Her eyes flick up to his once and flash.
“Move, Hotshot.”
He moves.
When he comes back within range, Fletch pipes up. “Alright, Ashgrove. Important question. You skate?”
Finn pauses for a beat. “On purpose?”
“This is already concerning.”
“I’m Irish,” Finn says. “Most of our sports involve grass, violence, or both.”
Tucker snorts into his drink. “Oh, he’s gonna fit in great.”
Fletch stands and hooks an arm around Finn’s shoulders like they’ve known each other longer than thirty seconds. “C’mon, rookie. Lemme tell you the rules of Maplewood. One: never trust Tucker with karaoke. Two: if Leah Parnell offers you food, saying no is a cry for help.”
“Correct,” Leah says immediately from across the room.
“And three,” Fletch continues solemnly, “under no circumstances do you let Lawson convince you to—”
The words cut off sharply, and silence dips across the table for half a second as I see it hit him in real time.
Fletch’s jaw works once, then he lifts his beer vaguely toward the ceiling. “Well. That’s gonna take some getting used to, you bastard.”
Behind the bar, Gwen goes still. Then she reaches for a clean glass, fills it with two fingers of Colt’s usual, and sets it on the far end of the bar. Colt’s spot.
It’s Tucker who pulls us back, bumping Fletch hard with his shoulder. “You still owe Lawson fifty bucks for that fantasy league, by the way.”
“Bullshit.”
“You changed your lineup after kickoff.”
“That’s strategy.”
“No, that'scheating.”
By the time Fletch is loudly defending himself against accusations of “sports fraud,” the heaviness has eased enough for conversation to pick back up around the room.
I let out a breath and lean back against the bar beside Penny, and she slides her hand into mine automatically. It’s a small thing, but enough to settle some of my unease.
Across the room, we watch Ghost gently intercept one of the older retirees before he can corner Remi again, steering him smoothly toward another table with a fresh beer in hand.
Remi doesn’t even seem to notice. She’s curled into herself beside Rhodes while Zela sleeps against her chest and Max lines up toy cars along the edge of the pool table beside Elle. Rhodes finally sips at the whiskey Gwen shoved at him earlier after what looked like hours of refusing it.
Penny watches all of it with her mouth pressed tight.
Then, before I can stop her, she lets go of my hand and reaches for the tray of waters Frankie abandoned near the service hatch.
“Pen.”
She looks back at me. “Don’t use that voice.”
“What voice?”
“The one that says you’re about to tell me I have bruised ribs and should remain decorative.”
I stare at her, and her brows lift. “Am I wrong?”
