than just a lack of free time.
I just couldn’t bring myself to do it anymore.
I flipped open the folder but didn’t give it more than a passing glance. I already knew I’d be giving the green light for the party.
Now all I needed to do was wait for my team to win.
Chapter Eleven
“Sonofa!”
I slammed my wrench against the side of the air-conditioning unit, a last resort to get the damned thing started again. Needless to say, it didn’t do the trick. I’d been screwing around with the stupid thing for over an hour, trying to get it up and running. In the meantime, my bartenders were becoming overly cranky from the heat, and the few patrons that decided to brave it out were melting into puddles on their barstools.
I was going to have to call Barry.
Dammit. I was really hoping to avoid bringing in a pro for this. With some of my vendors and on-call guys, I could sometimes work out a bartering deal, but Barry was one of my few guys for hire that didn’t accept “alternate payment” for his services. Plus, I could do without the lecture that he was sure to give me, telling me it was way past time to simply replace the unit with a newer model. Even if he didn’t gouge me with the price—this time—the couple hundred bucks it was going to cost to fix it was money I didn’t have to spend right now. Much less could I come up with the scratch necessary to spring for a brand new unit.
But one thing was for sure, if I didn’t get some cool air flowing through this place soon, I’d be looking at an empty bar, and then no money would be coming in.
I went upstairs to my office and put the call in. Yes, Barry. Just a fix. I know, I know. But just do whatever you can to get this thing working again, okay?
I sat at my cluttered desk and ran my hands through my hair, dropping my head down on the mountain of paperwork that had gone unattended for much, much too long. It was depressing to try and tackle the pile of bills when the money simply wasn’t there to pay any of them. I’d gotten pretty good at juggling and was able to keep the place afloat with a bare minimum of actual capital.
You’d be surprised how little it took to sustain an establishment like this. My wait and bar staff was paid less than minimum wage (their salaries were more dependent on tips), so their paychecks didn’t put me in the poorhouse, thankfully. The kitchen crew wasn’t breaking the bank with their hourly pay, as my restaurant manager was the only person to draw an actual salary (and a modest one at that). Our bands were only compensated with what they were able to bring in at the door, and with the piddly five-dollar cover charge, it was amazing that any of them ever bothered to come back. But thank fuck they did, because the money we made from the weekend crowds was pretty much the only thing that ever kept us in the black.
Barely.
I realized pretty early on that I’d never make millions managing some little hole-in-the-wall, but at least the money this place did manage to bring in was enough for me to survive. Hell. Even in its heyday, we weren’t raking in the cash. But my brothers and I had never wanted for anything, and as long as we had a roof over our heads and food on the table, Mom and Dad were content with the life they’d made.
I, however, hadn’t made my peace with living like a pauper. It’s not as though you could blame me; NHL money was nothing to snub your nose at. But my original plan to retire with a buttload of cash in the bank was thwarted once I destroyed my knee. The money I did have socked away went toward my father’s hospital bills, funeral expenses, and debts on the bar. In one single summer, all that cash just… disappeared. There wasn’t much left to play with when all was said and done.
I just wish I were left with a little extra so I didn’t have to constantly stress about it.
I flipped
I just couldn’t bring myself to do it anymore.
I flipped open the folder but didn’t give it more than a passing glance. I already knew I’d be giving the green light for the party.
Now all I needed to do was wait for my team to win.
Chapter Eleven
“Sonofa!”
I slammed my wrench against the side of the air-conditioning unit, a last resort to get the damned thing started again. Needless to say, it didn’t do the trick. I’d been screwing around with the stupid thing for over an hour, trying to get it up and running. In the meantime, my bartenders were becoming overly cranky from the heat, and the few patrons that decided to brave it out were melting into puddles on their barstools.
I was going to have to call Barry.
Dammit. I was really hoping to avoid bringing in a pro for this. With some of my vendors and on-call guys, I could sometimes work out a bartering deal, but Barry was one of my few guys for hire that didn’t accept “alternate payment” for his services. Plus, I could do without the lecture that he was sure to give me, telling me it was way past time to simply replace the unit with a newer model. Even if he didn’t gouge me with the price—this time—the couple hundred bucks it was going to cost to fix it was money I didn’t have to spend right now. Much less could I come up with the scratch necessary to spring for a brand new unit.
But one thing was for sure, if I didn’t get some cool air flowing through this place soon, I’d be looking at an empty bar, and then no money would be coming in.
I went upstairs to my office and put the call in. Yes, Barry. Just a fix. I know, I know. But just do whatever you can to get this thing working again, okay?
I sat at my cluttered desk and ran my hands through my hair, dropping my head down on the mountain of paperwork that had gone unattended for much, much too long. It was depressing to try and tackle the pile of bills when the money simply wasn’t there to pay any of them. I’d gotten pretty good at juggling and was able to keep the place afloat with a bare minimum of actual capital.
You’d be surprised how little it took to sustain an establishment like this. My wait and bar staff was paid less than minimum wage (their salaries were more dependent on tips), so their paychecks didn’t put me in the poorhouse, thankfully. The kitchen crew wasn’t breaking the bank with their hourly pay, as my restaurant manager was the only person to draw an actual salary (and a modest one at that). Our bands were only compensated with what they were able to bring in at the door, and with the piddly five-dollar cover charge, it was amazing that any of them ever bothered to come back. But thank fuck they did, because the money we made from the weekend crowds was pretty much the only thing that ever kept us in the black.
Barely.
I realized pretty early on that I’d never make millions managing some little hole-in-the-wall, but at least the money this place did manage to bring in was enough for me to survive. Hell. Even in its heyday, we weren’t raking in the cash. But my brothers and I had never wanted for anything, and as long as we had a roof over our heads and food on the table, Mom and Dad were content with the life they’d made.
I, however, hadn’t made my peace with living like a pauper. It’s not as though you could blame me; NHL money was nothing to snub your nose at. But my original plan to retire with a buttload of cash in the bank was thwarted once I destroyed my knee. The money I did have socked away went toward my father’s hospital bills, funeral expenses, and debts on the bar. In one single summer, all that cash just… disappeared. There wasn’t much left to play with when all was said and done.
I just wish I were left with a little extra so I didn’t have to constantly stress about it.
I flipped
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