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Beth snorts so loud she nearly spills Virgil’s beer. “You better be careful, Brogan. That line’s gonna get you smacked with a bar towel.”

I roll my eyes, ignoring the heat climbing up my neck. “One Slammer Burger, extra crispy wings. I’ll put it in.”

Brogan leans in closer, his voice dropping just for me. “You see my fan club last night? Lucinda was practically ready to propose after I nailed the Cha Cha Slide.”

Beth’s eyes narrow instantly. “Lucinda? That puck bunny with the crop tops and frosted lips? Just to be crystal clear here, I willnotbe that woman’s mother-in-law.”

“Hey, she’s got spirit,” Brogan says, winking at Virgil, who looks like he’s trying not to choke on his beer.

I set the order slip on the pass-through with more force than necessary. “You definitely had spirit, all right. And confetti.”

Brogan laughs, running a hand over his jaw like he’s still processing the entire trainwreck. “Shep’s never gonna let me live that down. BroFetti. Jesus.”

Beth leans on the bar, folding her arms. “You’ve been called worse.”

Virgil chimes in, smirking, “Yeah, but never with a confetti cannon. Luckily, they used the kind that dissolves in water.”

Brogan groans and scrubs a hand over his face. “Can we not? I’m still recovering. That mascot’s got better moves than me. Pretty sure Slammy’s getting my endorsement deal.”

I snort before I can stop myself, and Brogan’s eyes flick to mine—softer this time, less bravado.

“Seriously, though,” he says, tone shifting just a little. “Thanks for not laughing me off the ice last night.”

Beth gives me a look that could gut a fish, but I hold Brogan’s gaze, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Anytime, BroFetti.”

Beth slides his burger and fries across the bar a few minutes later, and for once, Brogan doesn’t launch into one of his usual dramatic food critiques. No commentary about the perfectly melted cheese or the ratio of pickles to mustard. Just quiet chewing, like every bite weighs more than it should.

I busy myself restocking the cooler, wiping down the taps, pretending not to watch the way he picks at his fries looking for the crispiest ones. The bar hums around us, but somehow it feels like we’re moving in slow motion—like the whole damn night is holding its breath, waiting for something neither of us is ready to say.

Brogan pushes his empty basket away, like the weight of the world is still sitting on his chest.

“You ever feel like… you’re running out of time?” His voice is quieter now, like he’s not sure he wants me to actually answer.

I glance up from wiping the bar, heart thumping harder than it should. “Every damn day.”

He leans forward, elbows braced on the worn wood between us. His eyes are tired in a way I’ve never seen before. Like the light’s flickering out just a little. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

The air feels like it’s been sucked clean out of the room. “Hockey?”

He nods once. Tight. Barely there.

I round the bar before I can stop myself, like getting physically closer might somehow fix the distance between what he wants and what’s actually happening.

“Brogan—”

His head tips up, and the look on his face nearly shatters me.

“I’ve been skating my whole life,” he whispers. “And I think I’m starting to hate it.”

I reach for his hand—God, what am I doing?—but I freeze halfway. Afraid if I touch him, he’ll break. Or worse… I will.

So I shove my hands in my pockets and force the words out instead. “Then stop.”

He lets out this laugh—bitter and sharp. “It’s not that simple.”

“Maybe it is,” I whisper. “You just don’t want to let everyone down.”

His eyes lock on mine like I just peeled back every layer he’s been hiding under. And maybe I have.