep telling yourself that.” She winks, tosses her ponytail, and leaves for the night.
Weston must be turning twenty-one, or maybe twenty-two, if he played junior hockey before college. I’m surprised he’s celebrating his birthday so quietly with his teammates. It’s not unusual for Weston to show up here with a girl on his arm. Or on his knee. Or anywhere on his person, really.
It’s a different girl every time. He’s a player in every sense of the word. The women always seem happy to be his girl of the hour, though. There’s always a lot of giggling at table seventeen when Weston has female company.
He likes them giggly. That’s his type, I guess.
I really have no chance at all.
The bartender wakes me from this daydream by setting two pitchers on the bar, then knocking his knuckles against the wood. Twice. “Carly around?” he calls to me.
“I’ve got it,” I say, darting over to load the beer onto a tray. I carry the pitchers and a stack of glasses to table seventeen.
There are two freshmen at the table who probably aren’t twenty-one yet. But Kippy, the lazy manager, left a half hour ago, and these guys all walk home. I’m not in the mood to play cop, so everyone gets a glass.
“Evening boys,” I say, setting the pitchers down in front of Weston one at a time. “This one is the IPA, and this one is the IPL. Enjoy. Does anyone need anything else?”
“Yeah we do!” one of the freshmen shouts. “You know it’s Weston’s birthday? Maybe you should do a striptease for us.”
Oh lovely. I don’t know this jerk’s name, but I make a mental note to remember his face, so I can stay well clear of his hands. There’s enough trouble in my life already.
“Rookie!” Weston barks. “Our server doesn’t need a side of sexual harassment with her job description tonight. Don’t be that kind of asshole. And only an idiot would be rude to the woman who serves your food at least three nights a week.”
I let out a startled laugh, and fall a little more deeply in love with Weston. “What an excellent point.”
But he isn’t done. “Now put ten bucks in the kitty.” He pats the table and waits.
The freshman blinks. But then he reaches for his wallet. The team kitty is a stash of money that builds all season long. The captain and assistant captains are in charge of deciding which infractions require a contribution. And in the spring—after the last game is played—they choose a charity and make a gift.
Weston puts the younger man’s ten into an envelope in his backpack. “Now apologize to Gail,” he demands. “Or I’m not pouring you one of my birthday beers.”
The younger guy scowls. “Sorry, Gail,” he says gruffly. “My bad.”
Weston turns his handsome face toward mine and meets my gaze. His is warm and cautiously amused. “How would you grade that apology?”
“Um…?” I’ve gotten a little lost in his blue eyes. “Sorry?”
“I think the kid deserves no better than a B-. But I’ll leave it up to you. Should we let him pass?”
“Sure,” I say, not wanting to make a fuss. “I’ve heard far worse, to be honest." And I wish I could say it was rare.
"That is unfortunate,” he says softly. “But not tonight, okay? It’s my job to train up the rookies—for the good of Moo U, and for the good of hockey. It’s my sacred, noble mission.”
“Sure it is.” His buddy Tate elbows him. “Last night you said that convincing me to order the Thai wings was your sacred, noble mission.”
Weston shrugs. “A guy can have two sacred, noble missions.”
“Especially on his birthday,” I add. “Cheers, boys. Drink up, because it’s last call.” We close at ten on weeknights.
Then I leave them to it. I need to do some side work so I can leave as soon as they’re through.
By the time I deliver the sorority girls’ food, the candles on the tables are burning low in their votive cups. This is my favorite time of night at The Biscuit in the Basket. It’s peaceful, as the murmur of quiet conversation replaces the dull roar we hear throughout the dinner rush.
The Biscuit has a cozy, old-time feel, like it’s been here forever. The walls are paneled in dark brown wood, but most of the space has been given over to group photos of Moo U sports teams from every consecutive year since the turn of the last century.
I love to stop for a glance at the oldest photos, with the baseball players in their baggy, pinstriped knickers. And the hockey players with their 1960s haircuts. The women’s team photos start up a bit later, in the eighties. There’s basketball and cross country too.
One thing you won’t find on these walls, though, is a photo of a football team. Moo U doesn’t have one. We’re a D1 hockey school, and we do well in lacrosse and baseball, as well as winter sports like skiing and ski jumping. But football just isn’t very Vermonty. So we don’t bother.
To finish up the night’s work, I take a seat at an empty table and roll silverware for tomorrow’s shift. And I just happen to pick a table that’s within earshot of table seventeen. Eavesdropping is good service, right? I’m easy to find if they need anything.
Plus, it’s entertaining. The hockey players are making celebratory toasts. “To winning the league this year!” one of the twins says.
“The league?” Weston yelps. “Why not the national championship? Aim high, Patrick.”
“To Professor Reynolds for postponing the Rocks for Jocks test!”
“Wait, really? It was postponed?”
“To cold beer and warm women!”
That was the obnoxious freshman again. Weston ignores him this time.
“To Weston!” Tate cheers. “Another trip around the sun!”
“Aw, shucks, guys. You’re all buying me dinner, right?” He sets down his beer. “Speaking of dinner, I almost forgot about my flyers.” He pulls his backpack off the floor and unzips it. He pulls out a folder from the copy shop and flips it open. “It’s time to hang up my sign.”
Tate looks over his shoulder and laughs. “No way. You’re doing that again? Why?”
“Because I love Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday.”
“You could come out to our farm, you know,” Tate argues. “You have a standing invitation.”
“That is a tempting offer, especially because your grandma makes that apple pecan tart with the crinkly edges.” Weston makes a motion with his fingers, as if crinkling imaginary dough. “And the crumble topping is spectacular.”
It’s so cute I find myself smiling into the silverware bin.
“So what’s the problem, then?” Tate demands. “And if you pick on my grandma’s cooking, I will hurt you.”
“Your grandmother’s cooking is awesome. My problem is with your father’s football picks. I can’t root for the Patriots, man. Besides, this way I’m providing a public service.”
“What service?” Someone snatches a flyer out of the folder and reads it aloud. “Rent a boyfriend for the holiday. For $25, I will be your Thanksgiving date. I will talk hockey with your dad. I will bring your mother flowers. I will be polite, and wear a nicely ironed shirt. Note: I don’t cook, so I am not able to bring a dish. I'm from out of town, and have no plans for the holiday. But I love Thanksgiving, and would be happy to celebrate with you. Especially if your mother is a good cook. Or your father. I’m not sexist.”