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Bennett’s the captain. Boone’s the glue.

And me? I’m the joke. The hype guy. The clown in the background trying to make everyone laugh while I’m quietly drowning.

Who the hell am I without this?

Without the jersey. Without the rink. Without living up to my old man and the brothers who made this town believe the name Foster meant something on the ice.

Without the one thing I’ve busted my ass for since I was old enough to lace my skates?

I scrub a hand over my mouth and slam my head back against the seat.

What if I’m nothing?

The engine’s grumbling under me, begging to be put in gear, but I sit there like an idiot—stuck in my own head. Finally, I throw it into drive and head toward Power Play, but every mile feels heavier than the last. Like I’m driving toward a future I don’t even recognize anymore.

Pulling up outside the family bar, the familiar neon glow of the Power Play sign flickers a weak welcome. I park in the back, where the shadows mingle with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses seeping out from the bar’s cracked windows. The cold bites at my cheeks as I lock the truck, the crisp air doing little to clear the fog in my head.

Inside, the warmth of the familiar space wraps around me. I slip inside the door, assuming my post as tonight’s bouncer, a much needed side hustle. Despite the lively buzz of the crowd and the clatter of a busy Friday night, my mind is elsewhere.

Franklin’s words replay in a loop, each iteration a reminder of my recent failings on the ice. I’ve been in a decline, no doubt, and standing here, scanning the room for trouble, I feel the weight of needing to find a way out. How to shake off the slump, I’m not yet sure, but as I watch the carefree faces around me, the resolve to do just that begins to take hold.

The noise is a palpable thing, buzzing with the communal energy of a town that comes alive at night. The bar is lit in a warm, inviting glow, contrasting sharply with the cool, crisp air outside that still clings to my skin. I make my way through the crowd, each step punctuated by greetings from regulars and the occasional pat on the back. It’s like navigating a family reunion—if your family consisted entirely of hockey fans and the occasional rowdy drunk.

Reaching the bar, I catch Joely’s eye, and she flashes me that familiar crooked grin—equal parts troublemaker and old friend. She’s always been a constant, even back when we used to trade slapshots and snowballs behind the school. “Hey, stranger,” I say, leaning against the bar like I’ve done a thousand times before, right here in this spot. “Think you could hook a guy up with a Coke? Or do I have to recite your favorite Power Rangers episode again?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a warmth behind it—like we’re both remembering all the backyard games, the summer nights, the way she always patched me up after every dumb dare I took. It’s easy, the kind of easy you only get after a lifetime of knowing someone’s best and worst.

Without missing a beat, Joely slides a soda across to me, her smile making me feel just a bit better. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” I take the drink, the cold glass a sharp relief against my warm palms. I notice the coaster—some generic promotional piece that’s all bright colors and cheap slogans. I slide it under my drink casually.

Joely inhales sharply, eyes narrowing slightly as she catches sight of the coaster. “Let me get you a different coaster,” she says, already reaching for a replacement.

Shaking my head, I try to wave her off. “It’s fine. I love your doodles.”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I shrug one shoulder, a non-committal gesture that’s become second nature. “Just in a bit of a funk. Contract negotiations soon. A few things on my mind. And it’s Monday Night Football. At least the Vikings aren’t playing on the big screen.” I try to laugh, but it comes out more like a sigh.

Joely gives me a long, assessing look, her expression softening. “You’ll knock them dead, Brogan. You always do.”

Her confidence is a balm, but tonight, it feels like she’s talking about someone else, not the guy who can’t seem to find his footing on the ice.

Just then, at the door, I spot a familiar yet incongruous figure—Shep’s little brother, Chance Sawyer. He’s a good kid, usually, but the last thing I need tonight is a minor to handle.

I straighten up as he approaches. “You’re not allowed in here unless you’re with your parents.”

Chance grins, holding out a state ID. “I know. I’m just bringing Shep his ID.”

Skeptically, I reach out to take it. “I’ll give it to him.”

“But I have to pass along a private message from home,” Chance insists, a serious note in his voice that’s usually reserved for his older brother.

“I can do that, too,” I offer, not in the mood to deal with teenage messengers.

Chance shakes his head stubbornly. “Personal. Private.”

