Page 17

Joely

Karaoke nights at Power Play are somewhat like must see TV. The regulars come early to stake out their seats, the Slammers show up with enough ego to drown out the sound system, and even the fryers seem to run hotter, like they know something special’s about to go down. Secrets don’t last long, not with Beth behind the bar and Virgil eavesdropping from his corner booth. If two people start making eyes at each other, half the town’s already betting on how long it’ll take before they’re caught sneaking off to the supply closet. Again. On a night like this, hope hangs in the air right alongside the smell of burnt mozzarella sticks and spilled whiskey—and everybody’s waiting to see who’ll finally be brave.

Playlist: Brave by Sara Bareilles

The bar is quiet when I walk in, pre-shift. But I know that won’t last long. Beth’s prepping the fryers, humming something suspiciously like Cherry Pie under her breath. I slide behind the counter, already trying to look natural, like I didn’t just have life-altering supply closet sex with her son less than twenty-four hours ago.

I’m dating Brogan Foster. Secretly. Kind of. Sort of. Maybe?

When Brogan strolls in ten minutes later, I drink him in. Freshly-showered. Baseball cap low. That smug little I know what I did to you and we should totally do it again grin on his face.

He doesn’t say a word. Just taps the bar twice in greeting and sits down, eyes locked on me like I’m a three-course meal and he’s been starving for weeks.

I hand him a Coke like it’s no big deal, but my fingers brush his and something tightens in my chest.

He leans forward, elbows on the bar, rubbing the edge of a coaster with his thumb. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, of course.” I grab a glass to polish, anything to keep my hands busy.

His gaze is dark, locked on the liquor shelf. “You ever get scared you’re about to lose the one thing that makes you… you?”

That stops me. “All the time.”

He laughs, but it’s brittle. “Feels like every day, I’m just waiting for the other skate to drop. Like, if I mess up even once, I’m done. Out. No second chances.”

I want to reach for him, but the bar is full now, and Brogan Foster hates looking weak. So I keep it light. “Well, you could always become a bartender. I’ll teach you how to clean a beer tap. It’s almost as fun as a penalty kill.”

That gets a small, crooked smile. “Yeah, right. Only job I’m qualified for is feeding squirrels and making up bad chirps.”

I try to joke, but I see the fear in his eyes, and my chest aches. “Hey, you’re not done yet. You’re just… in overtime.”

He huffs out a laugh, but his shoulders are tight. “Hope overtime lasts a few more seasons.”

I wish I could tell him it will. That he’s unstoppable. But I just pour him a fresh Coke and slide it across, wishing he’d see what everyone else sees—the guy who’s still in the fight, even when he’s scared.

He laughs, and it’s like the sun coming out in winter. But that cold pit in my stomach doesn’t go away. If Brogan Foster is done with his dream, someone has to believe in it enough for both of us. And unfortunately for my rapidly deteriorating emotional health? That someone is me.

That means, Lynsie and I have to institute karaoke Plan B.

By the time the regulars shuffle in and the scent of fryer oil and beer settle over the place like a weighted blanket, I’ve got my customer service mask on and my Brogan panic stuffed somewhere under the bar, right next to the backup ketchup.

Since it’s karaoke night, the mic will be hijacked by a rotating cast of tone-deaf hopefuls and off-duty Slammers looking to embarrass each other in public. The front door opens and chaos incarnate blows in: Shep, Gage, Heath, and Boone, and a grimacing Bennett, fresh off God knows what and already arguing about song selection.

I wave a bar towel over my shoulder like a white flag and brace for impact.

“We’re doing a group number,” Shep announces like this is Broadway and not a bar with sticky floors and a karaoke machine older than God.

“Absolutely not,” Boone grumbles, sliding onto a stool. “I’m not singing Barbie Girl again.”

“That was one time,” Gage points out. “And you nailed Ken’s existential dread.”

Heath slaps a laminated song list on the bar. “What about I Saw the Sign ?”

That gets a round of nods.

“We change the words,” Shep says, tapping his temple. “Make it about Brogan.”

I stop mid-pour. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” Gage grins. “You know… I saw the sign, and it opened up my eyes, I saw the Bro… he’s quitting hockey, it’s a crime… ”

Boone snorts. “Honestly? Banger.”

I glance across the bar. Brogan’s sitting with Bennett, half-listening, but his gaze keeps flicking toward me. Like I’m some puzzle he’s still trying to figure out.

And maybe he is.

Maybe I’m a Rubik’s Cube—one wrong turn and he gives up.

The guys make their way toward the little stage, cackling as they argue about harmony versus comedic timing. I wipe down the counter, trying to focus, but my eyes keep drifting to Brogan.

He’s laughing now, leaning back like he doesn’t have the weight of his future pressing down on his chest. Like the ice isn’t eating away at his confidence, one shitty game at a time.

But I see it. The edge in his smile. The flicker of something dark in his eyes when he thinks no one’s watching.

Only, I always am.

