Page 21

Joely

There’s something about my Friday nights that just feel restless—the air heavy with fryer grease, neon glinting off dirty snow, and everyone looking for an excuse to stay out too late. Here, every love story is a little messy, and every secret feels one spilled beer away from being public record. The bar lights burn late, the wind rattles the marquee, and somewhere on the edge of it all, two hearts are trying to figure out if what they’ve got is just a secret fling or the kind of forever that keeps a whole town talking.

Playlist: Burning House by Cam

I step into Power Play and immediately get pelted by the scent of fried onions, spilled beer, and regret. You know. Friday.

Beth doesn’t greet me with her usual “You’re late, but I still love you” glare. Instead, she lifts a cardboard box onto the bar and slides it toward me like she’s trying to pass off a cursed object.

“What’s this?” I ask, peeling off my gloves and narrowing my eyes. Nothing good ever starts with a box and Beth’s too-sweet smile.

“Well,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel and sighing like a woman who’s seen too much, “we need a new message on the sign out front.”

I blink. “The sign?” My stomach flips.

She nods, taps the printed sheet taped to the inside flap. “‘My other sons play hockey too.’”

I read it aloud. Then reread it. Then wince.

“Before I get accused of having a favorite son. Again,” she adds with a dramatic sigh, as if she’s already writing her acceptance speech for Longest-Suffering Mother of the Year.

“Beth…” I start.

“I’m used to it,” she says, cutting me off, but her tone’s warm. Wry. Familiar. “And you, Miss Late-Night Acrobat, are used to the cold. So… scamper off.”

“I—what?” I stammer. “What makes you think it was me? Word on the street is Madeline did it. With Harper and Pru. Marketing threesome. From Shep’s mouth to God’s ears.”

Beth arches a brow so high it nearly hits her hairline. “Madeline wears stiletto heels, sweetheart. The woman couldn’t climb a step stool without breaking a hip. And speaking of hips, Pru’s had both of hers replaced. And Harper? She’s underpaid. Too underpaid for physical labor. Let alone an extension ladder, in a snowstorm, to shuffle letters around in minus ten degrees.”

I cross my arms. “I mean, that’s a little dramatic.”

She levels me with a stare. “You want to lie to your surrogate mother? Fine. But know I see all. I hear all. I can read your coaster doodles like they’re the Rosetta Stone. And I’m pretty sure there is a strange smell in the supply closet.”

Busted. Again.

I push the box aside and pretend to busy myself with wiping down the bar. My face is hot, and it has nothing to do with the thermostat being stuck at ‘a few degrees above arctic tundra.’

The guilt simmers, but underneath it, there’s something else. Something almost fizzy. According to Virg, Brogan saw the sign. And he loved it. That glow in his eyes when he bursts through the bar tonight? That will be for me—even if he doesn’t know it yet.

Beth hums under her breath, some old country tune about secrets and sinners.

I mutter, “This is why I drink.”

She tosses me a towel and says, “Good. Start with cleaning the tables.”

And just like that, I’m back to scrubbing wood with existential dread and a racing heart, pretending I didn’t nearly fall off a ladder last night for a man who still thinks his publicist is behind his personal pep rally. But I guess Madeline is better than Lucinda of the first set of triple D silicone implants Sorrowville has ever seen.

This isn’t a bar.

It’s a minefield.

And I’m the girl dancing on the tripwires.

The door swings open behind me, and I know it’s him before I even turn around.

Something about the cold draft that follows him in. Or maybe the way my pulse instantly goes rogue, pounding in my neck like it’s trying to signal Mayday. Either way, I don’t have to look to know Brogan Foster has arrived.

“Joely!” His voice slices through the chatter like it’s on a mission. “You seen the sign yet?”

I blink innocently and raise an eyebrow, still clutching a damp bar rag. “Which one?”

“The one outside the arena.” He practically jogs over, skidding to a stop in front of me with a breathless grin that should be illegal. His cheeks are pink from the cold, hair tousled, that boyish energy radiating off him in waves. “It’s epic.”

“Epic,” I repeat. “That’s a bold word.”

“I mean it.” He’s bouncing on his toes like a Labrador. “It’s got my name on it. Well… the number. But still.”

