Page 20

Brogan

Some towns keep their secrets tucked under porch lights and gossip. Not me. Here, secrets go up in neon—on marquees, water towers, and wherever a bored hockey player or a lovesick bartender can reach with a can of paint or a box of random letters. The rest of the world might call it vandalism. Around here, we just call it foreplay.

Playlist Song: Mood by 24kGoldn feat. Iann Dior

It’s too early, too cold, and I haven’t even had my coffee yet. But here we are—frozen in place like dumbasses—staring up at the sign outside of Miner’s Arena like it’s the goddam Bat-Signal.

“Someone wanna explain what the hell that says?” Gage squints, one glove shielding his eyes from the rising sun even though it’s doing sweet fuck-all to warm us up.

The letters are all kinds of jacked. Half are missing, three are upside down, and one’s straight up doing a nosedive, dangling by a rusted corner. Whatever the original message was, it now looks like: “br_29 = ?? MOF”

“Brogan twenty-nine equals... Mof?” Shep reads it out loud like it’s ancient Sanskrit. “What the hell’s a Mof?”

“Maybe it was ‘MVP’ and the P flew off?” Boone offers, chewing on the edge of his stick tape like he’s MacGyver solving a hostage crisis.

“It flew off?” I glance at him. “You think letters just fly off , Boone?”

He shrugs. “If it’s windy enough.”

“Oh great,” Bennett mutters, nodding toward the parking lot. “Here comes Sign Daddy.”

Virgil stomps across the slush in his heavy boots, arms full of random letters and what looks like a whole chunk of corrugated metal. His mustache is twitching, which means he’s one breath away from an aneurysm.

“I swear on my mother’s left hip, if one more of you punks turns this sign into your personal love shrine, I’m gonna start charging by the letter,” Virgil growls. “In straight Irish whiskey.”

“Is that... a threat or an invoice?” Shep asks.

“Both.”

Virgil dumps the letters on the ground in front of us like a pissed-off Zamboni artist. “We got a W, a sideways E, a plus sign, and whatever this used to be.” He kicks one with the toe of his boot. “Somebody’s out here playing Scrabble in the middle of the damn night.”

He lines them up like it’s a spelling bee, piecing it together with muttered curses until the message reads clear: “brOGAN #29 = ?? MOOD”

The team bursts into hollers.

“Aw, look at that,” Heath says, smirking. “You’re someone’s mood, bro.”

“Big mood!” Shep yells, doubling over. “From someone with big boobs! I guess she did do it!”

I cross my arms and shake my head, trying not to let the heat rising to my ears show. “Who the hell keeps doing this? I don’t care what Shep says, it’s not Lucinda.”

“Better question,” Bennett adds. “Why do you secretly love it?”

I want to snap back, but the words catch in my throat. Truth is, some part of me always wanted to be someone’s main character—the guy who got the sign, the headline, the girl. Just once. And now that it’s happening, I don’t even know what to do with it.

The cold in the rink hits different when I’ve already been embarrassed in front of the entire team before coffee. Virgil already stomped off, muttering about OSHA violations and emotional trauma, and now we’re lacing up for morning skate while trying to act like that little love note on a fifteen foot tall sign wasn’t the highlight of everyone’s week.

Boone’s the first to crack. “Okay, but real talk—who do you think’s doing it?”

I tug my practice jersey over my head. “Madeline. Or Harper. Even Pru. They’re the obvious choices. They totally want me to do well. If it helps the Slammers organization, it helps everyone.”

The room goes still for one stunned beat, then Shep barks a laugh. “What? Madeline? Our TikTok queen?”

“Yeah. Madeline. Or Harper. Or Pru. Probably the threesome. It could even be Britt in a pinch.”

Shep makes a ‘Y’ with his arms. “A marketing threesome? Sign me up! Woooooo!”

Holden stutters to a stop. “Mention my wife and the word threesome in the same sentence again, and I’ll pop you in the jaw.”

“Wait.” Bennett stops mid-sip of his protein shake, cap still dangling in his hand. “You think Pru —the woman who can’t be bothered to return my emails about important meetings with Franklin—is up on a ladder in the middle of the night rearranging letters on a rusty-ass minor league arena sign?”

I shrug. “Yeah. Makes perfect sense. Contract negotiations. Publicity push. Building my image. You know, brand awareness.”

“Holy shit,” Boone mutters from the corner. “He’s serious.”

Gage spins toward me on the bench like he’s watching a nature documentary. “Bro, I love you. I do. But you think Britt—who once sent a cease-and-desist to a fan for naming their cat after Heath—is up there with Madeline in a ski mask and bolt cutters?”

