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Maybe I’m a Rubik’s Cube—one wrong turn and he gives up.

The guys make their way toward the little stage, cackling as they argue about harmony versus comedic timing. I wipe down the counter, trying to focus, but my eyes keep drifting to Brogan.

He’s laughing now, leaning back like he doesn’t have the weight of his future pressing down on his chest. Like the ice isn’t eating away at his confidence, one shitty game at a time.

But I see it. The edge in his smile. The flicker of something dark in his eyes when he thinks no one’s watching.

Only, I always am.

The opening chords ofI Saw the Signblare through the speakers, all twangy and tinny like they were ripped off a bootleg cassette tape. Gage, Boone, Shep, and Heath stand shoulder to shoulder on stage, looking like a boy band rejected by their own mothers. Shep’s got the mic. Of course he does.

“I saw the sign,” he belts, totally off-key but owning it with pure Shep confidence. “And it opened up my eyes, I saw the Bro… Fetti.”

The others chime in.

“He’s skating like he’s ninety-five, he needs to goooo!”

The crowd loses it. Brogan buries his face in his hands at the corner table while Bennett pounds his back like he’s choking.

They hit the next line with boy-band precision:

“He used to shoot, he used to score, now we’re not even sure he knows where the puck is anymore!”

Beth cackles behind the bar.

Virgil, wiping down a table nearby, just mutters, “Jesus wept,” and walks away.

Lynsie slides in next to me like she’s been summoned by chaos. She’s carrying a half-finished vodka cran and an expression that saysyour friends are my problem now.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

I realize I’m frozen. Half-wiped glass in one hand, bar towel in the other. “Huh?”

“You stopped moving. Are you still breathing? Do I need to Heimlich the feelings out of you?”

“Shh.”

“Don’t shh me, you’re scaring me. I know that face. That’s the face you made before the water tower. That’s the face ofbad decisions with good lighting.”

“I’m derailed,” I say, voice low. “Thanks to you and your lack of vision on vertical vandalism.”

Lynsie deadpans. “So now what? Full crimes? Bribery? I’ve got bail money in quarters.”

I grin and lean in. “I have a new plan. That song inspired me.”

“No. I’m out. Not in. Not emotionally, not physically, not spiritually. I’ll call you from Mexico.”

“Lyns.”

“Ugh, what?”

“Hey, Shep!” I shout toward the stage.

Shep—still in his groove—freezes midsentence. “Uh-oh.”

Lynsie practically tackles me behind the counter. “I’ll help a little,” she mutters. “I’ll wear gloves. No fingerprints. And a mask.”

“That’s the spirit.”