Page 10

Brogan

Snow piles against the windows like the whole world’s trying to keep us inside, but that’s just me in December—mean, restless, stubborn as a mule and twice as likely to stir up trouble when the wind howls. You’d think winter weather would make people hunker down, but here, it only squeezes us tighter, packing the Power Play with neighbors, secrets, and the kind of wild ideas that end with someone grilling burgers on a night better suited for emergency blankets and regret. The bar smells like whiskey, fryer grease and hope, string lights flickering overhead like even they want in on the chaos. As the laughter rises, you can feel it in my bones—how sometimes, a storm isn’t what keeps you apart, it’s what brings you home.

Playlist: Home by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros

Wind’s howling outside and the snow’s stacked so high on the windows, you’d think Sorrowville was trying to suffocate us—but inside the family bar, my second home, it’s straight chaos in the best way. Mom’s got the hot toddies cranked, the regulars are buzzed, and the place smells like whiskey, fryer grease, and whatever the hell Boone spilled on the floor an hour ago. It’s late, we’re kind of snowed in, and nobody’s leaving until the plows dig us out—so we might as well turn the place into a circus. String lights flicker overhead, trying to be festive but mostly just fighting for their lives.

Then Shep, human disaster and hype man extraordinaire, jumps onto a chair and starts banging his spoon on his glass like he’s about to announce the end of days. “Alright, Power Play legends,” he shouts, eyes wild, “burger cook-off time! Winner gets a big ol’ kiss from our one and only Joely!”

Because what else does a small town do in the midst of a crappy snowstorm during a Minnesota winter?

The whole bar erupts—half the room groans, half starts wolf-whistling, and Joely, poor Joely, looks like she’s about to crawl under the counter. She’s laughing, though, biting her lip and giving me that sideways look that always makes me do something stupid. I’m not planning on joining in (I barely trust myself to use a toaster, let alone whatever industrial weapon Mom calls a grill), but the way she glances at me—like she’s daring me?

Yeah, no chance I’m sitting this out. I slam my beer down, stand up, and try to look like a guy who knows what “medium rare” means. “Screw it. I’m in!”

Now everyone’s piling on—Bennett’s googling some five-star recipe he’ll butcher, Boone and Heath are arguing about the best seasoning (“Salt is a seasoning, you idiot!”), and even Gage, who once set a microwave burrito on fire, is acting like he’s about to headline on The Food Network.

Virgil stops pretending to clean and is just straight-up gawking. Mom’s rolling her eyes and slapping down ingredients like she wants to see us all fail equally. This is Sorrowville: heavy snow outside, total madness inside, and somehow, I’m about to risk third-degree burns for a shot at making Joely laugh.

I shoulder in between Boone and Gage, catching a face full of smoke and whatever mystery spice Shep just dumped onto his patty. The whole bar’s circled up, like we’re about to drop the puck, only tonight it’s spatulas and trash talk.

“Hey, Brogan!” Shep yells, holding up a bottle of ghost pepper sauce like it’s a trophy. “Dare you to taste test this.”

I eye the label—skull and crossbones. “I’d rather lick a goalie’s jockstrap, thanks.”

He cackles, nearly choking himself on the fumes as he slaps his burger down, sauce spraying everywhere. “That’s the spirit! Who needs taste buds anyway?”

Boone’s hunched over his grill, laser-focused, dropping cheese slices with surgical precision. “It’s all about ratio, people. Layers. Respect the dairy.”

Bennett leans in, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not making lasagna, Wolfgang Puck.”

Boone shrugs, totally undeterred. “Jealousy isn’t a seasoning, brother.”

On the far end, Gage is stacking onions, pickles, jalapenos—his burger’s so high I can see it sweating. Heath wobbles next to him, steadying his own teetering monstrosity. “Ten bucks mine stands taller,” Heath bets.

Gage snorts, slapping on another bun for height. “I’ll see your ten, and raise you one time cleaning out my locker.”

Virgil saunters by, pretending to judge. “These all FDA-approved, or should I just have 911 on speed dial?”

