Page 116

I hang up, toss my phone onto the seat, and glance at the contract again. Then I open the glove box and pull out Joely’s bracelet—the one she gave me when we were eight. I still wear it sometimes when I need to remember who I am.

Today, I don’t need the reminder.

I’m not just Brogan Foster, Slammer forward. I’m Brogan Foster, future coach, boyfriend of a badass, and proud owner of a plan so sweetly stupid, it might actually work.

Time to make a sign.

Bennett rolls up in the beat-up family truck. The cherry picker’s strapped in the back like it’s a siege weapon, and I swear to God, he’s wearing aviators like this isTop Gun: Sign Edition.

“You ready to piss off a grumpy old man and potentially get banned from the arena for life even though we both work here?” he calls out as he hops down.

“I was born ready.”

“Also, I brought backup.” He points to a case of alcohol in the truck bed clearly pilfered from out mother. “Peppermint schnapps. The official drink of bribing Virgil into silence.”

“Nice.” I grab the cherry picker controls and gesture toward the arena. “Let’s do this.”

We get everything lined up, avoiding the Zamboni garage like it’s enemy territory. Sleetwood Mac is parked outside, but I don’t see Virg yet. The sign looms overhead, blank and expectant. My palms sweat just looking at it.

I pull out the plastic tote I packed this morning with carefully cut-out red letters and a roll of fishing line. I might not be the artsy one—that’s more Joely’s jam—but I managed to print out block letters big enough to get the point across.

“‘Joely, will you be my girlfriend?’” Bennett reads, arching a brow. “Kinda basic.”

“Basic gets the job done.”

“Like missionary.”

“Jesus, Bennett.”

He snickers and slaps the cherry picker’s side. “Let’s get you up there, Romeo.”

I strap in, haul the letters up with me, and start threading them through the rig. It takes longer than I thought—fishing line tangles like my brain on a bad day—but eventually, I’ve got it. Each red letter hangs from the edge of the sign like a Valentine’s Day ransom note. The wind flaps them a little, but they’re secure.

I’m tying off the last knot when I hear the roar of a golf cart. I peer down just in time to see Virgil skidding into the lot like a NASCAR driver with a vendetta.

“Goddammit, Foster!” he yells, shaking a wrench. “You better be replacing the bulbs I asked for last year!”

Bennett steps in like he’s been rehearsing. “Hey, Virg. How do you feel about a nice warm beverage?”

Virgil squints. “Depends. Is it cocoa or booze?”

Bennett reaches in back and pulls out a full bottle. “Tis the season.”

Virgil grumbles, but the wrench drops. “One of these days, you two are gonna be the death of me.”

“Not today.” I grin as I descend.

Virgil eyes the sign, sighs, then takes the bottle. “This better be worth it.”

“It is.”

He snorts. “Young love, vandalism, and alcohol. Warms the heart and the body.”

Bennett slaps him on the back. “Atta boy. You’re practically Cupid.”

“Cupid doesn’t have back problems.”

Virgil mutters all the way back to the Zamboni bay, bottle tucked in his coat like a peace offering. I step back, eyes locked on the sign. It’s askew. Slightly uneven. Possibly illegal.