Page 59

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I mutter.

“You graffitied a rock and a water tower. This is tame.”

“This is public!”

“So was the water tower.”

“Touché.”

Beth’s working the bar like a machine, flinging drinks like some kind of cocktail ninja. She catches my eye, smirks, and says, “I saw the sign-up. This better be good.”

“No pressure.”

“Just don’t break anyone’s ears.”

I turn back toward the stage and the mic, which now feels suspiciously like a live grenade. But then I spot him—Brogan—laughing at something Shep said, his smile boyish and open in a way I don’t get to see nearly enough. The corners of his mouth still curve, but his eyes shift to mine.

And boom.

That tether between us snaps taut again.

I step up onstage and take the mic. “Okay,” I say, trying not to sound like my voice is shaking. “This one’s for the guy who might not know it, but he’s still got people in his corner. Always.”

The music starts.

It’s not Ace of Base. It’s not a joke.

It’s Sara Bareilles.Brave.

The first line’s out before I realize I’m singing. And then I don’t stop.

I don’t look at the crowd—I look at him. Every word is for him. Every breath, every high note, every tremble in my voice. I mean it.

I want him to be brave.

I want him to chase the dream like there’s nothing holding him back.

I want him to know that someone sees him—on the ice, off the ice, in the quiet moments where he doubts himself most—and still believes he’s a damn star.

I hit the final note with a little too much vibrato and step off the stage to stunned silence… and then a slow, rising cheer.

Lynsie’s clapping. Virgil’s hooting. Even Bennett gives me a look like,not bad, grasshopper.

Brogan?

He’s just staring at me.

Hard.

I pass the mic off and head straight for the back of the bar, my pulse thundering in my ears.

Two seconds later, he’s there.

Joely + Brogan. In a dim corner. Of the bar. Again.

“I didn’t know you could sing like that,” he says, voice rough.

I shrug, trying not to combust. “I had something to say.”