August, 2015: Part One

Erik scowled as a raven-haired teen tossed a partially empty can of Coke over his shoulder, and missed the trash receptacle he was assumably aiming for. The object neatly bounced off the plastic lip with a tinny crack, before landing on the ground and immediately sloshing forth the remains of the sticky brown drink.

It took several drawn-out seconds, and no small amount of concentrated breathing before Erik felt calm enough to lift the mop from its plastic bucket and re-clean the area he had just completed. He had to mentally convince himself that fighting an emo teenager he was clearly three times bigger than, over a soda, wasn't worth losing his already pathetic job.

When the last of the pseudo-hockey players and their spotty-faced fans finally left the arena, Erik turned down most of the lights and proceeded to wipe, sweep, mop, and sanitize every inch of the building he was allowed access to. He continuously thought back to the days when he was the one on the ice, and not the one cleaning up the remnants of a youth game.

Hours later, he took a brisk shower in one of the locker rooms and changed into a well-worn pair of jeans and a cotton hoodie that was showing its wear and tear at its elbows. He took a last look around, sniffled as the ammonia burned his nose, and locked up. The Center, the arena he worked overnight at, was luckily only a few blocks over from the rundown apartment building that Erik rented. The last thing he wanted to do was go out of his way to make it back home to a tatty couch; he begrudgingly let Peter take the sole bedroom.

Erik rubbed at his nose with the knuckle of his index finger and sniffed hard, before shoving his hands into the pouch of his hoodie and bunching his shoulders against the late-night chill. He had only gone up a block when he caught sight of Armando's sports bar. Erik was sorely tempted to drop in every night he passed it, and the neon-blue sign above its doors was as welcoming as ever. However, he was fully aware that he was falling behind on rent, and was barely able to afford the basic necessities it took to keep his son alive and in school. And "just one" was as big a lie as any other.

It didn't take much deliberation before Erik was veering off the sidewalk, and towards the entrance. The pull handle was cold underneath his calloused palm, but the heat emanating from the inside was enough to keep him from replacing his hands back into his hoodie. The building was small enough to take in the few patrons with nothing more than a cursory glance, and it was easy to maneuver around the empty tables and to the actual bar.

He slid onto a stool that was furthest from the entrance and folded his arms atop the bar in wait. It wasn't long before a young man came out from the back, presumably a kitchen, and cast him an almost scowl. Erik met the blonde's hard stare with one of his own.

"Can I get you something?"

"Tap," Erik said shortly, "Whatever is fine."

The blonde perked a brow, then shrugged in indifference as he stepped away to grab a cool highball from the mini-fridge at his knees. He swiftly and expertly filled the frosted glass to the brim, allowing the froth to spill over the sides before neatly wiping it down and passing the amber beverage to his patron.

"That'll be seven bucks."

Erik ignored the bartender in favor of taking a long draw of beer. He grimaced as the bitter ale washed over his seemingly ammonia-slicked tongue, before scrunching his nose and replacing the glass on the provided coaster. He carefully leaned back far enough to shove a hand into his back pocket, and pulled out a crumpled wad of fives and ones.

"Keep the change," he muttered as he placed two fives down.

"Thanks," the bartender replied in an aridly dry tone.

Erik took another sip.

"Keep 'em coming."

TBC...