Page 19

Joely

If you drive Main Street at dusk, you’ll see it: the yellow neon bleeding through fogged-up windows at Power Play, laughter curling out into the cold, and every heart waiting for the next home game to bring our boys—and our hopes—back. Tonight, the talk’s all about Brogan Foster coming home after a five-game stretch, and if the wind carries right, you can hear the bets about how fast Joely Parnell will drop everything to be the first in his arms. Around here, we may not believe in miracles, but we sure as hell believe in hockey reunions, bonfires, and loving hard enough to warm you straight through winter.

Playlist: Home by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros

I’ve been drying the same damn pint glass for three full minutes. Mostly because I forgot I was holding it. And also because my phone is sitting on the bar like a loaded weapon.

A very well-endowed weapon. Courtesy of Brogan Foster—who’s been on the road for five games straight and is finally, finally headed home today.

The latest text from him just vibrated its way into my bloodstream.

Bro: I can’t wait to get you alone.

And my body responds like Pavlov’s golden retriever in a lightning storm. I toss the bar towel over my shoulder, trying not to look unhinged. Failing spectacularly.

The Slammers limped their way through the road stand—one ugly win, two heartbreak losses, and a couple of games where they barely looked like a team at all. Brogan’s name didn’t light up the box scores, but I watched every minute anyway. He’s been a little sharper—skating harder, making smarter passes, even notching an assist in the third game—but he’s still not himself. Not the Brogan who can turn a power play into poetry, or set the pace for the whole team. It’s better, but not enough. Not yet. And I know it’s eating him alive.

The regulars are nursing their usuals. The old jukebox is spinning some alt-country heartbreak, and Beth is in the back organizing inventory, which means the only witness to my slow descent into Brogan-induced madness is Lynsie. And unfortunately, she knows everything .

She leans against the pass-through window with a knowing smirk and a cherry stem between her teeth. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m warm.”

“It’s fifteen degrees outside and the draft beer cooler is blowing on your knees. Try again.”

I huff and snatch my phone, tapping out a reply with fingers that are absolutely not shaking.

Me: How’s that gonna work?

Bro: The guys will wanna party at Power Play after the game. Come over after work.

Me: Solid plan. See you soon.

God help me.

The seconds start crawling. I check the clock every five minutes like a lovesick teenager. Beth catches me pacing behind the bar and tosses me a look that says, You’re not being subtle. Then she mumbles something about “young love” and “might have to fumigate the supply closet” and disappears into the office.

By the time I’m finally clocking out, I’m flustered, undershowered, underwaxed, underlingeried, and entirely too worked up for someone who’s trying to pretend this isn’t the real deal.

Because it is. It is .

And now I’m driving through a flurry of snow, clutching the steering wheel with white knuckles, my body practically humming. This thing with Brogan? It’s been a slow burn for years, but it’s not slow anymore. It’s an inferno I walked into willingly—and tonight, I’m not leaving the fire. Five days away from him after becoming intimate was just too damn long.

I park in front of his place and catch sight of myself in the rearview mirror. My hair is a mess, my mascara’s on its own journey, and my heart’s beating out a Billie Eilish bridge. Do I look like I missed him enough? Do I look desperate? Is it desperate if it’s been five days and I want to crawl inside his hoodie and live there forever? I fluff my hair, pinch my cheeks, wipe my palms on my jeans—none of it helps. Whatever. He’s seen me worse. But never this wrecked. Never this hopeful.

There’s a flicker of firelight visible in the backyard.

Of course there is.

Brogan Foster doesn’t just light a fire —he is one.

And tonight, I’m stepping right into the flame.

The second I step into the backyard, the cold slaps me in the face like a jealous ex.

But then I see him.

Brogan’s standing next to the fire pit, hoodie pushed up to his elbows, baseball cap turned backwards, face lit by the flickering flames like he’s the damn cover model of Lumberjack Lust or something.

He turns, spots me—and his grin hits me straight in the ovaries. And in my panties

I don’t even bother pretending I’m going to play it cool.

“JoJo,” he says, but I barely hear it before I’m moving—running, really—straight at him.

He drops his drink just in time for me to launch myself at his chest, legs wrapping around his waist, arms around his neck like I’m his own personal koala. He laughs, grabs me tight, and spins me in a circle, nearly knocking both of us into the snow.

“God, I missed you,” he says, voice muffled in my hair, hands everywhere. “You trying to kill me with cuteness or just marking your territory?”

I nuzzle his neck, grinning like an idiot. “Both. But mostly the second one.” He squeezes tighter, just enough to make me squeal, and I blurt, “If you drop me in the snow, I’m not putting out until spring.” It comes out loud and shameless, but he just laughs, and for a second, everything is easy again.