“Could be,” I say, tugging on my gloves. “You saw the sign. It’s good press. And those four are all in charge of my press.”

Heath, tying his skates with his usual grim determination, snorts. “Brogan, my guy. This isn’t a PR campaign. This is a crush . Someone has it bad.”

“I don’t have a secret admirer,” I shoot back. “I have a marketing team.”

Bennett chokes on his shake. “Your marketing team loves you so much they’re risking felony trespass for heart emojis and a mooooood ?”

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve seen this season.”

Shep claps me on the back like I just admitted I believe in Sasquatch. “I want a sign,” he declares. “My contract’s not even up till next year, but I want in on this action. Preferably something with glitter. Maybe a spray-painted abs outline. As soon as practice ends, I’m going up to the front office.”

Gage deadpans, “I’ll start a petition to get you a mirror.”

I roll my eyes. “Look, I’m just saying—if it is someone doing the admirer thing, they picked a really inconvenient time. I’m already stressed about this contract.”

Ben leans back against the lockers. “Maybe the sign’s not for your contract . Maybe it’s for your ego.”

I freeze. Because damn. That hits a little too close.

But I recover fast. “Whatever. I’m just saying—if they’re trying to get my attention, they’re doing a great job. It’s working. Mission accomplished.”

Shep raises a hand. “Cool. So... we agree I’m getting a sign next, right?”

The second my blades hit the ice, I expect the chaos in my head to melt away, like it always does.

It doesn’t.

I skate a lap—hard, fast, pushing my legs till they burn—but the sign is still there in my mind. Huge. Looming. Half the letters missing, half the town confused, and all of it whispering one name I keep trying not to think about.

Joely.

She was weird last night. Not like normal-weird. Like guilty-weird. Like “I climbed the sign and declared my secret undying love in Helvetica Bold” weird.

But I shake it off, force myself to swallow the thought. Joely’s never been one for showy declarations. Not her style. She loves in the margins—quiet, steady, the kind of girl who slips a coffee into your hand on a bad morning, not one who risks frostbite and a trespassing charge just to spray-paint her feelings where the whole damn world can see.

I want it to be her so bad it hurts, but the truth is, Joely Parnell doesn’t do grand gestures. Not for me. Not for anyone. And maybe that’s the real reason this is eating me alive—I can’t stop hoping, even when I know better.

But then there’s Lucinda, still batting her lashes and taking credit for every mystery in my life—like she’s the one who’s got my number. She’s the queen bee of the Boosters now, always up in my business, so maybe that’s it. Maybe she’s just the smoke screen for Madeline, Harper, and Pru—those three could organize a heist at the Vatican if you handed them matching sweatshirts. It’s got to be them, right?

I shoot the puck into the boards harder than I mean to.

“Easy,” Heath says, gliding up beside me. “We’re warming up, not auditioning for Fast and the Furious: Ice Edition .”

I grunt and go again. Around the cones. Through the drill. But I keep glancing at the stands, like Joely might magically appear with her hair pulled back and that knowing look that says she already figured out the thing I’m still pretending not to know.

“Head not in the game today, Bro?” Bennett’s voice cuts through my thoughts. He’s skating backward like an asshole, casual as hell, like he’s not about to roast me in front of everyone.

“I’m fine.”

“Sure.” He leans in a little. “So… who is she?”

I stop hard. “Who?”

“The girl who’s got you missing open shots and looking like someone just ran over your dog.”

“I’m not missing anything, and we don’t have a dog.”

Bennett cocks a brow, then nods toward Coach Duff. “Tell that to the guy who just wrote your ass down on the clipboard.”

I glance over and, yep. Coach has that look. The “I expected more out of you and also you might want to do extra suicides later” look.

Until you puke.

“Shit.”

Bennett claps me on the shoulder. “I’m not judging. I’m just saying… whoever it is, maybe think about talking to her. Or kissing her. Or licking her pussy better. Or figuring out why the hell she’s spray-painting your name in twenty-degree weather.”

I glare at him. “I didn’t say it was Joely. I don’t think it’s her.”

He smirks. “Why can’t it be her?”

I skate off before he can say more, but the damage is done.

Now I’m thinking about her lips. Her hands. The way she said my name like it mattered. And how I felt when I saw that sign—before the jokes, before Virgil almost had a stroke.

It felt… good.

Wanted. Seen.

And I have no idea what the hell to do with that.

As I stomp away, I catch Gage muttering to Heath, “He’s so gone for her.”

Heath just nods, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s why it’s so fun to fuck with him.”

I yank off my helmet the second I hit the tunnel, my hair damp and sweat clinging to the back of my neck. Morning skate’s over, and I feel like I’ve been dodging flying pucks and emotional landmines for the last hour.