I crane my neck, scanning the crowded bar until I spot Shep, who’s laughing at something on his phone. “I’ll call him over.”

“He’s right there,” Chance points out, obviously impatient.

My patience snaps. “Fuck, kid. Give it to him and get out. I’m busy.”

Reluctantly, I step aside, letting Chance slip through. Watching him weave through the crowd, I rub a hand over my face. It’s going to be a long night.

Before I can finish my first Coke, the night at Power Play is in full swing, the air thick with laughter and the clatter of darts hitting their mark. From my post near the entrance, I keep an eye on the patrons, the job’s monotony broken only by the occasional rowdy drunk needing a reminder of manners. It’s routine, comfortable in its predictability—until it isn’t.

Through the dim light and sea of bodies, I spot Chance Sawyer again, this time attempting to blend in with the older crowd. The kid’s got guts, I’ll give him that. He’s laughing, a beer bottle cunningly hidden behind a dartboard, tipping it to his lips when he thinks no one’s watching. The team, caught up in their game, doesn’t notice. But I do.

Before I can step over, the crowd parts like the Red Sea, and there she is—my mom, Beth, marching through with the kind of purpose that spells trouble. Her eyes lock onto Chance, then to me, and I know this isn’t going to be pretty.

“Do you like being a bouncer?” Mom’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp as a skate blade.

“Yeah. I’m living the dream,” I reply, the sarcasm thick in my voice, but it falls flat against her stern expression.

She points a finger at me, sharp and accusing. “You’re about to be living the nightmare.”

“What? Why?”

“If the police pop in, we have an underage kid trying to drink in the bar. Get him out of here,” she orders, her voice a low growl that I know better than to argue with. “How did he even get by you in the first place?”

“Shit. Sorry.” I glance back at Chance, who’s now looking decidedly sheepish, the beer bottle suddenly fascinating.

I push off the wall and make a beeline for him. He clocks me coming and tries to play it cool, setting the beer down like that somehow erases the crime.

“Out,” I growl, grabbing his arm just firm enough to make my point without causing a scene. “You don’t drink in here, and you don’t lie to me again. Got it?”

He tugs free with a teenage eye-roll that could win gold at the Olympics, backing toward the door.

“No wonder Shep says you peaked in high school,” he mutters under his breath, loud enough to land the punch but fast enough to duck out the door before I can swing back.

My mom’s face turns an alarming shade of red. “Where’s your head tonight, Brogan?”

“Meeting earlier. I talked to Britt and Franklin,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck, feeling the weight of the day pressing down again.

She regards me for a moment, her anger softening around the edges. “You know what your father would say.”

“Get my head out of my ass, my skates on the ice, and play like my life depends on it,” I recite, the familiar advice bitter in my mouth tonight.

She chuckles, a sound that feels like home. “Yup. I spent twenty years losing all my beauty sleep to get you guys to practice.”

My lips twist into a wry smile. “Mom, you’re beautiful. You don’t look a day over sixty.”

Her eyes narrow, a playful spark igniting. “You know I’m only fifty-two, you little snot!”

“I know. I get away with saying these things because I’m your favorite. Admit it.”

“I don’t have a favorite. I dislike all of you equally,” she fires back just as Bennett and Boone saunter in, the latter planting a kiss on her cheek.

Bennett pulls out some mail from his pocket. “I brought you something.” I often say that my grumpy older brother is ‘fucktose intolerant.’ He has zero ability to put up with people’s bullshit, even our mother’s.

Mom thumbs through the contents, pausing on a glossy magazine she doesn’t recognize. “Jesus. AARP. I could…”

Bennett interrupts, his grin devilish. “Hey, don’t get all worked up. It’s way past your bedtime. I’m surprised you haven’t instituted the classic senior dinner here, but you’ve been eating dinner at 4:30 for as long as I’ve known you.”

Mom’s nostrils flare, her hands on her hips. “To get food before the dinner rush not because I like it that way!”

I jump in, trying to ease the tension. “Are you sure you dislike all of us equally?”

She snorts, the sound carrying her affection despite the words. “Not entirely, no.”

As the night wraps around us, filled with laughter and jibes, I realize that no matter how tough things get, this—these people, this place—is what keeps me grounded.