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“Who am I if I’m not a Slammer?” he asks, voice cracking just enough to ruin me.

I take a shaky breath and say the only thing I can. “You’re Brogan fucking Foster. That’s who.”

His mouth tugs into something almost like a smile. Almost.

But before I can say another word—before I can tell him that being Brogan is enough—he stands, raking a hand through his hair.

“Thanks for the burger, JoJo.”

And just like that…he’s gone.

The door swings shut behind him, rattling on its hinges like it’s holding all the things I’m too afraid to say.

Chapter Five

Brogan

Our hearts might freeze over but the gossip never does. I’ve seen a lot of things from my perch above these snow-choked streets. I’ve seen dreams rise like the steam off a fresh cup of Beth Foster’s chili, and I’ve seen them fall faster than a puck in overtime. I’ve watched boys become legends and legends become cautionary tales, but today, I’m watching something quieter. Something softer. Something real. Sometimes, the biggest wins don’t come with confetti or champagne. They come with skinned knees, foam fingers, and a little kid shouting your name like you’re the hero of their story, and isn’t that something we could all use a little more of? We cheer the loudest for the ones who show up. Not just when the spotlight’s hot but when no one’s watching at all.

Playlist: Lose It All by Foo Fighters

The team meeting room buzzes with the usual pre-meeting energy as I push through the door. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and determination—lingering reminders of our morning skate. I find a spot near the back, nodding at a few of the guys as I settle in. Everyone’s here, the low rumble of conversation punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. It’s like the calm before the storm—this room, our strategy hub, where plays are dissected and game plans forged.

Heath is animatedly recounting last night’s date mishap to a captive audience comprising of Wolfe and Holden, their laughter echoing off the walls. The grumpiest Foster throws in the occasional dry comment that only adds fuel to their amusement.

“Alright, boys, settle down!” Coach Duff’s voice cuts through the chatter like a skate blade on fresh ice. He strides to the front of the room, a stack of playbooks under his arm. His gaze sweeps over us, a stern warning in his eyes that tells us it’s time to switch gears from locker room banter to business.

“There will be a special guest today,” Duff announces, and the room instantly falls into a curious silence. His look hardens, preempting the potential groans or jokes. “You will be nice to her.”

A murmur ripples through the room, speculative glances exchanged. I can’t help but straighten up a bit, interest piqued. The arrival of a guest—especially one that warrants such a directive from Duff—isn’t common. Whoever she is, she’s important, maybe even a game-changer in some way. I glance around, catching the equally intrigued expressions of my teammates, all of us wondering the same thing: who is she, and why is she here with us today?

As the whispers around the room begin to die down, the door opens with a quiet click and Madeline steps through. Her presence seems to command immediate attention, asharp contrast to the rugged backdrop of our team meeting room. She’s dressed professionally, her demeanor confident as she strides towards the front, clutching a handful of glossy brochures.

“Good morning, everyone,” she starts, her voice clear and carrying. “I’m here today to discuss an exciting opportunity for the team that extends beyond the ice.”

She lays the brochures out on the projector stand, each one emblazoned with the vibrant logo of the Minnesota Slammers juxtaposed against a backdrop of kids on a local ice rink. “We’ve been given a chance to be featured on a local Northern Minnesota news station,” Madeline explains, her eyes scanning the room, gauging our reactions. “They’re planning a special story showcasing our involvement in supporting local youth hockey programs.”

The room shifts with interest, some guys leaning forward now, the earlier casual banter replaced by a more focused attention. It’s a chance to step up, to give back to the community that cheers us on through every high and low of the season.

Madeline’s hand sweeps over the brochures as she continues, “This is more than just good PR—it’s about making a real impact. So, I have to ask,” her gaze settles on each of us in turn, a challenge laid bare in her expression, “Who can volunteer for this amazing outreach?”

The question hangs in the air, a palpable call to action as she waits for volunteers to step forward.

The tension in the room thickens slightly, the good-natured banter replaced with a dash of uncertainty. Madeline’s gaze cuts through the silence, landing squarely on me. It’s like she’s pegged me as the one most likely to step up—or maybe the one most in need of some positive press.

“Is this because of Britt?” I ask, my voice a mix of curiosity and slight annoyance. The last thing I want is to feel like I’m beingpushed into something just because my agent thinks it’s a good PR move.

“All I’m saying is this is some good publicity, Brogan,” Madeline replies smoothly, the corners of her lips tilting in a non-committal smile.

“I hate publicity,” I grumble, my discomfort with the whole situation growing. The idea of cameras and reporters poking into what I do off the ice isn’t exactly my idea of a good time.

Shep, the chaos goblin that he loves to be, chimes in with a chuckle, “But you like money! Get some, dude. Coach the kids!”

Bennett scoffs from his corner, his arms crossed over his chest in a clear sign of refusal. “Madeline saidvolunteer, you nimrod. Besides, I’m not coaching kids. I hate them. They hate me. Plus, I’m probably a bad influence.”

Boone nods, adding his two cents with a smirk, “He’s definitely a bad influence. He wasn’t allowed near Brogan for the first five years of his life.”

“That can’t be true,” I argue, my brow furrowing in confusion. “Is there a way we could go back to that?”