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As the evening rolls on, the initial shock of the coaster reveal fades into the background noise of clinking glasses and laughter. Yet, every glance Brogan throws my way, every smirk Bennett flashes, reminds me that my secret is out, in the most unexpected way possible.

And as I watch Brogan laugh at something Bennett says, the coaster forgotten for the moment, I wonder if maybe, just maybe, this slip-up could lead to something more. Or if I’ve just etched my feelings into Power Play lore, to be chuckled over in the months to come, a constant reminder of the night my heart was laid bare on a piece of pressed fiberboard.

I wait until the door swings shut behind him before I drop my face into my hands. “Oh, my God,” I groan into my palms. “I’m gonna have to fake my own death.”

Beth snorts. “Over a coaster? Please. I’ve seen worse.”

“Not from me,” I mutter, peeking up just enough to see the box of humiliating fiberboard hearts sitting there like they’re waiting to haunt my every shift.

I groan again.

I’m gonna have to move to Iowa. Change my name. Maybe open a fucking juice bar.

Anywhere but here.

Chapter Seven

Brogan

If you ask me, this is a place where we hang our hearts out to dry on the hockey boards and hope the Zamboni doesn’t run them over. Saturday nights at the Power Play are our own kind of religion, full of ritual, rivalry, and a healthy dose of humiliation for anyone foolish enough to leave their dignity unattended. Just ask Joely, who’s about to get taken for a ride by a thousand custom coasters, or Brogan, who’s still reeling from being the punchline of every viral dance meme this side of Duluth. Nothing stays secret for long here—not your crush, not your most embarrassing doodle, not even that time Virgil tried to install a dartboard and nearly took out half the regulars. So grab your drink, keep your head on a swivel, and remember your manners. Within my city limits, there’s always someone watching, always someone keeping score, and the only thing thicker than our accentsis the skin you’ll need to survive a Saturday night at Power Play. Especially, when love—and laughter—are on the line.

Playlist: Human by Rag ‘n’ Bone Man

As I step onto the rink, the chill hits me right in the ass—nature’s way of saying “rise and grind, Foster.” The place is mostly empty except for Virgil slow-rolling the Zamboni. The fresh ice gleams with that new-car smell, promising a clean slate, or at least a less sticky one.

Madeline—Sorrowville’s answer to an espresso shot with a Wi-Fi password—pounces before my skates even stop moving. She’s already clutching her phone, flashing a “Let’s Make You Go Viral” grin that’s only slightly less terrifying than a two-on-none breakaway. Her clipboard is loaded with TikTok ideas, hashtags, and possibly a “Free Shep” sticker.

“Brogan! Just the guy I wanted to embarrass today!” she chirps, her ponytail bouncing like she’s paid commission on enthusiasm. “Okay! New social media challenge: Who would you never let date your sister? It’s for engagement! Hashtag ‘SlammerSiblings’!” She beams, convinced this is Pulitzer stuff.

I tilt my head to the side. “What if I don’t have a sister?”

I glance across the ice—cue the rest of the team trickling in, eyes already suspicious. Madeline’s corralling them before they can get away.

First up, Holden. He gives the camera a smolder so cheesy it should come with a warning label. “Shep. That dude would forget your sister’s name before dessert. And probably ask if you want to split the check at Taco Bell.”

Shep, lurking nearby, throws his arms wide. “Hey! I like a woman who can appreciate a Crunchwrap Supreme and a man who can leave early!”

Boone is next, already rolling his eyes. “Shep, obviously. His idea of a classy date is letting the girl finish his fries before Ubering home.”

Heath snorts, “No one’s sister deserves to be third-wheel to Shep’s Tinder notifications. Mine especially. Lynsie wants nothing to do with him.”

Gage, sharpening his skates in the corner, just says, deadpan, “Shep. He brought a date to Jim Morey’s wedding. And left with someone else.”

Madeline beams, loving this more than her morning oat milk latte. Even Wolfe, who usually communicates by grunting, raises his stick and points straight at Shep. Then he glares and shakes it a few times. The guys lose it.

Coach Duff walks by, pointer finger extended. “That boy’s got the moral fiber of a cheese stick. Even though my sister is old enough to be his mother, I doubt that would stop him.”

Shep throws his arms in the air. “Cougars! Woooooo!”

Virgil, still in love with his Zamboni, honks the horn and hollers, “Shep! Wouldn’t trust him with my sweet old lady, Sleetwood Mac, let alone my granddaughters.”

By now, Shep is loving every second, mugging for Madeline’s phone like he’s auditioning for The Bachelor: Sorrowville Edition. “Everyone’s just jealous I’m the people’s choice! I love everyone’s sister. I don’t discriminate!” He strikes a pose, accidentally dropping his stick, which ricochets off the boards and nearly takes out Gage’s Gatorade.

Madeline, unable to stop giggling, finally turns to Shep for his answer. Shep glides up, winks, and says, “And even though everyone else said me, I say, Holden. Because his love notes have footnotes. And no woman’s ever going to recover from getting serenaded in public unless she’s got therapy money.”

Holden bows, “Guilty as charged. Good thing I put a ring on it.”

The laughter is so loud even Virgil’s Zamboni seems to pause in appreciation. Madeline’s phone is probably overheating with content gold.