Page 112

“That’s messed up.”

“Maybe. But it tracks.” Bennett leans forward, elbows on knees. “You think Joely fell for a stat line? She fell for you, dumbass. The guy who helps kids lace their skates just right. Who’ll make snow angels with toddlers right in the middle of town square, and then talk hockey with their parents. That’s the guy who matters. She doesn’t give two shits about whether or not you’re a Slammer. She just wants you to love what you do.”

I run a hand through my hair, exhale hard. “I just want to get it right. For her. For me.”

“Then stop trying to be what everyone else expects and start being what you actually are.”

“What am I, then?”

Bennett grins. “A goon with a heart of gold and the emotional maturity of a Roomba.”

I snort. “Screw you.”

“You’d miss me if I was gone.”

“Not immediately.”

Bennett gets up and slaps my shoulder on the way out. “Go see your girl. Tell her what you want. You’re not as confusing as you think, Brogan.”

I’m not sure he’s right.

But now I know where I’m going.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Joely

Some towns wake up slowly, but I never really sleep. I hold my breath through every fresh fall of snow, every distant siren, every new sign on the marquee—half-expecting heartbreak, half-daring hope. This morning, the light cuts through the clouds just right, making my salt-stained streets almost shimmer. Somewhere, worker clocks in to the job. Virgil fires up the Zamboni. And in houses all across town, old dreams rattle the windows while new ones try to sneak in. No matter what the day brings, one thing is always true: my citizens keep showing up for each other, even when it hurts.

Playlist: If We Were Vampires by Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit

I struggle through the painkiller haze to wake all the way up, and stifle a groan. My phone is charging on the dresser, screen lit up with missed texts. After tossing the covers off, I spot mycrutches on the wall right next to it. Damn it. Why did I leave them just out of reach? I try to swing my legs over but before I can hobble my way into the world’s slowest action sequence, the front door opens.

My stomach rumbles, but my ankle throbs harder. I eye the painkillers on the nightstand, willing them to float across the room like I’ve suddenly developed telekinesis. No dice. I consider calling for Brogan, but pride—and the last shreds of my dignity—say, “Wait two more seconds.”

“Hold up,” Brogan calls, stepping inside. He must have used the key I gave him last time when he insisted he could take care of me. His hair’s still damp from a shower, and he’s got a takeaway coffee cup in one hand and a pharmacy bag in the other. “Dammit, I have bad timing again. Sorry.”

After he helps me through my morning routine again, Brogan plops down beside me on the edge of the bed like he lives here. Like he’s done it a hundred times. And maybe, in a hundred different dreams I’ve had since I was sixteen, he’s done exactly this.

He helps me brush my hair, gentle with the tangles. “You could be a professional, you know,” I mumble as he coaxes a snarl loose.

“Thought about it,” he says, smirking. “BroFetti’s House of Hair & Hockey. You think Sorrowville’s ready?”

“Gisele wouldn’t be able to stand the competition.”

He nods toward the pill bottle. “You sure you don’t need help getting that thing open?”

I already have it twisted open and one white oval pressed between my fingers. “You kidding? I’ve been training for this moment my whole life.”

He snorts and hands me a protein bar. I take a bite so I don’t have to admit that my hands are trembling. Not from the injury. From him. From how soft his eyes look right now.

“So,” I say after swallowing, “I guess you came over to check on the invalid. Very heroic of you.”

“Actually, I came over to tell you something.” His voice shifts. Not deep and brooding like one of those romance book guys but serious in a way that puts me on high alert. “And yeah, check on you. But mostly the thing.”

“You brought coffee. I can’t be mad.”

He smiles but doesn’t meet my eyes right away. Instead, he’s fiddling with the contents of the pharmacy bag. Pulling out my stupid pink fuzzy socks from earlier like they belong there next to a bottle of ibuprofen and a pack of gum.