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Heath fakes a groan but is already tearing open a bag of marshmallows like he’s twelve and shoving a handful into his mouth.

Brogan leans close, his voice low and quiet just for me. “I don’t care what they say. I’m glad you’re here.”

I nod, fighting the urge to say something I’m not sure I’m ready to admit out loud.

Instead, I bump his shoulder. “Pass me a stick. I’m gonna burn the hell out of a marshmallow.”

He grins. “Nowthat’sthe Joely I know.”

And just like that, I’m warm all over. And it’s not from the fire.

Chapter Nineteen

Brogan

Some towns keep their secrets tucked under porch lights and gossip. Not me. Here, secrets go up in neon—on marquees, water towers, and wherever a bored hockey player or a lovesick bartender can reach with a can of paint or a box of random letters. The rest of the world might call it vandalism. Around here, we just call it foreplay.

Playlist Song: Mood by 24kGoldn feat. Iann Dior

It’s too early, too cold, and I haven’t even had my coffee yet. But here we are—frozen in place like dumbasses—staring up at the sign outside of Miner’s Arena like it’s the goddam Bat-Signal.

“Someone wanna explain what the hell that says?” Gage squints, one glove shielding his eyes from the rising sun even though it’s doing sweet fuck-all to warm us up.

The letters are all kinds of jacked. Half are missing, three are upside down, and one’s straight up doing a nosedive, danglingby a rusted corner. Whatever the original message was, it now looks like:“BR_29 = ?? MOF”

“Brogan twenty-nine equals... Mof?” Shep reads it out loud like it’s ancient Sanskrit. “What the hell’s a Mof?”

“Maybe it was ‘MVP’ and the P flew off?” Boone offers, chewing on the edge of his stick tape like he’s MacGyver solving a hostage crisis.

“It flew off?” I glance at him. “You think letters justfly off, Boone?”

He shrugs. “If it’s windy enough.”

“Oh great,” Bennett mutters, nodding toward the parking lot. “Here comes Sign Daddy.”

Virgil stomps across the slush in his heavy boots, arms full of random letters and what looks like a whole chunk of corrugated metal. His mustache is twitching, which means he’s one breath away from an aneurysm.

“I swear on my mother’s left hip, if one more of you punks turns this sign into your personal love shrine, I’m gonna start charging by the letter,” Virgil growls. “In straight Irish whiskey.”

“Is that... a threat or an invoice?” Shep asks.

“Both.”

Virgil dumps the letters on the ground in front of us like a pissed-off Zamboni artist. “We got a W, a sideways E, a plus sign, and whatever this used to be.” He kicks one with the toe of his boot. “Somebody’s out here playing Scrabble in the middle of the damn night.”

He lines them up like it’s a spelling bee, piecing it together with muttered curses until the message reads clear:“BROGAN #29 = ?? MOOD”

The team bursts into hollers.

“Aw, look at that,” Heath says, smirking. “You’re someone’s mood, bro.”

“Big mood!” Shep yells, doubling over. “From someone with big boobs! I guess shediddo it!”

I cross my arms and shake my head, trying not to let the heat rising to my ears show. “Who the hell keeps doing this? I don’t care what Shep says, it’s not Lucinda.”

“Better question,” Bennett adds. “Why do you secretly love it?”

I want to snap back, but the words catch in my throat. Truth is, some part of me always wanted to be someone’s main character—the guy who got the sign, the headline, the girl. Just once. And now that it’s happening, I don’t even know what to do with it.