“Only thing dying tonight is my dignity,” I mutter, flipping my patty with a confidence I don’t actually feel.

Joely’s making the rounds, grinning at the carnage. She stops behind me, eyebrow cocked. “Smells like burnt pride over here, Brogan. You planning on feeding someone or just incinerating the flattop?”

I shoot her a crooked grin. “Just waiting for your expert opinion. Want the first bite, or do you want to see if Shep survives his own chemical warfare?”

She shakes her head, but her smile’s warm. “I’ll risk a Brogan burger over Shep’s fireball any day.”

The crowd’s wound tighter than a slapshot spring, half the bar chanting, “Flip! Flip! Flip!” every time someone screws up. Boone tries to flip his cheese monolith and—bam!—it explodes on impact, molten cheddar spraying like confetti. People dive for cover, napkins in the air, a couple regulars howling like it’s Slammer playoff time.

My mom, the only adult in a building full of grown toddlers, comes tearing through with a tray of buns, her death glare leveled right at Shep. “If one of you stains my walls, you’re scrubbing the fryer with your toothbrush. And you know where I keep the bleach.”

Shep’s already sweating through his shirt, waving his spatula like a magic wand. “Beth! How spicy you want it, Mamacita? One taste and you’ll need a fire extinguisher for your tongue!”

She gives his charred, dripping monster-burger a once over and just shakes her head, deadpan. “If that burger was a man, he’d be ghosted on every dating app in Minnesota.”

Meanwhile, the whole place is vibrating with the kind of giddy, live-wire energy that only happens when someone like JoJo offers a kiss as the grand prize and pretends she’s being impartial.

Joely makes the rounds with a golden spatula in hand, her fake-serious “food critic” face on, playing up the drama for the phones out and snapping photos. “Heath, what are you calling this? The Leaning Tower of Avo-tragedy?” She scoops off a slice, gags, and manages a diplomatic, “Well, it’s…innovative.” The crowd snickers.

Gage hands over a burger that looks more like a Jenga set mid-collapse. “Be gentle. She’s fragile,” he pleads. Joely takes a bite, the toppings avalanche onto the floor. “Points for creativity,” she deadpans, giving him a consolatory pat.

Then Shep, the reigning chaos goblin, slides his burger across with a wink so big the whole room could see it. “Careful, Joely. This one’s got a surprise inside. Kind of like my pants.”

She takes a dramatic sniff, takes a bite, and for a second, it looks like she’s about to ascend to another plane. “Shep… what is this?!”

He shrugs, cocky. “It’s called ‘Blowtorch Romance.’ Secret sauce. Also, possibly a lawsuit.”

The crowd loses it—half-cheering, half-mocking, everyone ribbing Joely to “kiss the chef!” She just fans her mouth, reaching for a beer, eyes watering but laughing.

She bites into Boone’s cheese tower, squints, and deadpans, “Next time, try meat.”

Bennett’s is respectable, but he’s too busy scowling at me to notice Joely’s trying to enjoy it. “Just eat the damn burger,” he grunts. Joely tries not to laugh, gives him a polite golf clap, and moves on.

Then—finally—she turns to mine. My heart’s slamming like I just missed an open net. She lifts it, inspects it, gives me this sideways grin that’s all nerves and something sweeter. “Well, Foster, let’s see if you cook as good as you chirp.”

She takes a bite, slow and deliberate, and for a second it’s like time itself stutters. The bar, the noise, every dumb joke and every shout—it all hushes, every eye locked on Joely, but her gaze is only on me. She chews, licks her lips, and then it happens —her eyes catch mine, wide and searching, like she’s trying to decide if this is bravery or insanity.

Shep, forever the ringleader, shoves the mic under her chin. “Well?”

Joely swallows, and for a heartbeat, she doesn’t answer. Just stands there, pink-cheeked, the tension between us stretched so tight I think something in me might snap. Finally, she lifts the mic, but her eyes never leave mine. “We have a winner,” she says, her voice steady. Her hands are shaking, and it hits me—this isn’t just nerves. She feels it, too. And suddenly, I’m even more wrecked.