“Oh?” I tilt my head, like I didn’t put the damn number up myself with frozen fingers and shaky hands. “What’s it say?”

He plants his palms on the bar and leans in, grinning so wide I can see the chip in his side tooth. “It says I matter.”

My chest tightens like a corset laced by someone with a grudge. I fold the bar rag in half to keep my hands busy.

“And,” he continues, glancing around the bar like we’re in a spy movie, “I want to celebrate.”

Beth, eavesdropping from the taps, mutters, “God help us.”

Brogan ignores her. “C’mon. Just a quick ride. I want to show it to you.”

I narrow my eyes. “Does it involve more snow? Because I’ve already reached my frostbite quota for the month.”

He snorts. “No. I promise you won’t get cold. Just… me. You. The truck.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

He steps closer. “I’ll even let you pick the music.”

Damn him and his dangerous smile.

Beth glances around the nearly empty bar, where the only action is Virgil griping to the jukebox and a couple of regulars nursing beers. “Honestly, if you don’t have a date night now, you’ll be here till close arguing with Frankie about hockey stats. Go. If anyone asks, you’re checking inventory in the walk-in. If I get slammed, I’ll call your cell.” She slides my coat across the bar. “And don’t let him play any of that sad-boy country crap.”

“Hey!” Brogan throws a hand over his heart. “Garth Brooks is a poet.”

Beth rolls her eyes. “So’s the guy who writes haikus in the men’s bathroom. Doesn’t mean I want to hear him whine about lost love and whiskey.”

I stifle a laugh and toss my towel into the bin. “Fine. One drink. One song. That’s it.”

Brogan beams. “That’s all I need.”

I follow him out into the cold, boots crunching alongside his. The neon sign for the Power Play looms above us in the dim light, bold red letters crooked but defiant on the white marquee below it:

“My other sons play hockey too!”

He laughs under his breath. “Mom’s passive-aggressive masterpieces never miss.”

“She made me do it before my shift. I wouldn’t want her mad at me.”

He turns to me, eyes locking on mine. “She’s not. She loves you. Probably more than she loves her own sons.”

His truck is warm and smells like leather, pine air freshener, and Brogan. That last one’s always the kicker. Masculine, clean, and just a little sinful. He cranks the heat and fumbles with the radio until I swat his hand away and plug in my phone.

We drive in comfortable silence until we reach Miner’s Arena, the snow falling in lazy flurries outside the windshield. The town glows with twinkle lights, and the roads are quiet—just us and the snow. Like we’re suspended in time.

We pull into the empty lot, the arena sign shining through the snow like a dare. Brogan doesn’t kill the engine, just parks facing it, headlights off so the glow from the red heart and my awkward letters spill right into the cab.

He leans forward, elbows on the wheel, staring up at the words—brOGAN #29 = ?? MOOD—like he’s afraid they’ll vanish if he blinks.

A nervous heat creeps up my neck, and suddenly, all I can think about is how much of a nightmare that sign actually was. The wind was cutting through my jacket, my fingers went numb trying to wrangle those busted plastic letters, and I nearly fell off the rickety ladder twice. At one point, I swear I heard Virgil stomping around the arena with a flashlight. I pressed myself flat behind sign, barely daring to breathe, praying to every small-town deity that he wouldn’t spot me—or worse, recognize me. My cheeks flame at the memory. But now, knowing that Virg fixed it for me fills me with a special kind of gratitude. God, if Brogan ever found out how hard I worked for that lopsided heart, I’d never live it down.

“You want to get out?” I ask, fingers nervous on my thigh.

He shakes his head, eyes never leaving the message. “Nope. I just… want to sit here. With you. And look at it.” Then he fiddles with the sound system. “I promised you music.”

I shove my hands into my pockets. “Please tell me it won’t be all Garth Brooks and Nickelback again?”

He glances over, faux wounded. “Okay, that’s a low blow.”

“Then stop making it so easy.”

“Can I tell you something?” he says, finally.

“You’ve never needed permission before.”

He grins, but it’s softer this time. “That sign... it lit me up.”

I shift in my seat, fiddling with the hem of my coat. “It’s just a sign.”

“No. It’s not.” He glances over. “You have no idea what it felt like, pulling up and seeing that. Knowing someone put it there for me. Believes in me.”

