Finger Guns

Holden

Here at my favorite haunt, Power Play, the locals sip their drinks under the hum of an old country tune, battling their personal heartbreaks with nothing more potent than nostalgia and liquor poured with love. But keep your eyes on Holden, our local hero, who finds himself facing not just another silent night, but the thunderous beat of a heart caught off guard. While he nurses a lukewarm beer and a warmer crush, he navigates the delicate dance of longing under Beth's motherly gaze and the flicker of neon lights. Pull up a stool, and let's toast to those moments when the heart knows before the mind catches up. Even the quietest nights can whisper of beginnings.

Playlist: "Somewhere With You" by Kenny Chesney

It's a quiet night at Power Play. To be fair, most nights are pretty quiet. Sorrowville's not exactly a booming metropolis. Sometimes, it feels like the whole town comes out to have dinner and a drink, and I can let the noise drown out all the loud thoughts rolling around my head. Because the only thing between me and my broken heart is a Kenny Chesney album. Beth still hasn't figured out how to use Spotify. The house music plays off an old CD system the size of a toddler that was probably considered top-of-the-line when her husband installed it about twenty years back.

"Can't you at least change the CD?" I ask, looking up from my room-temperature beer. "This song makes me want to drink bleach."

"I'll change the music when you finish your drink." Beth tips her chin to my glass. "And please tell me you're planning to eat something, I swear you're losing weight."

"I'm fine." The truth is, I haven't been all that hungry lately. I'm craving something, for sure, but it's nothing available on Power Play's limited menu.

Because just like it always is, this is about a girl. The world loses its sparkle when she's not here. Each day drags, a flat line with no peaks, and my heart doesn't quite beat the same. I find myself searching for the ripple of her dark hair or the music of her laugh—small reminders that once, she was right here, turning ordinary moments into memories I can't let go of.

Even hockey can't fill the gap.

"Not sure I buy it, given your long face." Beth leans one elbow on the bar. Her three sons all play for the same hockey team I do, the Sorrowville Slammers. In a way, she's become the whole team's mother, the kind of mom who doesn't take shit and reminds you to wear your damn hat in the winter. And, apparently, who force-feeds you when you've spent the whole night moping over a girl who doesn't know you exist.

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Every mile between us might as well be a light year. She's in a whole different city, living a life I'm barely a footnote in—if that. Here, surrounded by the familiar clatter of pucks and locker room banter, her absence echoes. When I close my eyes, I see her—smiling, laughing, existing so effortlessly without a clue of my aching heart. It's like I'm a ghost in my own life story, watching her from afar, never quite reaching the place where our paths might actually cross. How do you bridge a gap measured in heartbeats and missed chances, when she doesn't even know there's a gap to begin with?

The worst part? Not a day goes by when I don't wonder if she ever thinks about me.

I dutifully chug the warm, flat beer, and Beth stomps off to the kitchen. A few seconds later, the song ends abruptly, and Chesney's voice is replaced by the strains of an acoustic guitar and some mournful, poetic lyrics about heartbreak.

Great. Just what I needed to not take my mind off things.

It takes Beth a full two minutes to come back, and when she does, she's carrying a bowl of chili alongside two fat slices of homemade bread. She drops both on the counter in front of me and does that thing where she tries to pretend that she isn't being nice, even though she really is.

"Thanks, Beth." I pick at the bread. It's soft and fluffy, with a firm crust. Kind of like Beth, come to think of it. Soft on the inside with a rough and rustic exterior. The thought brings a smile to my face.

"You aren't eating." Beth narrows her eyes. "Come on, Holden, out with it. What's troubling you?"

There's no point in lying. "I think I found the one, Beth."

A wicked grin spreads across her face. "Oh. Got it. That's wonderful. And here I was thinking it was something serious. So, you just can't eat because of the butterflies? Got it. I knew you'd finally figure it out. It's Lynsie, right?"

I pause with a spoonful of chili lifted halfway to my lips. "What? Lynsie? No. Sorry, but no." Is Lynsie into me? Not that it matters. Even if I did like her, Heath would kick my ass if he thought I was sniffing around his sister. Every hockey player knows your teammates' female relatives are seriously off limits with sisters being at the very top of that list.

"Oh." Beth purses her lips while she thinks. "Gisele, then? I can see why, she's pretty, but I wouldn't have thought she was your type."

"She's not." No offense to Gisele. Every interaction I've had with the salon owner has been pleasant, and Beth's right that she's attractive, beautiful even. I've never had any chemistry with her, though.