The opening chords of I Saw the Sign blare through the speakers, all twangy and tinny like they were ripped off a bootleg cassette tape. Gage, Boone, Shep, and Heath stand shoulder to shoulder on stage, looking like a boy band rejected by their own mothers. Shep’s got the mic. Of course he does.

“I saw the sign,” he belts, totally off-key but owning it with pure Shep confidence. “And it opened up my eyes, I saw the Bro… Fetti.”

The others chime in.

“He’s skating like he’s ninety-five, he needs to goooo!”

The crowd loses it. Brogan buries his face in his hands at the corner table while Bennett pounds his back like he’s choking.

They hit the next line with boy-band precision:

“He used to shoot, he used to score, now we’re not even sure he knows where the puck is anymore!”

Beth cackles behind the bar.

Virgil, wiping down a table nearby, just mutters, “Jesus wept,” and walks away.

Lynsie slides in next to me like she’s been summoned by chaos. She’s carrying a half-finished vodka cran and an expression that says your friends are my problem now.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

I realize I’m frozen. Half-wiped glass in one hand, bar towel in the other. “Huh?”

“You stopped moving. Are you still breathing? Do I need to Heimlich the feelings out of you?”

“Shh.”

“Don’t shh me, you’re scaring me. I know that face. That’s the face you made before the water tower. That’s the face of bad decisions with good lighting. ”

“I’m derailed,” I say, voice low. “Thanks to you and your lack of vision on vertical vandalism.”

Lynsie deadpans. “So now what? Full crimes? Bribery? I’ve got bail money in quarters.”

I grin and lean in. “I have a new plan. That song inspired me.”

“No. I’m out. Not in. Not emotionally, not physically, not spiritually. I’ll call you from Mexico.”

“Lyns.”

“Ugh, what?”

“Hey, Shep!” I shout toward the stage.

Shep—still in his groove—freezes midsentence. “Uh-oh.”

Lynsie practically tackles me behind the counter. “I’ll help a little,” she mutters. “I’ll wear gloves. No fingerprints. And a mask.”

“That’s the spirit.”

She sighs. “I swear, if this ends with me climbing anything taller than a step stool, I’m blaming love and poor judgment.”

The song ends in a finale that includes some very questionable choreography and a jazz hands flourish. Maybe a high kick. Either that or Shep just needed to adjust his junk. Brogan groans, but he’s smiling. And it hits me like a truck on ice: he needs this.

He needs all of it—people who believe in him. A community that won’t let him fall. And maybe...someone who’ll paint the damn town to remind him he still matters.

The crowd’s still laughing and cheering when the guys come off stage, slapping high fives. Brogan shakes his head, but he’s grinning, all pink in the cheeks and slightly stunned, like someone who got roasted by the people who love him most.

He catches my eye from across the bar. And yeah, my stomach flips like it’s trying out for the Olympics.

I duck back behind the counter to grab a new rag, hoping he didn’t see that heat flash across my face.

Lynsie doesn’t miss a thing. “You good?”

“Define good,” I say, aggressively wiping down a table that’s already clean.

“You’re scrubbing that tabletop like it insulted your mother.”

“It might have. Can’t trust furniture.”

She leans on the edge of the bar, her eyes softening. “You saw it, didn’t you? The way he looked at you?”

I hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. And I felt it. Every damn molecule of it.”

And it’s a lot. It’s not just a crush anymore, not just teenage longing stuck on repeat. This is deeper. Wilder. Terrifying.

Because I can see it so clearly now—he’s scared. About hockey. About what comes next. He talks about the future like it’s this distant thing that might never come. Like he’s bracing for the moment when the lights go out and the cheering stops.

“He’s not quitting,” I say, more to myself than to her. “Not on my watch.”

“Oh boy,” Lynsie mutters, “I know that voice. You’re about to go full rom-com grand gesture, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I glance at the karaoke sign-up sheet. “Is it possible to dedicate a song and also make someone cry in a good way?”

“Not if it’s ‘I Touch Myself.’”

I laugh. “No, something better. Something that says I believe in you. I always have.”

She blinks. “Okay, you’re serious.”

“I need him to know this dream still matters. That he still matters. Even if the stats don’t say it. Even if Britt’s nervous and Franklin’s annoyed and Bennett’s being... Bennett.”

“God help us.”

“Look, he needs someone who won’t bail when things get hard. Who sees the version of him that he forgot to remember.”

Lynsie sighs. “You’re going to do something reckless, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

She drains the last of her drink. “Fine. But if this ends in more property damage, I swear I’m getting my own lawyer.”

“Deal.”

I glance at Brogan again. His teammates are chirping him, but his eyes are still on me.

And my heart? It’s not just racing—it’s all in.

I wipe my palms on my jeans for the third time and glance back at Lynsie like I might change my mind. She arches a brow like don’t even think about it, then points at the karaoke machine like she’s about to launch me off an aircraft carrier.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I mutter.

“You graffitied a rock and a water tower. This is tame.”

“This is public!”

“So was the water tower.”

“Touché.”

Beth’s working the bar like a machine, flinging drinks like some kind of cocktail ninja. She catches my eye, smirks, and says, “I saw the sign-up. This better be good.”

“No pressure.”