I press my lips together. My throat goes tight. “Someone does.”

“I know,” he says, his voice quiet. “And I think I know who.”

My heart stutters, skipping like a rock across ice. He pulls into the parking space beside the sign, tires crunching on snow, and kills the engine. It’s quiet. Still.

We sit there a beat too long, the silence thick with everything unspoken.

“You hungry?” he finally asks, voice gruff.

“I could eat.”

“I’ve got snacks. And something else I want to show you.”

I raise a brow. “If it’s your squirrel circus again—”

“No tree rats.” He laughs, opening the truck door for me like a damn gentleman. “Just trust me.”

And for better or worse, I do.

I always have.

Instead of driving to his house, Brogan heads straight for mine, the truck’s tires crunching over the icy ruts that lead up to my porch. I don’t bother to ask why—he knows as well as I do that my place is a Shep-free zone. He kills the engine, grabs my hand, and we sprint up the steps. The inside of my house smells like cinnamon and old books, and Brogan’s already shrugging out of his jacket, heading for the fireplace.

He grabs the kindling from the basket, stacking it with practiced hands, and by the time I’ve toed off my boots and hung my coat, he’s got a fire roaring—real wood, the kind that pops and hisses and throws shadows across the living room. The heat isn’t instant, but it’s alive, building slowly, and I feel my pulse matching its rhythm. Brogan drops down on the rug, pats the space beside him, and pulls me into the circle of warmth and flickering light.

“You know what I was thinking the whole time I was on the road?” he asks, voice low and rough.

“That I should totally get a raise?”

He grins. “That I should’ve kissed you longer before I left. Should’ve pulled you back to bed and said screw it to everything else.”

I swallow hard. The tension coils between us like a tripwire. I feel his gaze on me, hot and direct.

“Then do it now,” I whisper. “Except not the bed part. Let’s stay right here on the fuzzy rug.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just turns me toward him and kisses me like we’re both starving. His mouth moves over mine with the kind of promise that makes my knees weak, and the world blurs into nothing but this—this fire, this night, this boy I’ve loved since I was too young to know what love even meant.

For once, there’s no teasing, no sarcastic jabs or playful insults. Just his hands on my skin—careful, reverent—and the kind of silence that crackles louder than a thousand words.

Every inch of me is buzzing, but it’s not just about sex.

It’s this: the way he looks at me like I matter. The way he touches me like I’m breakable—but still his to break. The way my body sings for him, sure, but also the way my heart sits up and leans forward like it’s been waiting its whole life for this exact moment.

I trace a fingertip across the scruff lining his jaw. “I still can’t believe this is real.”

Brogan lifts his head, his hair mussed from my hands. “I’ve had a lot of dreams about you, Joely. None of them came close to this.”

God, I might actually melt. My chest cracks wide open, and every messy, buried feeling I’ve been sitting on for years spills up to the surface like a flood. I want to tell him. I want to say I’ve loved him since forever, that there’s never been anyone else who’s ever penetrated my heart. But then he touches the inside of my thigh, and my brain shorts out like a blown fuse.

He leans down, his voice hot against my ear. “I think I’ll die if I don’t get to keep touching you like this.”

Brogan’s hands skim up my thighs, rough palms warm even through the goosebumps. He slides my leggings down, slow, lips following every inch of bare skin he uncovers. My breath catches when he mouths at the inside of my knee, then higher, his stubble scraping fire over my skin.

He pauses, just looking at me. “You’re shaking,” he whispers, voice thick.

I nod, grabbing the hem of my shirt and yanking it up. “Because I want you. All of you. Right now.”

He grins, a little wild, a little awed—like he can’t believe this is real. “God, JoJo. You kill me.”

He strips off his shirt, tosses it toward the couch, and presses his body against mine—chest to chest, skin to skin, both of us half-laughing, half-desperate. His mouth finds mine, hungry, claiming, and there’s nothing slow about it now. His kiss says everything he can’t: I missed you. I need you. I’m yours.

Our lips meet, and this time the kiss is deep—slow, searching, wild with the taste of longing and everything we’ve kept bottled up for too damn long. He kisses me like he’s trying to memorize it, like if he could breathe me in he’d never need air again. His tongue slides against mine, coaxing, teasing, every soft moan swallowed up by his lips.

