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Bennett, with a deadpan expression, counters, “Have you looked at family pictures?”

“I’m calling Mom,” I declare, already pulling out my phone.

“Allow me. I have her number saved,” Bennett offers, too quickly.

“We all have her number saved,” I shoot back, not missing a beat.

“Top spot?” Bennett asks, a challenge in his tone.

“No, mine is taken by women who will have sex with me, not the woman who gave birth to me. Of course, I can see why Mom gets your top spot,” I retort, the room breaking into laughter, though the tension simmers just below the surface.

“That was funny. Also, you should run,” Bennett says, his voice laced with a brotherly warning.

“You’re gonna hit me, aren’t you?” I say, half-joking, half-prepared to dodge a friendly punch.

“Definitely,” Bennett confirms, though the smirk suggests it’s all part of the routine.

Madeline throws up her hands, her patience with our sibling squabbles wearing thin. “I’m outta here. Brogan, stick around. The kids will be here in a couple of hours.” She turns to Bennett, “Maybe beat him later? We don’t want to scare the little buggers.”

“Just keep my name out your mouth,” Bennett grunts, his tone half-serious. “I’m serious, Madeline.”

“Fine. No dances for you,” Madeline replies quickly, a slight edge to her voice.

“Thank you.”

“For now,” Madeline adds, turning to leave.

“I heard that,” Bennett calls after her, not letting her have the last word.

“You were supposed to,” Madeline shoots back without looking back, her steps firm and decisive as she exits the room, leaving a mix of amusement and anticipation swirling in the air.

I trudge back down to the locker room, my steps heavy, echoing down the stark hallway like a slow drumbeat of my reluctance. Grumbling under my breath, I can’t help but replay the whole meeting in my head. Publicity stunts. Fan engagements. They’re necessary evils in the world of professional hockey, but that doesn’t make them any less aggravating.

I push through the locker room door, the scent of sweat and rubber hitting me like a wall. It’s familiar, comforting in a way that the gleam of cameras and the scrutiny of public appearances will never be. I head to my locker, pulling out the jersey and pads I had just shed what feels like moments ago. The fabric feels cooland slightly damp against my skin as I pull the jersey over my head.

“Could be worse,” I mutter to myself, fumbling with the straps of my pads. “Could be doing dance routines on ice again.” The thought brings a reluctant grin to my face, the absurdity of my last public spectacle still fresh in my memory. At least today, it’s just smiles and maybe a few puck passes—no viral dance moves required.

As I lace up my skates, I can hear the distant sounds of the arena beginning to fill up again, the low murmur of voices and the occasional laugh echoing through the corridors. It’s game day, even if the game is just for show today. With a final tug on my laces, I stand, gear fully donned, ready to face whatever this publicity thing throws at me.

“Let’s get this over with,” I sigh, pushing off towards the rink.

The rink carries an electric charge, like the air before a storm. The Mega Mites, a sprightly youth team, are already gathered, their faces lit with the sort of excitement usually reserved for playoff games. Each child wears their excitement uniquely: some bounce on the balls of their feet, others cling to their sticks with nervous energy, and a few chatter nonstop about the day’s special guest.

As the local news crew sets up, cables snake across the floor, cameras are mounted, and microphones tested—a symphony of preparatory chaos. Amidst this, the Mega Mites line up along the boards, their eyes darting between the equipment and the entrance, eagerly anticipating my arrival.

Making my way over to the Mega Mites, every step I take draws a chorus of excited whispers and nudges among the young players. I can’t help but smile broadly, waving casually back, fully aware of all the young, hopeful eyes fixed on me.

“It’s BroFetti!” one kid shouts, practically vibrating out of his tiny skate boots.

My grin falters just a little. “Hey now, we’re just sticking with Coach Foster today, alright?”

“Do the slide!” another pipes up, dropping his stick to start wiggling side to side on the ice, nearly eating it.

A third one skates up, bold as hell, tipping his helmet back like he’s about to make the trade of the century. “Is Shep here? He’s way funnier.”

My jaw ticks. “Nope. Sorry to disappoint, kiddo. Just me today.”

They groan like I’m the backup act nobody paid to see. One of the older ones elbows his buddy. “Told ya Shep was better. He goes ‘Woooooo!’ and shoots off road flares.”