He kisses me stupid, his mouth hungry and smiling at the same time.

“I’d say ‘hey,’ but that doesn’t seem to cover it,” I say, breathless.

He grins, tugging me even closer. “Glad to be home, JoJo.” His tone is low and easy like we didn’t spend the last three days sexting like our cell plans were sponsored by Pornhub.

“Welcome home,” I breathe, wrapping my arms tighter around him.

“Fire’s warm.” He nods toward it, but his eyes are all over me. “You look cold.”

I finally slide down his body until I’m on my feet again. “I’m not cold.”

“Liar.” He shrugs off his hoodie and tosses it over my shoulders like he’s been doing it his whole life.

Which… he has.

But it’s different now. It’s become everything.

I slide my arms into it, swallowing the warmth and his scent all at once. “Thanks.”

His voice drops. “Anytime.”

I bury my nose in the collar for a second, breathing him in. If you could bottle this scent, I’d never need therapy again. We stand there for a minute, just watching the flames crackle, like we’re not both buzzing with every unsaid thing.

Then his fingers brush mine, slow and sure, and he doesn’t let go. “I missed you.”

“You were gone for five days.”

“That’s basically a year in hockey time.”

I laugh, but there’s a lump in my throat. Because I missed him, too. More than I should. More than I thought possible.

“I brought cocoa,” he adds. “The real stuff. None of that watery mix shit.”

“Oh my God,” I gasp. “Are you trying to seduce me with premium hot beverages?”

He lifts a brow. “Is it working?”

“Disturbingly well.”

We take our mugs and settle into the Adirondack chairs by the fire, legs stretched out toward the flames. His is laced with whiskey. Mine is laced with… Brogan. And it’s stronger than any liquor.

He bumps his knee against mine. “Feels like we’re on a date.”

I glance at him, teasing. “Is that what this is?”

He gives a lazy shrug. “You’re here. I’m here. There’s fire, alcohol, and sexual tension. It checks the boxes.”

I sip slowly. “You forgot s’mores.”

“Oh shit. I did.” He grins. “Guess you’ll have to come back for a real official date. One that gets announced to the Slammer-verse.”

There’s a spark in his eyes—one that says he’s only half joking. And the way my heart stumbles? I’m not joking at all.

This feels real.

I’m halfway through my cocoa when he reaches over and brushes something off my lip.

“You had…” Brogan’s voice dips low as his thumb swipes the corner of my mouth, “a little marshmallow fluff.”

I swallow, hard. “Thanks.”

His hand lingers. Just enough to short-circuit my brain.

“You’re kinda pretty, Foster,” I whisper.

He smirks. “Kinda?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Oh, it’s way too late for that.”

I lean forward, setting my mug on the ground, because I need both hands free. “What’d you want to show me, anyway? You said there was something…”

He doesn’t answer, instead, he stands and offers me his hand. God help me, I take it. He leads me a few yards past the old shed with the rusted door and the pine tree with the crooked star still zip-tied to the top from Christmas. Back yards in Sorrowville aren’t that big, but this one’s about a half-acre.

Christmas already feels like it happened in another universe, but the ache still lingers. The Fosters went down to the Cities for the big family bash, and I spent the holiday with Lynsie’s crew—matching pajamas, way too much eggnog, and her mom insisting I’m basically their extra daughter now. Brogan and I exchanged tiny, dumb presents—he got me a bird feeder shaped like a hockey puck, I gave him a hand-carved driftwood ornament. Nothing fancy. But every time I see it on his keychain, I remember what it’s like to be chosen, even when you’re not part of someone’s family tree.

He stops and flips on a motion light. And there it is. A backyard obstacle course made entirely for squirrels.

“You did this?” I ask, blinking at the tiny wooden bridges, PVC pipe tunnels, and what looks like a sunflower seed zipline.

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Had some time during the lockout. It started with one bird feeder. Then it turned into a battle of wills.”

“And the squirrels won?”

“They always do. But now, I make them work for it.”

I laugh, genuinely, the sound spilling out of me like it hasn’t in days. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re beautiful,” he counters.

And just like that, the air shifts.

He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, even in the January chill.

“This okay?” he asks, voice rough.

I nod, because words aren’t working.

His lips brush mine. Once. Soft. Testing.

Then again, deeper this time.

My arms loop around his neck like they’ve been waiting to do it forever. Or maybe for five long days. It’s a ‘welcome home I missed you so much kiss.’

I feel him breathe my name.

“WOOOOOO!”

We jump like we’ve been tasered.

