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Beth jerks her chin toward the sign overhead. “The romantic comedy airstrike happening above this hockey arena.”

“I thought it was subtle.”

Beth snorts, glancing pointedly at the half-lit sign overhead. “Subtle? Sweetheart, you just called my son a ‘ho’ in thirty-inch block letters. If the shoe fits, I guess we’re buying Brogan a pair of thigh-highs and a walk down Main Street.”

I cringe. “He does have nice legs from all that skating.”

Beth looks at the ladder, the twisted wrap, the sad sprawl of Joely in the snow.

“You were off to such a strong start,” she deadpans.

“I was trying to say something,” I mumble. “Something big.”

“Big like ‘please call an ambulance’ or big like ‘I’m in love with your son but also broke my ankle trying to prove it’?”

I sigh, defeated. “A mix.”

She crouches, and her expression softens. “Let me see the damage.”

“Pretty sure it’s broken.”

Beth helps me sit upright, her movements careful but not gentle. She’s not a gentle woman. She’s a woman who’s been through hockey tournaments, bar rushes, and raising three sons. A broken ankle doesn’t scare her.

She slides her arm under mine and hoists me up like she’s done this a hundred times before. “Let’s get you to the ER, Picasso.”

I bite my lip, blinking hard against the sting in my eyes. It’s not just the pain. It’s the humiliation. The ache of wanting so damn much for someone and feeling like every big gesture ends with you flat on your ass in the snow. Maybe I should’ve just told him. Maybe I should’ve just said, “You matter. You always have. Because I love you.”

I nod, shivering. “Do we have to tell anyone?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Beth says, helping me into the truck. “Depends. You want Brogan to know you broke yourself trying to impress him or should I tell him you got into a street brawl with a rogue pack of leprechauns and one of them hit you in the ankle with their full pot ‘o gold?”

I groan as she slams the door.

She drives in silence for a minute before she adds, “For the record, I think it’s sweet. Reckless. Ridiculous. But sweet.”

“You think he’ll ever figure it out?”

Beth glances at me with a smirk. “He already has. It’s just that he’s a Foster. Totally emotionally constipated. Not as bad as Bennett, but it’s there. Just to be clear, they get that from their father.”

I smile faintly, resting my head against the cold window.

Even through the pain, even with my ankle swelling like a balloon animal gone wrong, I can’t help but feel it.

Hope.

Maybe this is what love looks like in Sorrowville. Messy. Cold. Slightly illegal. Wrapped in Saran Wrap and stitched together with sarcasm and sheer will.

And maybe—just maybe—it’ll be enough.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Brogan

My nights don’t ever end quietly—not really. Just when the last set of headlights blink out and the snow starts to reclaim the roads, there’s always some poor fool climbing a ladder or falling in love, or—if they’re especially unlucky—doing both at once. The hospital lights burn late this time, throwing a flicker of hope and chaos across the town square. We pretend not to watch, but everyone knows which truck is parked at the ER and whose heart is tangled up in the girl with the busted ankle and the too-big heart. Around here, we say love’s a contact sport. Looks like Joely Parnell finally took a penalty for holding. And I’m just holding my breath, waiting to see if Brogan Foster’s finally going to drop his gloves and fight for her.

Playlist: The Night We Met by Lord Huron

The second I walk into Power Play, I know something’s off.