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The second he starts to walk away, my whole body feels empty and way too full at the same time. I watch the condensation fade on my water glass, wishing I had something brave to say—or that he’d just see me, just once, the way I see him.

Lynsie doesn’t miss a beat, bumping my shoulder with hers and giving me a look that says, “Girl, you are so obvious.” I ignore her, swirling my whipped cream and pretending I’m not picturing the way Brogan’s smile will haunt me all the way home.

I glance toward the parking lot. And as his silhouette disappears into the snowy dark, I wish, just for once, he’d look back.

Chapter Nine

Brogan

Snow piles against the windows like the whole world’s trying to keep us inside, but that’s just me in December—mean, restless, stubborn as a mule and twice as likely to stir up trouble when the wind howls. You’d think winter weather would make people hunker down, but here, it only squeezes us tighter, packing the Power Play with neighbors, secrets, and the kind of wild ideas that end with someone grilling burgers on a night better suited for emergency blankets and regret. The bar smells like whiskey, fryer grease and hope, string lights flickering overhead like even they want in on the chaos. As the laughter rises, you can feel it in my bones—how sometimes, a storm isn’t what keeps you apart, it’s what brings you home.

Playlist: Home by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros

Wind’s howling outside and the snow’s stacked so high on the windows, you’d think Sorrowville was trying to suffocate us—but inside the family bar, my second home, it’s straight chaos in the best way. Mom’s got the hot toddies cranked, the regulars are buzzed, and the place smells like whiskey, fryer grease, and whatever the hell Boone spilled on the floor an hour ago. It’s late, we’re kind of snowed in, and nobody’s leaving until the plows dig us out—so we might as well turn the place into a circus. String lights flicker overhead, trying to be festive but mostly just fighting for their lives.

Then Shep, human disaster and hype man extraordinaire, jumps onto a chair and starts banging his spoon on his glass like he’s about to announce the end of days. “Alright, Power Play legends,” he shouts, eyes wild, “burger cook-off time! Winner gets a big ol’ kiss from our one and only Joely!”

Because what else does a small town do in the midst of a crappy snowstorm during a Minnesota winter?

The whole bar erupts—half the room groans, half starts wolf-whistling, and Joely, poor Joely, looks like she’s about to crawl under the counter. She’s laughing, though, biting her lip and giving me that sideways look that always makes me do something stupid. I’m not planning on joining in (I barely trust myself to use a toaster, let alone whatever industrial weapon Mom calls a grill), but the way she glances at me—like she’s daring me?

Yeah, no chance I’m sitting this out. I slam my beer down, stand up, and try to look like a guy who knows what “medium rare” means. “Screw it. I’m in!”

Now everyone’s piling on—Bennett’s googling some five-star recipe he’ll butcher, Boone and Heath are arguing about the best seasoning (“Salt is a seasoning, you idiot!”), and even Gage, who once set a microwave burrito on fire, is acting like he’s about to headline on The Food Network.

Virgil stops pretending to clean and is just straight-up gawking. Mom’s rolling her eyes and slapping down ingredients like she wants to see us all fail equally. This is Sorrowville: heavy snow outside, total madness inside, and somehow, I’m about to risk third-degree burns for a shot at making Joely laugh.

I shoulder in between Boone and Gage, catching a face full of smoke and whatever mystery spice Shep just dumped onto his patty. The whole bar’s circled up, like we’re about to drop the puck, only tonight it’s spatulas and trash talk.

“Hey, Brogan!” Shep yells, holding up a bottle of ghost pepper sauce like it’s a trophy. “Dare you to taste test this.”

I eye the label—skull and crossbones. “I’d rather lick a goalie’s jockstrap, thanks.”

He cackles, nearly choking himself on the fumes as he slaps his burger down, sauce spraying everywhere. “That’s the spirit! Who needs taste buds anyway?”

Boone’s hunched over his grill, laser-focused, dropping cheese slices with surgical precision. “It’s all about ratio, people. Layers. Respect the dairy.”

Bennett leans in, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not making lasagna, Wolfgang Puck.”

Boone shrugs, totally undeterred. “Jealousy isn’t a seasoning, brother.”

On the far end, Gage is stacking onions, pickles, jalapeños—his burger’s so high I can see it sweating. Heath wobbles next to him, steadying his own teetering monstrosity. “Ten bucks mine stands taller,” Heath bets.

Gage snorts, slapping on another bun for height. “I’ll see your ten, and raise you one time cleaning out my locker.”

Virgil saunters by, pretending to judge. “These all FDA-approved, or should I just have 911 on speed dial?”

“Only thing dying tonight is my dignity,” I mutter, flipping my patty with a confidence I don’t actually feel.

Joely’s making the rounds, grinning at the carnage. She stops behind me, eyebrow cocked. “Smells like burnt pride over here, Brogan. You planning on feeding someone or just incinerating the flattop?”

I shoot her a crooked grin. “Just waiting for your expert opinion. Want the first bite, or do you want to see if Shep survives his own chemical warfare?”

She shakes her head, but her smile’s warm. “I’ll risk a Brogan burger over Shep’s fireball any day.”

The crowd’s wound tighter than a slapshot spring, half the bar chanting, “Flip! Flip! Flip!” every time someone screws up. Boone tries to flip his cheese monolith and—bam!—it explodes on impact, molten cheddar spraying like confetti. People dive for cover, napkins in the air, a couple regulars howling like it’s Slammer playoff time.

My mom, the only adult in a building full of grown toddlers, comes tearing through with a tray of buns, her death glare leveled right at Shep. “If one of you stains my walls, you’re scrubbing the fryer with your toothbrush. And you know where I keep the bleach.”