Hot Moves
Portland, Oregon, 2007
"You're going to Seattle for the weekend to drink beer?"
Brady McMillan looked up from the steel keg he was washing out in the pub's microbrewery and grinned at his older brother. "Pour beer, Michael" he corrected, resting a hand against one of the gleaming copper tanks lined up behind him. "It's a brewer s' festival. I'll be bonding with the masses, making a good impression for McMillan s', comparing notes with my fellow brewmasters—"
"—and drinking beer," Michael finished.
Brady's lips twitched as he lifted the keg to drain onto the concrete floor. Water streamed down to the grates below the funnel-shaped bottoms of the tanks. "It's a difficult job but someone's got to do it. I'm willing to suffer to give McMillan s'the best beer possible." Five feet away, on the other side of the low wooden barrier, lay the warm golden oak and leather of their flagship brewpub. Here behind the barrier was Brady's territory of malts and worts, hops and hoses.
Michael folded his arms over his barrel chest. "Some people just use message boards."
"There's no substitute for face-to-face contact.""Or mouth to glass."
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