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He drops onto the mattress beside me and rests on his elbow, gaze on mine. “You get all of me now, Joely. The fussing. The nurturing. The bad jokes. The equally bad rapping under my thug name #BroFetti. The loud chewing. The loyalty. The love.”

I blink at that last word. Not because I’m surprised—he’s said it already—but because hearing it again, here, in the soft morning light, makes it feel even more real.

Let me check your ankle,” he says, even though he’s already checked it twice. He fusses with the blanket, adjusts the ice pack, and then kisses the top of my foot like he’s blessing it. “I’ll bring you lunch in bed later. No arguments.”

My voice is small when I say, “I think I like the sound of that.”

He grins. “Good. Because I’m pretty sure I’m not going anywhere.”

He leans in and kisses me, sweet and slow. It’s not the kind of kiss that sets things on fire, though God knows we’ve had plenty of those. This one is deeper. More lasting. It lingers. Leaves fingerprints on my soul.

When we pull apart, I tuck myself into the curve of his body, my head on his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm under my ear.

“God, you’re gonna ruin me,” I whisper.

“I’m hoping for the opposite,” he says, pressing his mouth to my temple. “I’m hoping I make you feel whole.”

And damn it if he doesn’t.

I close my eyes and let myself have this moment. No hiding. No pretending. Just two kids who grew up and somehow found their way back to each other.

Outside, the snow starts to fall again, soft and slow.

Inside, I think my heart finally stops wandering. I press my face to his chest, inhaling the scent of pine and whatever laundry detergent he swears is just the cheapest one at Target. My voice comes out small: “You’re really here, right?”

His arms tighten, pulling me closer. “Always. Even when I’m not. Especially then.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Brogan

There’s a certain hush that settles over me in the dead of winter, the kind of quiet that’s thicker than snow and heavier than secrets. By the time the rink lights flicker off for the night, only the hum of the Zamboni and the ache in the bones of every player still linger. People in this town live for Friday night games, for marquee lights and hope strung up in block letters. But sometimes, even I can sense when one of my own are fading, and the silence between the shouts is where the real story cracks open.

Playlist: Coney Island by Taylor Swift (feat. The National)

I’m barely five minutes into my drive to practice when my phone lights up with Britt’s name. I should let it go to voicemail, but I don’t. Mostly because I’m not in the mood to get a “WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?” text followed by athree-paragraph strategy plan and an insult to my intelligence wrapped in legal jargon.

“Morning, sunshine,” I answer.

“You sound chipper,” she says, dry as a vodka martini. “Too bad your stats aren’t.”

I sigh and flick on my blinker, merging into traffic. “Ouch. Coming in hot today, counselor.”

“I don’t have time to hold your hand, Brogan. You’re playing like shit, and word’s getting out. Management’s watching. Sponsors are watching. I’m watching. You’re making my job so much harder than it has to be. And that chips away at my alone time with my hunky husband.”

I rub the back of my neck. My stomach’s already in knots, and I haven’t even hit the rink. “So what? I’m due for a few off games.”

“Off games don’t last two weeks,” she fires back. “What’s going on with you? Burnout? Injury? Existential crisis? Lucinda’s blow job skills have been altered by her lip filler?”

“Some of the above,” I mutter. “And Lucinda’s old news. Haven’t been with her in years.”

She pauses, then softens. “Look, I know this game can get in your head. But you’re better than this. If you want to renegotiate your contract, you can’t just coast through on name recognition.”

“Noted.”

“No. Not noted. Fix it.”

The call ends, and I sit there at a red light, staring through the windshield. I toss my phone onto the passenger seat, watching the screen go dark. Britt used to just be our legal shark—untouchable, all teeth and contracts—but lately, she feels almost like family. Even when she’s chewing me out, it’s like someone’s got my back, whether I deserve it or not.