Brogan pulls back with a groan. “No. Fuck no. Not again. I cannot… I will not…”

“Is that—”

“Hey, Joely!” Shep’s voice carries like a freaking megaphone. “Looking like a snow bunny. Did you miss me? Come get some sugar, girl!”

Brogan turns, jaw clenched. “Respectfully… I will knock you—”

Shep raises both hands. “Easy, BroFetti. Don’t say something you’ll regret.”

“Whatever,” he growls, dragging a hand down his face. “One day, I’m gonna wrap him in duct tape and throw him in a snowbank.”

And honestly?

Same. I love Shep like a brother, but he’s constantly showing up like a bad penny wherever he’s not invited.

“We should’ve gone to your place,” Brogan mutters beside me, deadpan, as Shep gallops across the yard like he’s starring in a Mentos commercial.

“Too late now,” I say, squeezing his hand before he can Hulk-smash his way into a misdemeanor.

Bennett and Heath stroll in behind Shep like the goddamn Three Stooges have arrived to ruin date night.

“Well, look who already made a bonfire,” Bennett says with a slow clap. “Finally did something useful.”

Brogan just stares at him, expression flat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Heath shrugs. “I think it was a jab at your time on ice.”

“Subtle.”

Bennett slaps Brogan on the shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard, little bro. We’re just here to admire your fire. And cock block you back into emotional growth.”

“Can I not have one night?” Brogan groans. “You three were supposed to be at the Power Play.”

“I have to buy beers there,” Shep chimes in, plopping onto a lawn chair like he’s settling in for the night.

I lean over to whisper, “Are they always like this after a road trip?”

Brogan huffs a laugh. “This is them on their best behavior.”

Shep tips back his cocoa and nods toward me. “That kiss earlier? Solid form. I’d give it a nine. Point five deduction for the interruption.”

“I swear to God, Shep—”

Bennett suddenly appears at my side, smirking like an opossum who just discovered an unattended snack tray. “So, Joely…what exactly are your intentions with our boy here?”

I blink. “My intentions?”

Heath leans on the back of the chair with a shit-eating grin. “He’s sensitive, you know. Plays tough but he listens to Taylor Swift in the locker room.”

“I do not,” Brogan says immediately. “One time. I said one time.”

“You mouthed every word,” Bennett adds. “With feeling.”

I look at Brogan. “Which album?”

“Don’t answer that,” he quips, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Folklore,” Shep coughs.

“Respect,” I say, biting back a grin.

Brogan looks skyward like he’s praying for a sinkhole to open beneath us. Then he mumbles something about needing to “go hide some damn coasters” and stalks off like a man on a mission. He’s been twitchy ever since Bennett threatened to toss another box into the flames like a sacrificial offering to the Hockey Gods.

I turn to Bennett, who’s now staring at the fire with the intense focus of someone trying to solve the mysteries of the universe—or at least which kindling will burn fastest.

“Why do you mess with him like that?” I ask, nodding in the direction Brogan disappeared.

Bennett doesn’t look away from the flames. “Why don’t you tell him you designed the coasters?”

Um. Nope. Not falling into that trap.

“Tell you what,” I say sweetly. “You go first. Tell him you love him and you’re proud of him and you cry watching those Subaru commercials. Then I’ll go next.”

“I’m on your side,” he says with a shrug. “And his side. I mean… if I cared enough to take a side.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t you ever get tired of pretending to be an asshole?”

“Who’s pretending?”

I raise a brow. He cracks the tiniest smile.

“If you tell him I love him and care about his happiness,” Bennett says, taking another sip of his bourbon cocoa, “I’ll deny it until the day I die.”

“You do, though. I see it.”

Bennett glances sideways at me. “You do, too. That’s why I like you. Brogan needs a wakeup call. Just… wake him up faster.”

“I’m trying.”

“I am, too.” He lifts his mug toward me. “Your method is probably more effective. After all, you’ve got boobs.” He pauses, eyes flicking over my shoulder. “And dat ass.”

Before I can respond with the full snark he deserves, Brogan reappears.

“Ben, you may be bigger than me, but—”

“But what?” Bennett says, spinning around like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. “Since when do you care what I say to Joely? Is there something… I should know?”

Brogan stiffens. “Nope. Just… be respectful. Your number one considers her family.”

That hits me right in the chest.

Family.

Before I can spiral into that special flavor of emotional damage, Bennett smirks and tilts his head. “And what does my little brother think? And no, I don’t mean Boone.”

Brogan doesn’t answer. Instead, he drops down beside me on the log bench, close enough that our shoulders touch.

Gage calls out from the back porch, “We doing s’mores or what?”

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. “Now that’s the Joely I know.”

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