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The meeting with Franklin weighs on me like a bag of pucks as I head out of the arena and into the frozen throat-punch that is Sorrowville in December. I climb into my truck—old, dented, loyal as hell—and crank the ignition. It chokes twice before finally catching, rattling like it might give up on me any second. Pretty on-brand for how I’m feeling, if I’m being honest.

I sit there with my hands on the wheel, staring through the cracked windshield like maybe the answers are out there somewhere, floating in the exhaust cloud puffing out of my tailpipe. I’ve been chasing this dream my whole damn life. Not because I wanted to be great—not really. I just didn’t want to be the Foster who couldn’t carry the torch.

Bennett’s the captain. Boone’s the glue.

And me? I’m the joke. The hype guy. The clown in the background trying to make everyone laugh while I’m quietly drowning.

Who the hell am I without this?

Without the jersey. Without the rink. Without living up to my old man and the brothers who made this town believe the name Foster meant something on the ice.

Without the one thing I’ve busted my ass for since I was old enough to lace my skates?

I scrub a hand over my mouth and slam my head back against the seat.

What if I’m nothing?

The engine’s grumbling under me, begging to be put in gear, but I sit there like an idiot—stuck in my own head. Finally, I throw it into drive and head toward Power Play, but every mile feels heavier than the last. Like I’m driving toward a future I don’t even recognize anymore.

Pulling up outside the family bar, the familiar neon glow of the Power Play sign flickers a weak welcome. I park in the back, where the shadows mingle with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses seeping out from the bar’s cracked windows. The cold bites at my cheeks as I lock the truck, the crisp air doing little to clear the fog in my head.

Inside, the warmth of the familiar space wraps around me. I slip inside the door, assuming my post as tonight’s bouncer, a much needed side hustle. Despite the lively buzz of the crowd and the clatter of a busy Friday night, my mind is elsewhere.

Franklin’s words replay in a loop, each iteration a reminder of my recent failings on the ice. I’ve been in a decline, no doubt, and standing here, scanning the room for trouble, I feel the weight of needing to find a way out. How to shake off the slump,I’m not yet sure, but as I watch the carefree faces around me, the resolve to do just that begins to take hold.

The noise is a palpable thing, buzzing with the communal energy of a town that comes alive at night. The bar is lit in a warm, inviting glow, contrasting sharply with the cool, crisp air outside that still clings to my skin. I make my way through the crowd, each step punctuated by greetings from regulars and the occasional pat on the back. It’s like navigating a family reunion—if your family consisted entirely of hockey fans and the occasional rowdy drunk.

Reaching the bar, I catch Joely’s eye, and she flashes me that familiar crooked grin—equal parts troublemaker and old friend. She’s always been a constant, even back when we used to trade slapshots and snowballs behind the school. “Hey, stranger,” I say, leaning against the bar like I’ve done a thousand times before, right here in this spot. “Think you could hook a guy up with a Coke? Or do I have to recite your favorite Power Rangers episode again?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a warmth behind it—like we’re both remembering all the backyard games, the summer nights, the way she always patched me up after every dumb dare I took. It’s easy, the kind of easy you only get after a lifetime of knowing someone’s best and worst.

Without missing a beat, Joely slides a soda across to me, her smile making me feel just a bit better. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” I take the drink, the cold glass a sharp relief against my warm palms. I notice the coaster—some generic promotional piece that’s all bright colors and cheap slogans. I slide it under my drink casually.

Joely inhales sharply, eyes narrowing slightly as she catches sight of the coaster. “Let me get you a different coaster,” she says, already reaching for a replacement.

Shaking my head, I try to wave her off. “It’s fine. I love your doodles.”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I shrug one shoulder, a non-committal gesture that’s become second nature. “Just in a bit of a funk. Contract negotiations soon. A few things on my mind. And it’s Monday Night Football. At least the Vikings aren’t playing on the big screen.” I try to laugh, but it comes out more like a sigh.

Joely gives me a long, assessing look, her expression softening. “You’ll knock them dead, Brogan. You always do.”

Her confidence is a balm, but tonight, it feels like she’s talking about someone else, not the guy who can’t seem to find his footing on the ice.

Just then, at the door, I spot a familiar yet incongruous figure—Shep’s little brother, Chance Sawyer. He’s a good kid, usually, but the last thing I need tonight is a minor to handle.

I straighten up as he approaches. “You’re not allowed in here unless you’re with your parents.”

Chance grins, holding out a state ID. “I know. I’m just bringing Shep his ID.”

Skeptically, I reach out to take it. “I’ll give it to him.”

“But I have to pass along a private message from home,” Chance insists, a serious note in his voice that’s usually reserved for his older brother.

“I can do that, too,” I offer, not in the mood to deal with teenage messengers.