Shep follows me in, flinging his gloves toward his locker. “Okay, but for real—who do we think the sign vigilante is?”

Bennett’s already untying his skates with methodical precision. “It’s Joely.”

I freeze, mid-pull on my own laces. “You don’t know that.”

Shep lifts a brow. “He didn’t say no.”

“Maybe that’s because I’m tired of your dumbass conspiracy theories. Lucinda, Madeline, Harper, Pru, and freakin’ Britt Travers ?”

“Hey, hey, I prefer deeply insightful observations ,” Shep fires back. “And listen, we’ve had, like, what? Four signs now? The rock. The coasters. The water tower. And now the sign. Either someone is doing the world’s slowest marriage proposal or…”

“She’s in love with you,” Bennett finishes flatly. “Just sayin’.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, yanking off the other skate and tossing it into my bag. “You guys watch too many rom-coms.”

“Bro, I exclusively watch action flicks and Planet Earth,” Shep says, flopping down next to me. “But even I can see what’s going on here. Lucinda’s a mood, but I don’t think she can spell it.”

“Same,” Gage pipes up from across the room, pulling his shirt over his head. “And I don’t even talk to women unless they talk to me first.”

“Okay, great , this is helpful.” I stand up, running a hand through my hair. “Everyone’s suddenly an expert on my love life.”

Bennett leans back against the lockers, arms crossed. “You sure you even have a love life? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve got a secret admirer, a suspiciously attentive bartender, questionable activities in Mom’s supply closet, and an entire team chirping the shit out of you.”

“I’m not talking about this,” I grumble, slamming my locker shut.

“Because you know we’re right,” Shep singsongs.

“I’m not talking about this because it’s none of your business.”

Shep gasps. “So there is a thing! This is huge! Bennett, this is huge .”

“It’s not huge.” I rub the back of my neck. “It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated like her lips on your lips?” Shep grins. “Or her lips on your…”

I flip him off and head toward the showers before I say something that’ll get quoted in a group chat for the rest of my natural life.

But yeah… maybe they’re right.

Maybe it was Joely.

And maybe… that changes everything.

Dammit, I’m so confused. I shower, towel off quick and change into jeans and a hoodie, still trying to outrun the conversation from the locker room. My teammates think they’re subtle, but they’re about as discreet as a foghorn in a library. Every look, every raised brow—it’s all code for “we see you, Foster.”

I’m barely out of the arena when my phone buzzes.

Joely: Any chance you’ll be at Power Play tonight?

I glance down at my phone, thumb hovering over the screen. It would be so easy—just text her, “Yeah, I’ll be there.” Or “Missed you.” Or hell, anything real. But I can’t bring myself to do it.

My chest tightens. I read it again. Then again. It’s simple. Casual. Totally normal.

Only it’s not. Not anymore.

Not after the last month. Not after the coasters, and the rock, and the water tower, and now the sign.

I don’t answer right away. Getting into my truck, I lock the phone and shove it back in my pocket, heart pounding like I just missed an open net. The engine grumbles to life, the heater clicking on like it’s annoyed to be woken up. I sit there for a second, staring out the windshield as fat flakes of snow start to fall. Sorrowville’s always quiet in the morning—too quiet. Like the town’s holding its breath, waiting for the next thing to go sideways.

Kind of like me.

I don’t know what I’m doing. With Joely. With the team. With this damn contract hanging over my head like a guillotine. I want to believe she’s the one leaving all these messages of support. That it’s her way of showing she believes in me—even when I can’t believe in myself.

But what if I’m wrong?

What if I lean in, fall hard, and she lets go?

The door of the arena swings open again. It’s Virgil. He’s got a trash bag in one hand and what looks like a broken piece of a metal letter in the other.

He walks past my truck, muttering to himself. “Every damn week. I swear to God, if I find out who’s been screwin’ with that sign, I’ll zip tie their ass to the damn catwalk and draw a cock on their forehead.”

I huff a laugh and roll down my window. “You need help?”

Virgil squints at me. “You offering because you feel guilty or because you’re hoping to score brownie points with the mystery artist?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He jerks his chin toward the sign across the parking lot. “You think I don’t see you looking up there every time you walk outta here? You might not know who’s doing it, but you know . And you like it.”

I open my mouth. Close it. “You’re reading too much into things.”

Virgil snorts. “Kid, I’ve been around long enough to know when someone’s got it bad. And you’ve got it real bad. I’m starting to think you’re deliberately playing like shit just so your secret admirer will keep blowing smoke up your ass.”

He trudges off, mumbling something about needing more zip ties.

And I just sit there, watching the snow fall, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to play it cool…when all I want to do is climb the water tower and scream her name.