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.