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As the crew starts packing up and the kids gather their new treasures, I skate one last slow lap around the rink, letting it all settle deep in my bones.

“Bye, BroFetti!” a kid yells as they head toward the exit with their parents. I just shake my head, already regretting that’s the nickname that’ll follow me into retirement.

When I finally step off the ice, untying my skates with frozen fingers and a full damn heart, I know one thing for sure:

I could volunteer to work with kids forever.

Chapter Six

Joely

There’s something about watching a girl come face-to-face with her own heartache in the form of a box of overpriced bar coasters that makes even an old town like me pause and hold my breath. Because me and my citizens aren’t just built on ice and duct tape. We’re built on the things we don’t say out loud—like how the girl who grew up folding bar towels for the Foster family somehow doodled the word ‘Brogan’ on a scrap of cardboard that’s now plastered on a thousand drink coasters for all to see. While everyone laughs and drinks and pretends not to notice, the truth hangs heavier than a wet parka on a coat rack. Because this is how it happens here, folks—someone opens their heart by accident, someone else stands there too dumb to read the fine print, and the rest of us? Well, we lean back, pour another round, and wait to see if the damn fool figures it out before the ice melts.

Playlist: Fool’s Gold by Briston Maroney

It’s a typical Saturday at the Power Play where the locals mingle with the lingering excitement of last night’s game. I’m behind the bar, lining up glasses and filling pitchers with Beth manning the grill like a seasoned pro. The clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation create a familiar symphony that feels like home.

From my spot, I can see Brogan and Bennett at the far end of the bar. They’re huddled over what looks like the world’s most stubborn bar stool, armed with a toolbox that’s seen better days. Brogan’s brow is furrowed in concentration as he tries to tighten a bolt while Bennett, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, holds the stool steady, his patience obviously thinning.

“Hand me the Phillips head,” Bennett mutters, not even looking up as he extends a hand backward towards the scattered tools.

“Which one’s that?” Brogan grumbles, clearly not versed in the nuances of screwdriver identification.

“The one that looks like a star, not a flat line,” I call out, unable to resist the urge to tease as I shake a cocktail with a practiced hand.

Bennett chuckles, flashing me a quick grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes—there’s too much concentration for that. “Thanks, Joely. Maybe you should come over here and show my little brother how it’s done.”

I cock my head, leaning my elbows on the bar like I’ve got all the time in the world. “Oh, believe me, I’d love to show him how it’s done,” I murmur, mostly to myself—but Beth hears it anyway, snorting loud enough to rattle the ketchup bottles. I straighten, schooling my face into something way more innocent than what’s actually playing out in my head. Because fixing a stool? Please. That’s child’s play.

What I really want is to get my hands on the six-foot-three mess of muscle and charm currently wrestling with a rusty screwlike it’s his mortal enemy. And something tells me… he wouldn’t mind a little hands-on demonstration, either.

Beth laughs, flipping a burger with a flourish. “Let the boys play handyman, Joely. We’ve got a bar to run.” Her tone is light, but there’s pride in her quick glance around our bustling establishment.

Saturday nights at Power Play are never dull, and tonight, Virgil decides it’s the perfect time to install the new dartboard. It’s a high-tech model, complete with electronic scoring and flashy lights, a far cry from the old, battered board that hung on the wall for what seemed like an eternity.

Virgil, armed with an enthusiasm unmatched by his actual handyman skills, positions the ladder smack in the middle of the bar. He’s got a drill in one hand and a level in the other, his glasses slipping down his nose as he squints at the instructions. The regulars at the bar watch with a mix of amusement and mild concern as he attempts to measure the correct height.

“Gotta make sure it’s regulation height!” Virgil declares, stepping back to assess the wall. He plants his foot on the first rung of the ladder, which wobbles ominously. The chatter around the bar grows quieter, everyone’s attention now fixed on Virgil’s precarious balancing act.

Beth watches from the food pass window, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips. “Maybe you should wait for Bennett to finish with the stools, Virg. He’s got steadier hands.”

But Virgil waves her off with a chuckle. “Nah, I got this, Beth. What could go wrong?”

Famous last words. As Virgil ascends the ladder, drill in hand, the entire contraption sways dangerously. Boone, nearby, looks up from cleaning a spill, ready to leap to Virgil’s rescue. But before anyone can move, Bennett steps in with a sigh, grabbing the ladder to stabilize it.

“Virg, you’re gonna bring the whole wall down,” Bennett grumbles, his voice laced with reluctant concern as he takes over, pushing Virgil gently aside. “Let me do it. Just... hand me the screws and stop waving that drill around like it’s a magic wand.”

Virgil steps down, handing over the drill with a sheepish grin. “Alright, alright, you take over. I was just trying to liven up the place a bit.”

With Bennett at the helm, the installation goes smoothly, though not quietly. Bennett’s gruff directions fill the air, instructing Boone to hold the dartboard still while he drills. The crowd starts to relax, their attention drifting back to their drinks and conversations, though a few can’t help but chuckle at the scene.

Once the dartboard is securely in place, Bennett steps back, wiping his brow. “There. That should hold, even if you throw like Brogan here. He’s about as good at darts as he is at hockey.”

Brogan, who’s been watching with a half-smile, throws a playful jab Bennett’s way. “Hey, watch it. I might just challenge you to a game to show you how it’s done.”

With the dartboard now a bright, blinking fixture on the wall, Virgil claps his hands, a grin spreading across his face. “Let the games begin! Thanks to Bennett, our resident party pooper turned handyman.”

The bar erupts into laughter and toasts to Bennett, the earlier tension dissolving into the warm, familiar camaraderie that makes Power Play more like a home than a bar. And with the new dartboard up, it looks like the evening is just getting started, promising a night full of games, jokes, and maybe a few dart-induced rivalries.