His hands roam, greedy now—one sliding down my side, the other slipping up to the clasp of my bra. He fumbles a second, then pops it open, peeling the straps down my arms, baring me inch by inch. The look on his face as he pulls the cups away—hungry, awed, starved—makes my whole body flush.

Brogan’s palms are rough against my newly bare skin, cupping my breast with a kind of awe that sends sparks through my chest. He thumbs my nipple, then lowers his head, catching it between his lips—sucking, flicking, rolling it on his tongue until I’m arching up into him, wanting more, always more.

He glances up, breathless, firelight flickering across his face and casting gold over every line of my body. For a second he just stares—hazel eyes wide, pupils blown, lips swollen from kissing me. Brogan’s thumb drags slow circles around my other nipple, his gaze hot enough to scorch.

“Jesus, Joely,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Look at you. You’re…” He shakes his head, grinning like he’s half-wrecked, half-reverent. “You’re so fucking hot. The fire’s got nothing on you.”

He leans in, mouth tracing the line between my breast and collarbone, tongue teasing, teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp. His free hand roams down my side, mapping every curve, every freckle, every place he’s ever wanted to linger.

And in that light—wrapped up in his touch, his gaze, the glow of the fire—I feel gorgeous. Worshipped. Like I’m the only woman in the world.

My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. “Don’t stop,” I whisper, and he doesn’t.

He pushes my panties aside and slides his hand between my legs, fingers stroking, circling, teasing—knowing exactly how to wreck me. “You’re so wet,” he groans, his lips brushing my jaw, his breath coming hot and fast. “I love knowing I’m the one who does this to you.”

“Only you,” I gasp, grinding against his hand, chasing the pressure.

He dips a finger inside, then two, moving just right, his thumb working my clit until I’m dizzy. He’s murmuring, half-talking to himself, half to me. “So perfect, Joely. Always so perfect for me. Can’t get enough. Never could.”

I arch for him, needing more, and he reads it on my face. He pulls a condom from his wallet, tears it open with shaking hands, and rolls it on. He lines himself up, still watching me like he’s seeing something sacred. “Look at me,” he whispers. “Want to see you when you come.”

He pushes in, slow at first, stretching me, filling me, and it’s everything—too much, not enough, exactly right. We both groan, clinging to each other, moving together in a rhythm that’s part wild, part worship.

Brogan’s hand finds my face, thumb brushing my cheek as he rocks into me, deeper, harder, losing himself, losing us both. “JoJo… fuck, you feel so good. I—God, I can’t—”

He drops his forehead to mine, his other hand slipping down between us, finding my clit, circling, coaxing, demanding. “Come for me, babe. Need to feel it. Need to know I’m the one who does this to you.”

I break, shattering apart under his hands, his mouth, his words. He keeps pumping in and out, chasing his own release, thrusts turning desperate, frantic, then slowing as he finds it, gasping my name like a prayer.

Once he’s come, he pulls me into his arms, breathing hard, hands tangled in my hair. And this time, I don’t hide. I just hold on tighter, letting the fire burn down around us.

Later, when we’re tangled together in the glow of dying firelight and my body feels deliciously wrecked, he runs a hand down my back, slow and easy.

“I want to do this right,” he says. “I don’t want to screw this up.”

“You won’t,” I whisper, curling into his side. “Let’s just wait until you sign your new contract.”

His brow lifts. “You hiding me now?”

“No,” I grin. “Just… trying to enjoy the first try-mester before we announce the pregnancy.”

He chokes on a laugh. “Did you just—?”

“Try-mester,” I say smugly.

“You’re the worst.”

“Still slept with me.”

“Multiple times.”

“Your point?”

He groans, flopping back onto the pillow. “I am so screwed.”

“Yup.” I grin into his chest. “And if you play your cards right… again in the morning.”

And with that, Brogan Foster falls asleep with the world’s stupidest grin on his face and my heart right in his hands.

This boy has no idea how loved he really is.

But he’s about to find out.

I fall asleep tangled up with him, listening to the crackle of the fire and the steady thump of his heart, finally believing I might actually get everything I want.