The bar detonates—cheers, howls, the slap of hands on backs, and the unmistakable chant: “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” It’s a storm, a blur, but Joely doesn’t move right away. For one long, heart-stopping moment, we’re suspended there, the world split wide open between us.

Then, almost shy, Joely steps in—close enough I can count the freckles on her cheeks, close enough I swear I can hear her heart racing. She hesitates, her breath a soft cloud in the heat between us, and then she tips up onto her toes, hands finding my arms for balance.

And when she kisses me? It’s not the staged, quick little peck the crowd expects. Her lips find mine, soft but unsteady, a question and a confession rolled into one. It’s tentative at first—nervous, sweet, the kind of kiss you never get back. But then, just as my heart goes sideways, she presses in harder, and something inside me caves. My hands are already at her waist, fingers digging in, anchoring myself to the only thing that feels real in this whole damn circus.

The world evaporates. It’s just the heat of her mouth, the shaky breath she lets out against my lips, the way she tastes a little like nerves and a lot like forever. Everything in me wants to pour every unspoken word into that kiss— don’t let go, don’t leave, don’t be scared, not of me.

She pulls away first, just a fraction, just enough that I can feel her smile against my lips. Her eyes meet mine—shining, scared, and braver than I’ve ever seen her. The crowd roars, the spell snaps, but my arms stay around her, just for a second longer, like I’m afraid she might disappear if I let go.

Shep’s wailing like he just won the lottery. Bennett’s chirping something about “favoritism.” Joely steps back, her face burning, her fingers still lingering at my wrists. She laughs, breathless and a little wild, and for the first time in a long time, I feel something crack open inside me—a possibility, a hope, a hell of a lot more than just a burger contest.

All around us, the bar is chaos. But in my chest? It’s quiet, and it’s hers.

I’m still standing there like a total idiot, fingers numb, lips tingling, the world spinning off its damn axis. Joely’s already disappeared into the crowd—busy, smiling, acting like she didn’t just light me up in front of half the town.

She ducks behind the bar, grabbing a tray of empties, moving so fast I can’t tell if she’s working or just running for cover. My chest is pounding. I try to play it cool, but every time I blink, I see that look in her eyes before she pulled away—like we both just realized something dangerous and there’s no going back.

The place is going wild, laughter and jeers and Boone yelling, “Get a room!” But it’s all noise—background fuzz to the only thing that matters: that kiss. It was supposed to be for laughs, a goof, something to give the regulars something to gossip about for the next month. Instead, it’s burned into me, sharp and bright, a line in the sand I didn’t even know I was about to cross. One taste and I know—I’m done for.

I catch glimpses of Joely through the chaos. She’s laughing too hard at Shep’s dumb victory dance, cheeks flaming, head thrown back, but every few seconds, her eyes dart my way. Quick, stolen glances that make my heart stutter. Yeah, she’s rattled, too. I can tell. I know her better than I know myself, and she’s not hiding it as well as she thinks.

Someone slaps my back—Gage, I think. “Don’t screw it up, Foster!” he yells, and the rest of the guys pile on. I fake a grin, shoulder-check him back, but inside, I’m a mess. What the hell do I do now?

I spot Mom near the end of the bar, deep in conversation with Virgil, probably plotting her next “improvement” for the place. I snake my way over, dodging a spilled drink and Shep shoving his phone in my face to get a selfie. “Smile, champ, you’re famous now!”

Mom clocks me instantly—one look and she’s got my number. “You look like you just found out you’re being traded.” She snaps a dishtowel at my arm, just missing my elbow.

I lean against the counter, trying to get my head straight. “Mom, you got a sec? I got… something going on.”

She eyes me, lips twitching. “If it’s about that kiss, you should probably take a cold shower, not talk to your mother.”

“Very funny,” I mutter, heat crawling up my neck. “It’s not that. Well… it’s not just that.”

She softens, more Mom than boss. “Spit it out, Brogan. You never had trouble talking before.”

