Page 7

Because, of course, that’s all it ever was to him. I’m JoJo. She’s LuLu. Next, Bennett will probably be BenBen.

Leaning against the back counter, I let my gaze drift over to the dartboards where some of the regulars are lining up shots. Laughter erupts from a misfired dart, and it should make me smile. It usually does. But my chest feels tight, squeezed by the vise of what-ifs and if-onlys.

Everyone suspects I have a thing for Brogan. It’s the worst-kept secret in Power Play. From Beth’s knowing glances to the teasing nudges from the other Slammers, it’s a communal acknowledgment, except for the one person who matters. Brogan, blissfully unaware, skates around my feelings with the same ease he usually skates on ice—effortlessly and without a single stumble.

My mind flicks back to countless moments shared in this very bar, laughter mixed with the clink of glasses. Those nights when his smile seemed to be just for me, when I let myself believe maybe, just maybe, he saw me as more than Joely the bar manager, unofficial Slammer little sister, or maybe just a bit more than a friend. My heart throbs painfully at the thought, a dull, sweet ache that’s all too familiar.

The scent of lime and tequila pulls me back to the present, to the margarita I’m mixing. My hands go through the motions, but my thoughts are syrupy slow, thick with memories of Brogan’s laughter, the warmth of his eyes. The way my name sounds different when he says it, like it’s a promise he doesn’t know he’s making.

Catching myself before I can spiral further, I slam the mental door on those thoughts. This isn’t the time for daydreams. Not when his career, his future, hangs by a thread as frayed as my nerves.

Turning to face the bar, I plaster on the requisite smile, and serve up the drinks. Yet, as the evening wears on, the façadecracks. Each laugh feels a step out of sync, each cheer a note off-key. I’m here but not here. Part of me is with Brogan, wondering how he’s handling the pressure, if he’s thinking about his contract.

The idea that he might not want hockey—the very thing that defines so much of who he is and what we are to each other—is a cold splash of reality. What would that mean for us? For the future I haven’t let myself fully imagine?

A couple at the end of the bar waves for another round, pulling me from my reverie. I fix their drinks with a mechanical efficiency, my smile fixed, my heart not in it.

As the night winds down, the last of the regulars cling to their conversations like the ice clinging to their glasses. Beth ambles over, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes twinkling with that mix of mischief and maternal wisdom that always prefaces a lecture or a laugh—sometimes both.

“I’m going to start charging you for the coasters since you’re using them for your art projects,” she declares, picking up one of my latest doodle masterpieces—a particularly fluffy rendition of Brogan’s name tangled in hearts.

I chuckle, sliding the coaster under an abandoned drink to hide the evidence. “This is why I stopped doodling on the napkins.”

Beth smirks, shaking her head. “I know. This isn’t cheaper. Also…” She leans in, lowering her voice as if about to share state secrets. “Could we discuss the puppy dog eyes?”

I freeze, the coaster halfway to its hiding place. “These aren’t puppies. Or clouds. They’re puffy letters.”

“Yes. And they spell out Brogan + Joely. I can read. I meant the way you look at him,” Beth says, her tone softening.

“Oh, hell.” My face heats up more than the chili pot simmering behind me.

Beth laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Yeah. Maybe dial direct. But not here. Like…”

“At a bonfire in front of the team? Pass. Oh…or at the arena in front of the town? Pass again,” I reply, trying to muster humor to cover my embarrassment.

“So… what are your options to declare yourself to my most ignorant son?”

“I don’t have any.” I sigh, the sound lost in the clink of glasses and the low hum of the fading crowd. “I hold it in until I die.”

Beth arches an eyebrow. “Okay, well don’t announce your passing on a coaster. Speaking of which…it’s that time. We order the holiday coasters tomorrow.” She hands me the order form, her fingers brushing mine with a silent solidarity that only Beth can communicate. “Here’s the order form and the sample. This year… red and green.”

“How exciting,” I murmur, the sarcasm dripping like the tap that needs fixing.

“It is. Everyone loves the holiday coasters.”

I take the form, my fingers tracing the edges of the sample coaster—red and green, cheerful and bright, a stark contrast to the grey knot of anxiety in my chest. The festive colors should lift my spirits, signal joy and celebration. Instead, they’re just another reminder of the façade I maintain. Smiling, serving, hiding.

Turning the heavy paper over in my hands, I ponder Beth’s words. She’s right; the scribbles, the doodles, they’re all whispers of a voice I’ve muted for too long. Everyone sees it, everyone knows it—everyone except Brogan. And what’s worse, I’m not sure he’d want to hear it even if I found the courage to tell him.

“Thanks, Beth,” I finally say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I’ll get these ordered.”

She nods, giving my shoulder a squeeze that feels like an anchor in the swirling sea of my thoughts. As she walks away, I tuck the order form under the bar. As the last of the patrons trickle out, the noise of the night dwindling to a few leftover laughs and the clink of glasses being gathered up, I find myself alone with my thoughts and the closing duties.

I wipe down the counters with slow, methodical sweeps, the motion familiar and grounding. The rough texture of the rag against the wood, the squeak and drag of it, fills the quiet moments between my thoughts, which tonight just like most every night, are all about Brogan.

Beth’s voice snaps me out of my spiral. “Go home, Joely. You’ve done enough for tonight.”

I glance up, expecting another lecture or a list of things I missed. But she just leans on the bar, watching me like she already knows the war I’m waging in my head.