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Playlist: Barbie Girl by Aqua

I’m supposed to be thinking about hockey, stats, my stick curve, the fact that Franklin’s breathing down my neck about thenext road trip. But all I can picture is Joely pressed up against the supply closet door, hair messy from my hands, cheeks flushed, whispering my name like it’s the only word she knows. I’ve had a stupid grin glued to my face since I left home, and it’s not because of the eggs Benedict in front of me at Molly’s. It’s JoJo. Always JoJo.

Shep’s across the table, inhaling pancakes like he’s got an endorsement deal with carbs. He’s babbling about some new TikTok trend—something about eating lemons and not blinking—but his words are white noise in my head. All I can focus on is the way my phone buzzes in my pocket, a little lifeline from Joely.

JoJo:Hope you survived karaoke.

I have to bite back a smile, because damn it, she’s going to be the death of me. I tap out a quick reply under the table.

Me:Still alive and kicking.

The coffee here tastes like scorched earth, but this morning even Sorrowville’s hangover looks a little brighter. There’s this weird buzzing under my skin—like hope and panic had a one-night stand and now I’m stuck with their mutant love child.

Shep finally pauses to breathe, syrup in his beard. “Dude, you’re spacing out. You good?”

“Fine,” I lie, shoveling a forkful of eggs into my mouth. “Just tired.”

He grins, leans in like he’s about to drop state secrets. “Bro, you look like a guy who got lucky and is too humble to brag. Which is disgusting, by the way.”

I choke, almost spit out my coffee. “Jesus, Shep.”

He just winks. “I’m not blind. You and JoJo, huh? About damn time. The guys have a bet going. Gage says you’re gonna blow it.”

I roll my eyes. “Gage eats pizza rolls for breakfast. I’m not worried.”

The bell over the café door jingles, and a couple of the old-timers shuffle in, arguing about whether the Slammer’s last win was skill or dumb luck. Molly wipes down the counter, shooting me a look that says she knows everything, which, honestly, she probably does.

My phone vibrates again. This time it’s a picture—Joely’s feet propped up on her coffee table, her toenails painted bright coral. Stenciled on her big toes are my number 29. The caption reads: For luck. Try not to suck tonight, Foster.

I tuck the phone away, heart doing this weird lurch that has nothing to do with caffeine. I feel… good. Hopeful. Like maybe, just maybe, the universe is finally giving me a shot at something more than hockey and half-baked dreams.

Shep starts up again, this time about some guy who tried to grill steak on his engine block. I laugh, more relaxed than I’ve been in months, not realizing that the ground under my feet is about to shift. For the first time in a long time, I let myself believe maybe things can be easy.

That’s before she walks in.

Lucinda makes an entrance like she’s skating onto the ice in a miniseries no one asked for. The bell over Molly’s door rings out, sharp and high, and every guy in the place looks up. Not me. I keep my gaze glued to my coffee mug because I know trouble when it smells like strawberry lip gloss and desperation.

We hooked up. Once. Three years ago, in a moment of pure loneliness and stupidity—young, dumb, and chasing the wrong kind of comfort, I let Lucinda drag me into the back of her mom’s SUV behind the arena. It wasn’t love, or even close. I just wanted to see her new tits, and she wanted something more—something I never offered, never promised.

I never should have fucked her. Ever since, she’s been hanging around, texting at all hours, showing up at games in my number, desperate for a repeat. But I don’t want Lucinda. Not then, notnow. She was a mistake I made in the dark, and I’ve been trying to outrun it ever since.

She heads right for us, hips swaying like she’s dodging blue liners, all smiles and big eyes. “Brogan, babe! There you are.” She slides into the booth next to me, ignoring the fact that Shep’s sitting on the other side and I didn’t exactly invite her.

Shep raises his brows but grins, the goofball. “Hey, Lucinda. You want some pancakes? Brogan can’t eat them. He’s got a gluten-free soul.”

“Too fattening.” Lucinda snorts, shaking her head, but her eyes are locked on me. “I saw what went up on the water tower last night. The number? The heart?” She leans in, syrupy sweet. “Guess I couldn’t keep my feelings under wraps any longer.” Her lips curve as if she’s letting me in on a secret—one that never belonged to her.

Shep perks up, confused. “Wait, you painted that? I thought—”

Lucinda cuts him off, nails tapping the table. “Who else would do something like that for Brogan?” She bats her lashes, then drops her voice. “He knows I’ve always had a thing for grand gestures.”

My stomach twists. For a second, I think about Joely—her face flushed, her hands always busy, her way of showing love in little, quiet ways. But Lucinda’s looking at me with so much confidence, so much practiced ownership, I almost doubt what I saw, what I thought I knew.

Shep snorts, mouth full of pancake. “Only grand gesture I ever saw you make was sneaking out the back door when it’s time to pay your tab.”

Lucinda leans in, lowering her voice. “Don’t play dumb, you two. The coasters? ‘I heart your dumb face?’ That was all me. And the rock with your number painted on it? Easy. The water tower—let’s just say, heights don’t bother me.”

She says it with a wink, like we’re sharing some inside joke. My gut twists. I want to laugh it off, but she’s got this confidence, like she’s holding cards nobody else has seen. Details she shouldn’t know. Details Joely never bragged about, never would.