“Just don’t break anyone’s ears.”

I turn back toward the stage and the mic, which now feels suspiciously like a live grenade. But then I spot him—Brogan—laughing at something Shep said, his smile boyish and open in a way I don’t get to see nearly enough. The corners of his mouth still curve, but his eyes shift to mine.

And boom.

That tether between us snaps taut again.

I step up onstage and take the mic. “Okay,” I say, trying not to sound like my voice is shaking. “This one’s for the guy who might not know it, but he’s still got people in his corner. Always.”

The music starts.

It’s not Ace of Base. It’s not a joke.

It’s Sara Bareilles. Brave.

The first line’s out before I realize I’m singing. And then I don’t stop.

I don’t look at the crowd—I look at him. Every word is for him. Every breath, every high note, every tremble in my voice. I mean it.

I want him to be brave.

I want him to chase the dream like there’s nothing holding him back.

I want him to know that someone sees him—on the ice, off the ice, in the quiet moments where he doubts himself most—and still believes he’s a damn star.

I hit the final note with a little too much vibrato and step off the stage to stunned silence… and then a slow, rising cheer.

Lynsie’s clapping. Virgil’s hooting. Even Bennett gives me a look like, not bad, grasshopper.

Brogan?

He’s just staring at me.

Hard.

I pass the mic off and head straight for the back of the bar, my pulse thundering in my ears.

Two seconds later, he’s there.

Joely + Brogan. In a dim corner. Of the bar. Again.

“I didn’t know you could sing like that,” he says, voice rough.

I shrug, trying not to combust. “I had something to say.”

“You said it.”

We stare at each other.

Then he whispers, “I heard every word. Supply closet in five. I want to get my face wet. Between your legs.”

Slipping back behind the bar, I down a glass of Diet Coke. I suddenly care about paper products more than I care about oxygen. Beth raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say a word, and I mumble something about restocking the back as I grab a full sleeve of cocktail napkins and duck into the hallway.

I wait. One beat. Two. I almost lose my nerve—until I hear the scrape of a barstool, Brogan’s voice cutting through the laughter, “Gonna hit the head.” Smooth. Real subtle.

My heart’s pounding so hard I’m sure half the regulars can hear it. I slip into the supply closet, the scent of lemon cleaner and cardboard boxes washing over me as I press my back to the door and count out loud to ten, just to keep my hands from shaking.

The door opens, slow and careful, and there he is—Brogan, closing it behind him, eyes dark and hungry, a crooked, knowing smile pulling at his mouth.

He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t have to.

The second the door clicks shut, Brogan’s on me—one big, warm hand sliding up my side, the other already dipping below my waistband. My breath stutters. I brace myself against the shelves, biting back a gasp as he presses his forehead to mine, eyes wild and intent.

“You want this?” he whispers, lips brushing my cheek, breath warm. He’s already kneeling, hands at my hips, looking up at me like I’m the answer to every prayer he never thought to say out loud.

I nod, words gone. “God, yes.”

He grins—cocky, wicked, all Brogan. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve been dying to taste you all night, JoJo. Gonna be brave right now.”

He unbuttons my jeans, slow but sure, tugging them and my panties down just enough. The cold air bites, but then his mouth is on me, and I don’t feel anything but heat. Tongue, lips, all of him—hungry, greedy, so damn sure now.

“Fuck, you’re wet for me. I love it. You know that?” He licks a slow stripe, groaning against me. “You sing for me out there, but in here? You’re gonna sing for me again. Louder.”

My head thumps back against the shelf. I grab his hair, desperate, shameless, spreading my thighs as much as I can in the cramped closet with my pants only partway down. He slides one hand up under my shirt, stroking my hip, steadying me when my knees threaten to give.

He works me with his tongue—circling, flicking, sucking just right—every stroke more confident, more possessive. “That’s it, JoJo. Let them wonder. Let them hear. Nobody else gets this, yeah? Just me. Only me.”

I whimper, toes curling in my boots. He moans, like he’s the one losing control. “You taste so fucking good. I could do this all night.”

He pushes two fingers inside, finds my rhythm instantly, his thumb rubbing tight circles over my clit as his mouth returns to devour me.

“That’s it, sweetheart. I want to feel you come for me. Give it to me, babe. I need it. Need you.”

And I do—I break apart for him, shaking, his name caught in my throat, my hand clamped in his hair as he groans into me, licking me through every last wave.

“Sounded so fucking sweet on stage, JoJo. But I like you best when you’re falling apart for me.”

When I finally open my eyes, he’s grinning up at me, lips shining, eyes wicked. He presses a kiss to my thigh, then stands, hands gentle as he tugs my jeans back up and fixes my shirt, the softest touch after the roughest hunger.

He leans in, breathless, voice rough in my ear. “You ever sing like that for anyone else, JoJo, I swear I’ll drag you right back in here and remind you who you belong to.”

I laugh, shaky, flushed, and so stupidly happy I could melt.

And when we slip out of the closet, one by one, nobody says a word.

But I’m pretty sure everyone knows.

And just like that—I don’t regret a damn thing.