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“I didn’t know,” I murmur. “I mean… I suspected…”

“You didn’t know for sure,” she says, “because she didn’t want you to. She didn’t cop to it because she didn’t want credit. Orthanks. She just wanted you to feel supported. She wanted you to feel loved. She wanted you to be able to chase your dream.”

I swallow hard. “She risked that—for me?”

Mom sighs. “There are only two people in this town who love you like crazy. One just had surgery. The other one? Standing right in front of you.”

Before I can respond, a nurse appears at the hallway entrance. “Ms. Parnell’s in recovery, and she’s asking for Brogan.”

I stand so fast the chair screeches backward.

“That’s me.” I’m already halfway down the corridor before she finishes turning.

My boots echo on the tile floor. My hands are sweaty. My heart feels like it’s been cracked open and everything I’ve shoved down is bubbling to the surface.

The recovery room is dimly lit, humming with machines. And there she is. Eyes heavy. Skin pale. But even with the hospital gown and IV and tangled hair, she’s still Joely.

Mine.

She smiles when she sees me. “Brogan Foster,” she says, slow and slurred, “I love you. I needed to tell you that before I die.”

The words hit me harder than any cross-check I’ve taken. Harder than that slap shot to the ribs last month that left me wheezing through two games and half a practice.

I freeze at the foot of her hospital bed. She’s propped up slightly, drugged out of her mind, looking like a whole damn fever dream in a paper gown and the world’s most unattractive no-slip socks.

“I love you, too,” I say, voice low, raw. “Baby, I—”

Joely waves a hand weakly, like she’s swatting away a fly. “No, I mean it. I have loved you forever.”

I smile. “Same, Joely. Same.”

She narrows her eyes. “No. I’m serious.”

A nurse glances up from the corner. “It’s the meds.”

“It’s not the meds,” Joely insists, wiggling her fingers dramatically. “Where’s my purse?”

“I’ll find it,” the nurse says, but she keeps checking Joely’s vitals.

Joely sighs dramatically, her wrist flopped across her forehead. “I want nachos,” she whispers to me. “Not hospital nachos. Real ones. From Power Play. Extra cheese. I’ll trade you a pain pill for it.”

I snort. “You’re not supposed to negotiate with controlled substances.”

She grins, all dimples and bad ideas. “Live a little, Foster. And get yourself a handsome man visitor pass while you’re at it.”

The nurse glances over, half-smiling, half-exasperated. “He already has one. It’s called your heart monitor going off the moment he walked in.”

She giggles. “Remember when we were in kindergarten? I tripped on my shoelace?”

“Yeah,” I say softly, stepping closer to the bed. “I remember.”

“Instead of running off to play kickball or dig in the sandbox, you sat with me. You blew on my knee and tied my shoe while we waited for the nurse. You looked like this tiny, serious little man-child.”

“I couldn’t leave you,” I murmur. “I remember.”

“And third grade? Art class? Bracelet day?”

I grin, heart twisting. “How could I forget?”