Page 6

Before I can say something completely pathetic, like ‘thank you for changing my keg, you perfect human,’ the front doorswings open with a gust of frozen air that makes every hair on my arms stand at attention.

The cold announces Britt’s arrival before she steps in, all business in her crisp suit that screams ‘I argue for a living.’ Great. Now I smell like Miller Lite, look like a wreck, and have to listen to Beth and Britt verbally joust over Brogan’s career while he’s standing right there.

Awesome.

She strides over, her heels clicking against the old, wooden floor like a metronome set to ‘anxious.’ “Hey, Joely,” she greets, though her eyes are scanning the room, probably counting heads or calculating the Slammer’s salary cap. Classic Britt, always multitasking.

Britt’s nod is all business, her gaze already sliding past us toward the back where Beth is probably eavesdropping with the stealth of a ninja in an apron.

And just like that, whatever fragile thing had been building between Brogan and me… poofs into thin air.

Because work is work. And hockey?

Hockey is life around here.

“Hey, Britt. Chili’s just about ready,” I say, motioning to the pot simmering behind me, its spicy aroma a promise of warmth and a touch of Beth’s culinary magic.

Beth zeroes in from the other end of the bar, wiping her hands on her apron as she approaches. She clocks that Brogan has already returned to his post by the back door before she says, “I thought you were the miracle worker. Look what you did with Heath.” She’s teasing, but there’s an edge to her words that’s sharper than the knives she uses to chop onions.

Britt sighs, the kind of exhalation that says, ‘I’ve had this conversation a dozen times today.’ “Heath’s a star. And I’m a lawyer not Anne Sullivan.”

Beth chuckles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m not asking you to teach the blind to read. Just get the kid a contract, so you don’t break his heart.”

“He has a contract. For now. Have his brothers teach him how to shoot. Or pass. Or… skate,” Britt retorts, her voice tinged with frustration and worry—a cocktail she’s been serving a lot lately.

“It’s not that bad,” Beth counters, but even she doesn’t seem convinced by her own reassurance.

“At some point, we need to talk about if this is what he really wants,” Britt adds, her gaze drifting towards the TV where another game flashes stats and player highlights.

I’ve been doodling on a coaster again, my pen dancing over the cardboard in aimless loops and swirls. My hand stops, the last swirl unfinished. The weight of her words feels like a puck to the gut. I’m really worried about Brogan. I’ve loved the man since grade school, long before he knew how to lace his skates right. I don’t want him to lose his dream. But watching from the sidelines, I’m not sure what I can do.

Beth seems to read my thoughts—or maybe it’s just the frown I can’t hide. She grabs the chili pot, her movements brisk. “I’ll talk to Brogan,” she declares, and it’s not a suggestion. It’s a promise from one mother hen to another.

She hands the to-go container over to Britt, who manages a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Beth.”

Britt leaves, the bell above the door jingling. I watch her go, the worry gnawing at me growing teeth. It’s not just Brogan’s contract that’s up in the air. It’s everything he is, everything we—all of us here—have come to love about him.

I toss the pen aside, the coaster looking like a storm hit it. I wish I could do more, say more. But for now, I wait, hope, and serve another round.

As the door closes behind Britt, the hum of conversation and laughter swells back up, filling the spaces she leaves behind. Ishould be used to this, the ebb and flow of bar noise, the way it can both soothe and smother. Tonight, though, it’s just white noise against the static of my thoughts.

The bar door swings open again before I can even get my heart rate under control. In floats Lucinda Jean Marigold—yes, her real name—wearing leggings that should be arrested for public indecency and a top that’s hanging on by a thread, daring gravity to finish the job.

Lucinda. One of the Slammer’s booster girls. Like a puck bunny, but the Walmart version.

I stiffen as she zeroes in on him like he’s the last prize in the damn claw machine at Sorrowville’s bowling alley. Brogan’s grin kicks up, cocky and effortless. God, that grin. I know that grin. I hate that grin. I live for that grin.

“LuLu,” he says, leaning over her like a goddamn snack—all lean muscle, tattoos curling over tan skin, abs like the universe personally chiseled them just to make my life miserable. His stupid flannel shirt is hanging open, showing off the full spread like he’s on the fucking menu. Because of course he is. He’s Brogan Foster. Sorrowville’s favorite mistake.

Lucinda does that annoying little shoulder wiggle she’s probably practiced in the mirror. “Brogan,” she purrs, dragging out every syllable like it’s a seduction.

Literally stab me with a cocktail skewer.

I grab the bar towel, twisting it so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in half.

He leans in closer to her, and—fuck me—he actually laughs. Laughs. The same deep, rough laugh that used to make me believe in things like hope and forevers. And I, imbecile that I am, got excited when he called me ‘JoJo’ earlier. That was just hours ago.

I feel like the world’s biggest idiot.