"Huh." Beth thinks again, and her eyes widen. "Oh, hell's bells, not Tierney…"

My lips twist. "No way. I wouldn't do Declyn dirty like that."

"It would explain why you're moping, though. And if you ever fooled around with Joely and broke her heart, they'd never find the body. And by ‘the body', I mean your body."

"She's a little young for me, don't you think?"

Beth's breath catches in her throat. She folds her hands together on the bar and takes a deep breath. "I think I see where this is going, Holden. I hate to tell you this, kid, but you don't have a chance."

"I don't?" I droop a little. "I know it's a long shot, but I keep hoping…"

She holds up a hand to stop me. "I'm not sure how else to break this to you, so I'll just say it straight. I'm not it. You're like a son to me."

It takes a few seconds to piece together what she's saying. When her words finally click, I can't stop myself from howling with laughter. "What? No! No. Really. No. Beth, I love you, but not like that."

Scratch what I just said about little sisters. Mothers are at the top of the completely off-limits list.

"All right, then." Beth chuckles along with me. Maybe she was pulling my leg just now. I sure hope so. The very idea of making a move on her seems perverted at best and borderline sacrilegious. If Bennett Foster seems grumpy now, I can't even imagine what his resting prick face would look like if one of his friends hooked up with his mom.

"Although, it would be kind of funny to tell the boys I'm their new daddy." I wiggle my eyebrows at her.

Beth snorts. "Bennett would shit a brick, that's for sure. I'll keep that one in my back pocket for the next time April Fool's Day rolls around. In the meantime, we've run through the list of the usual suspects. I'm not saying you have to tell me anything personal, but if you need me to buy you a rainbow decal, you know I'll support you."

"Good to know. But it's a woman. One helluva woman." I tear off a hunk of bread, dip it in my chili, and take a bite at last. As always, it's amazing. I moan my approval until she smiles.

She becomes occupied with rearranging the pile of coasters. "I give up, then. Who is this mystery woman?"

No point in lying now. I might as well admit the truth. "It's Britt," I blurt before I can talk myself out of it.

"Britt?" Beth wrinkles her nose. "Who's Britt? That name sounds vaguely familiar."

I'm about to answer when a slim platinum-blonde appears behind me as if summoned from thin air. "Did you say Britt?" she asks. "God, I miss that woman."

You and me both.

Tierney is an out-of-towner who moved to Sorrowville last year. In just shy of twelve months, she's turned our team around. We're not big-time by any means, but one of our best players got picked up by a Vegas-based NHL team with a real shot at the Stanley Cup this season, and the Slammers are no longer in immediate danger of going belly up. Tierney's PR campaigns have played a big part in that.

She's also the reason Britt came into my life.

So, I'm eternally grateful to her even though she doesn't know it.

Beth shakes her head. "Sorry, hon. I'm not even sure who Britt is."

Tierney looks between the two of us, probably wondering why Britt's name came up I should probably try and play it cool, but I'm too giddy with anticipation. Britt doesn't come out here to the boondocks much, but when she does, my mood is brighter for weeks.

If I had a therapist, they might tell me I have a healthy dose of limerence. I just like to call it living in fantasyland. And oh, what fantasies they are.

"Um, Britt is my best friend. And she's on her way. The cell service is spotty. No idea what's going on…" Tierney pulls out her phone again and holds it over her head, rotating on the spot in the faint hope of catching a bar or two in the ether.

"Reception's been bad all week. Supposedly they're working on the tower." Beth pulls out a rag and starts wiping down bottles while we talk. The funny part is, reception's always bad. The only thing that changes is peoples' explanations for why it never gets better.

Apparently, there's a family of squirrels up there who've taken to electrical engineering as a hobby. They keep rearranging the cables for fun.

They say the ghosts of Sorrowville don't like the internet. Keeps disrupting their haunting schedule, so they mess with the signal.

You didn't hear it from me, but there's a conspiracy theory going around that the tower is actually an alien antenna. Supposedly, it's for interstellar calls, not us.

Tierney huffs, but makes no comment. She knows better than to argue with Beth. It's a lesson most people learn pretty early on.

I'm about to ask how long Britt will be in town since her impending arrival is news to me, but then the front door opens, and there she is.

Britt's petite, dark-haired, and curvy in all the best places, but somehow larger than life. She takes up space in a way that never fails to leave me breathless, and her sex appeal is off the goddamn charts. She strikes me as a woman who likes to take charge in every aspect of her life.

