The Bradshaws: A TopGun Maverick Story

~TWO~

The California sun was sinking into the Pacific, the horizon a blaze of pink and orange that bled into the waves. The air still clung with the fading heat of the day, but by the time the breeze swept cool across the shoreline, the Hard Deck was already alive. It pulsed with the kind of energy that only sailors, aviators, and beach-town locals could muster. Oak and salt mixed with the tang of spilled beer, laughter cutting through the blaring jukebox. Glasses clinked, boots stomped against the wooden floors, and the steady rhythm of pool balls cracking across felt rose above the hum. Tonight, every naval aviator worth knowing seemed to be here.

Near the dartboard, Danny Bradshaw—call sign Ghost—tossed darts with an easy precision that said he wasn't even trying. Tall and broad-shouldered, his presence carried the same natural charisma that ran in the Bradshaw family, though his smile was subtler, more calculating. A cold beer rested in his other hand, condensation dripping lazily down the glass. Ghost wasn't antisocial, not exactly. He just preferred the company of his siblings and the few he trusted—certainly not the likes of Jake "Hangman" Seresin.

"Would you look at that, Coyote," Hangman drawled from the pool table, straightening as Natasha "Phoenix" Trace walked through the door. His smirk spread like wildfire, cocky as ever. "And here I was thinkin' we were special. Turns out she'll fly with just about anyone."

"I thought you'd have figured that out when you got invited, Hangman," Ghost said smoothly, stepping away from the dartboard. He wrapped Phoenix in a one-armed hug, solid and warm. "Hey, Nat." He tipped his chin at Payback and Fanboy, who had trailed in behind her.

"Where's the rest of your trio?" Ghost asked knowingly.

"You know them," Phoenix replied with a smirk, adjusting her jacket. "Dramatic entrances, as always."

She tilted her head toward Hangman. "Boys, meet the infamous Bagman."

"Hangman," Jake corrected with a grin, leaning on his cue like he was posing for a photo.

"Same thing," Ghost muttered, earning a laugh from Phoenix.

"Careful," Hangman fired back, smug as ever. "You're lookin' at one of only two naval aviators on active duty with a confirmed air-to-air kill."

"Don't encourage him," Phoenix sighed.

Ghost didn't flinch. "Yeah, yeah—against a flying museum piece."

"Korean War," Coyote supplied with a grin.

"Cold War," Hangman snapped, bristling.

"Same difference," Payback shrugged, chuckling into his drink.

Introductions came quickly: Payback, Fanboy, and finally a quiet man leaning at the bar, glasses perched low, a bowl of peanuts at his elbow.

"And who's that?" Ghost asked, pointing his chin toward him.

The man blinked like he'd been pulled out of another conversation. "Me? Uh—I've been here the whole time."

"Stealth pilot?" Phoenix teased.

"Weapons systems officer," the man corrected softly.

"With no sense of humor," Hangman muttered.

"What's your call sign?" Phoenix asked, curious.

"...Bob," he said.

"No, your call sign."

"...Bob."

Phoenix blinked, then her lips parted in sudden recognition. "Wait—Bob Floyd? You're my new backseater from Lemoore?"

Bob gave a sheepish shrug. "Guess so."