I open my mouth—no words. Nothing feels safe or easy now. Not with my whole world tilting in Joely’s direction.

I look up, and there she is, laughing at the other end of the bar, the chaos swirling around her. All I know is, I want to be the reason she smiles like that every damn night. And I’m not sure what to think about that.

“Yeah,” I admit, raking a hand through my hair like that’ll help. “I need a date for the Slammer’s holiday party. Something… uncomplicated.”

I tell myself it’s just about the party, but the truth is, I just want an excuse to be near Joely again. Like that’s ever been uncomplicated.

Mom snorts, her laugh sharp as she slaps a rag down on the bar. “Uncomplicated? In Sorrowville? Good luck. You might as well ask for a unicorn burger.”

I grumble, glancing past her to where Joely’s cracking up with Virgil at the other end. “What about Joely?”

Mom follows my gaze, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to grin. “Joely, huh? What happened? You finally deleted your puck bunny contacts? What about Lucinda?”

I groan. “Seriously? You know about that?”

She waves me off. “Boone’s got a bigger mouth than the Mississippi, kid. But you—asking Joely? You sure about that, Brogan? She’s family around here. You want weird, ‘cause that’s how you get weird.”

I swallow, the ghost of that kiss burning a hole in my memory. “Yeah, about that…” I mumble, not trusting myself to say more.

Mom leans in, her voice dropping low, sly as ever. “You playing it safe, or is there something real happening with you two?”

I flick another look at Joely, just in time to see her tuck a wild strand of dark hair behind her ear and shoot me a smile that hits like a sucker punch. “I don’t know, Mom. It’s… complicated.”

I can’t help it—I get stuck, just looking at her. The way the overhead lights turn her hair almost copper at the ends, wild waves tumbling over the thick, rust-colored sweater she always swears is her “armor.” Her skin is all sun-kissed and freckled, a million tiny constellations scattered across her nose and cheeks, and her eyes—big, brown, steady—have this way of cutting through the noise in my head.

Even behind the bar, surrounded by bottles and chatter and old neon, Joely’s the one who feels like home. She’s got that look right now—half challenge, half soft, like she knows every secret I’ve never said out loud and loves me anyway.

My mom rolls her eyes, back to boss mode. “You need a plus-one for the party, bar’s closed, and Joely’s the safest bet you’ll get that doesn’t end in an Instagram scandal. Go for your slightly complicated version of uncomplicated. But make sure she knows it’s just friends if that’s what you’re telling me. This town doesn’t need more drama. And neither do I.”

With a resigned sigh, I push off from the bar and head towards the back where Joely’s checking inventory, her back to me as she counts bottles.

“Hey, Joely,” I call out softly, not wanting to startle her.

She turns, a surprised look crossing her features. “Brogan. Did you need something?”

Here goes nothing. “You. Uh—sorry, not like—you. I mean, I need a date. Not like a date date. Just, you know… for the Slammer’s party. Since Mom’s closing up, and you’d be free…”

Joely’s expression shifts, a hint of something unreadable passing through her eyes. “I am free,” she says slowly. “Are you asking me to go with you?”

“Yeah, as friends. Just to be clear,” I add hastily.

“Sure,” she replies, though her voice is tinged with something I can’t quite place. Relief? Disappointment?

I try to read her expression, but she’s turned back to her inventory. “Thanks, JoJo. I appreciate it.”

She nods, her focus still on the bottles in front of her. “So it’s not like a real date or anything.”

“Right,” I agree, feeling an odd twinge in my gut. This is what I wanted, right? Just friends. But even as I say it, the words catch, leaving me with this weird ache—like maybe ‘just friends’ was never enough, even if I’m only just starting to admit it.

As I turn to leave, Joely calls out, her voice softer, “Brogan?”

I pause, looking back.

“Don’t go ghosting on me.”

Her words hang between us, heavy and charged with something like hope. It’s my turn to find the right thing to say, but my tongue is tangled up with the pounding in my chest and the realization that maybe, just maybe, I want more than I’m willing to admit—even to myself.