The moment Britt steps into the room, the air shifts, rearranging itself around her magnetic presence. My heart? It's pounding a damn penalty kill against my ribcage. She's here, in Sorrowville, invading my space with the kind of confidence that both intimidates and ignites something wild inside me. I'm a professional hockey player, for crying out loud—I face down guys twice my size on the ice without flinching. Yet, here I am, caught off guard and feeling like a rookie trying to navigate his first crush all over again. Britt has this way of making me want to take a knee and go for the goal at the same time. It's maddening. It's exhilarating. And damn, if it doesn't make me want to be the man who gets to stand by her side if only I was even close to being good enough for her.

I turn to Beth and push my nearly untouched bowl of chili toward her. "Hide this," I whisper.

Beth cocks her head. "You love my chili."

I close my eyes. I can feel Britt moving closer. I'm like one of those old-fashioned thermometers, buoyed by her presence in both the emotional and, often, painfully literal sense. "I don't love chili when I'm around…" I jerk my head subtly toward the door, where Tierney has waylaid her best friend. They're hugging and squealing and doing all the cute shit women do when they're happy.

I want her to be that excited to see me.

Beth's brow furrows. Then, suddenly, she gives her head a little shake. "The one. I get it. Bad breath. Bad gas. Totally get it." She draws out the word totally until it's about ten syllables long. The chili disappears from view.

Behind me, Britt is ranting. I can't quite make out what's going on, but she's talking a mile a minute, and she sounds pissed. I turn around, partly because I'm curious about what she's saying, partly because I'd look at her all the damn time if that was an option. Her cheeks are flushed. Her hands look like they're playing an invisible accordion.

"I can see why she's the one," Beth drawls. "She's so… awesome, and such a calming force… I mean… influence to be around. She won't mess with your zen before a game at all. Nope. Nothing to see here, folks. Nothing to worry about at all."

"I'm plenty calm," I retort. "Maybe I need someone to get me all fired up. Ever thought of that?"

Beth coughs into her fist. Heat rises in my cheeks. I didn't mean like that… although, I wouldn't resist if she wanted to take me home. Or back to her motel room. Or, hell, to the back of my van. There's plenty of room back there since I'm done delivering packages for the day.

Britt walks over to the bar and slaps her credit card onto the worn wood. She's only a few inches away from me, and I swear I can feel the heat radiating off her body. It feels like there's a cord running between us, conducting all the electricity from her straight into me until I'm buzzing.

"I'm gonna need you to open a tab for me," she announces. "And I'm going to give you my credit card, which is not attached to my trust fund because I don't have one. And then I'm going to need you to pour me a shot. In fact, pour everyone a shot. Let's all celebrate together."

I look around the room. That'll be about five shots altogether, and with Beth's prices, Britt's hardly going to break the bank. It's the thought that counts, though. Virgil, at his usual booth, lifts his head and flashes me a toothy grin. Never missing a beat, the man leans back with a look of mock-serious contemplation before he replies, his voice tinged with that familiar, irrepressible cheer. "You know, ‘the landslide brought me down.' But unlike Stevie, we're climbing back up one shot at a time. And tonight, we're definitely not stopping ‘til we feel like gold dust.' Shots all around!"

"Sounds like a plan, Virgil," Beth calls back. "What are we celebrating, Britt?"

"My brother turned twenty-five and got his trust fund." Britt makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. It's the kind of noise you'd make if you realized you'd stepped in dog shit. "Turns out, a Y chromosome is a fast pass to the family millions. No job, no skills, just... a dick. Fair, right? Yeah, according to my father it is. And the worst part? He hid it from me."

Beth takes all this in stride. "And what are you drinking? Buttery nipples?" her eyes flash toward me, just for a moment.

Traitor.

"No, that's a pussy shot. Do you have any Goldschlager?" Britt cranes her neck to get a view of the bar's offerings.

Beth's eyebrows climb toward the ceiling. "Are you sure? Have you ever had it? I've heard that stuff can take the paint off a car."

Britt tips her chin upward. "I have. In a drink. But tonight seems like a good night to drink it straight. And while it's taking the plaque off my intestines, I'll be burping cinnamon."

"Sounds… awesome." She stares at me outright this time. "Just… awesome."

This time, Britt follows her line of sight. Her demeanor shifts subtly when she sees me. "Hey! Uh… FedEx!"

