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He groans, but he’s smiling. “I swear, Joely. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“And the life of you,” I say softly.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to my temple.

“Sounds like something that would look good on a water tower. I’ll bring the spray paint.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Brogan

I can spot a big gesture from a mile away. The kind that turns heads, starts rumors, and fills every barstool with a new version of the story before sunset. I’ve seen my share of proposals at halftime, pickup trucks with painted windows, and enough prom-posals to last three generations, but this—Brogan Foster dangling from a cherry picker with fishing line and a red-letter sign flapping in the February wind—might just set a new record for “ridiculous and heartfelt.” People slow down on Main Street. Phones come out. Even Virgil, usually immune to romance, pretends not to watch from behind old Sleetwood Mac. I tell myself I’m not sentimental, but deep down, this is what keeps me coming back: a place where even the hardest hearts get sucker-punched by love and a crooked sign is enough to make all my citizens believe in happy endings again.

Playlist: Still by The Japanese House

The contract sits in my passenger seat, buckled in like it’s a damn newborn.

It’s not even a thick stack—just a few pages of legal speak and HR lingo—but it feels heavier than any offer I’ve ever gotten. No zeroes at the end of this one. No bonus clause. Just… fulfillment. A job title that doesn’t come with bruises or the weight of family expectations.

Head Coach, Sorrowville Mega Mites.

It sounds kinda ridiculous when I say it out loud. But it also sounds right.

There’s no late-night bus rides or getting benched if I have a bad day. No wondering if I’ll get traded or released. Just early evenings, Saturday afternoons, squeaky skates, kids who still think a backwards crossover is magic. I’ll teach them what I know, and hopefully, they’ll fall in love with the game without the pressure that nearly crushed me.

I’m not getting rich coaching squirts and peewees, but it’s enough to build a real life. The Mega Mites job pays steady—decent city money, solid benefits, respect that comes from giving back. I’ll fill the gaps with private lessons, off-season camps, maybe snag a couple local endorsements if I play my cards right. It won’t be flashy, but it’ll be enough. Enough for a mortgage, enough for the kind of family dinners I had growing up, enough for the future I want with Joely—even if we have a whole houseful of little Fosters one day.

I tap the steering wheel and glance at the clock. Joely’s still at work. I’ve got time.

Pulling out my phone, I scroll to Bennett’s contact. This is either going to be genius or the dumbest plan I’ve ever had. But if I’ve learned anything over the last couple months, it’s that the right kind of chaos is exactly what makes life worth living.

He picks up on the second ring. “What do you want?”

“I could just be calling to say hi.”

“You could,” he says. “But you’re calling me in the middle of the day. You’re bored. Your girl’s at work. You don’t know what to do with yourself.”

“You’re only half right. I know what to do. I just need help.”

“And there it is,” he mutters. “So, I ask again—what do you want?”

I grin. “Wanna meet me at the arena with the cherry picker?”

He goes quiet. That always means he’s intrigued.

“Is this about the sign?”

“Yes.”

“Will it piss off Virgil?”

“Definitely.”

“Any chance he’ll be there?”

“Probably.”

I can almost hear him smirk. “See you in twenty. I’ll bring schnapps. An entire case.”