I tilt my head. "Who? Me?"

"Yeah, my big, strong, handsome delivery man." Britt's actually smiling now. Sure, it's a little feral, entirely too much teeth, but if she wants a bite of me, I'm all hers.

"You know that's not my name, right?" I ask.

She winks. "You know it is tonight, right?"

"Sure. Whatever you want." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop to ask myself if I should be playing hard-to-get.

The moment she flashes that grin, all my strategies evaporate. Playing hard to get? Forget it. I'm ready to ditch the rulebook right here, right now. Because with Britt, it's not about the chase; it's about the undeniable pull she has on me. Every fiber of my being is drawn to her, ready to orbit her world. If making her mine means rewriting the rules, then let the games begin. I'm all in, playbook be damned.

Britt flutters her eyelashes. "Do you mean that?"

My voice comes out choked and raspy. "Yes."

"Um." Tierney leans on the bar. "What exactly is happening?"

Britt turns to her at the same time that she reaches toward me and squeezes my shoulder. "I'm focusing on other things, like you said. Instead of thinking about my twerp of a brother or my family's nonsense, I'm going to have a nice, long chat with Holden here and see where the night takes us."

So she does know my name. I find myself leaning into her touch. See where the night takes us, huh? Does that mean what I think it means?

Holy. Shit.

I try to remember the last time I worried about manscaping.

That's when I remember another problem. A big problem. Or perhaps a problem that's not as big as she'd like it to be. I glance down at my lap. Last year, Britt sent a giant box of crazy dildos to Tierney as a gift. What if that's her thing? I'm not usually self-conscious about the size of my dick. After years of playing sports, I've seen a lot of naked guys, and I'd like to think that I'm comfortably above average. I'm not sure I can compete with a tentacle dong, though.

Beth points to me. "Are you drinking this, too?"

I've never had Goldschlager, and I'm not a huge fan of that fake cinnamon taste that Britt mentioned. I'm a sucker, though. "I'll have what she's having," I agree.

Beth shakes her head. She pours a shot for each of us, then dispenses more mundane shots for the rest of the patrons. Britt taps her glass against mine, and we drink.

Turns out, Goldschlager tastes like cinnamon red hots infused into a liquid base of nail polish remover. I shudder at the burn. At least it'll kill any lingering chili smell on my tongue.

Britt smacks her lips. "Love it. Pour me another."

Beth barely hesitates before refilling the glass. My heart sinks. Issues of consent aside, I don't want to be with Britt if I'm going to be some sloppy mistake she regrets in the morning. I have no illusions that she likes me as much as I like her, but I'd love to be friends with benefits at the very least. Emphasis on the friends part.

Friends don't fuck their drunk friends. And friends shouldn't have to be trashed to cash in on their benefits.

Britt throws back the second shot and drops her glass back to the counter. She presses the back of one hand to her full lips and lets out a sharp breath. "Perfect," she says. I don't know if she means the liquor or the buzz, but she seems a lot calmer now than she did when she arrived.

"Are you okay?" Tierney asks.

"I'm great." Britt sighs. "So, quick logistics question. Am I going home with you?" She points to Tierney. "Or am I going home with you?" She points to me. "Or am I staying at the motel down the road? Because if I'm renting a room, I'm gonna drink until I stop thinking about Montgomery, and we could be here a while."

Tierney leans back until she can make eye contact with me where Britt can't see. She's frowning, but she seems more contemplative than angry. I do my best to look angelic. The two of us kind of got off on the wrong foot last year, but I'd like to think we're friends now. I never spilled the beans about her and Declyn, so at the very least, she should know that I can be respectful when it counts.

Tierney points to her eyes. Then she points to my eyes. It's the universal gesture for, Make me regret this and I swear to God I'll key your car right after I send your nut sack up to your throat with my foot. "Sorry, Britt," she says in a chipper voice. "I don't have the guest room set up right now. Maybe you should go with Holden."

Fucking. Yes.

Britt nudges her shoulder with mine. "What do you say, FedEx? Can you get me where I'm going?"

"I'm an expert at delivering packages," I say.

I meant to imply that I could get her home safely, but Britt's face lights up with impish glee. "Oh, I bet you are." Her eyes rake over me. Beth shakes her head in despair.

The whole town is going to have heard about this by noon tomorrow, but I don't care. All that matters to me is that Britt closes her tab and hugs Tierney goodbye. On the way out the door, I aim finger-guns at Beth.

She snorts, but she aims them right back.