Page 22

Brogan

Friday nights at Miner’s Arena don’t follow the rules. On evenings like this, the old rink feels more like a second home than a sports facility, with every corner echoing laughter, shrieking kids, and the scrape of skates over battered ice. Out in the parking lot, parents wrangle boots and lost gloves. Inside, the smell of hot dogs, popcorn, and sweat means the Slammers are running a community skate—half the town crowding in, bundled and bright-eyed, ready to watch their boys let loose. Around here, we don’t need trophies to make a night legendary. Just kids with hockey dreams and grown men who remember exactly how it feels to chase them.

Playlist: Follow Your Arrow by Kacey Musgraves

The locker room smells like muscle rub, sweat, and wet gear—which is to say, just like always. I’m sitting on the bench, halfway through taping my stick, while Shep does laps in his socks and Gage throws grapes at a trash can and misses every damn time.

“Gage,” I mutter, “either work on your aim or quit pretending to have one.”

He grins like a kid who just got away with something. “It’s for charity, Bro. I’m fundraising awareness for poor hand-eye coordination.”

“Mission accomplished,” Bennett deadpans from across the room, not even looking up from his phone.

I finish the tape job and lean back, letting the buzz of the team wash over me. There’s something different today. Lighter. The stands outside are packed with families, half the town’s here to see us skate with a bunch of kids. No pressure. Just fun.

Coach Duff barrels in wearing his classic windbreaker and his face set to “grumpy uncle who hasn’t had coffee.” He claps his hands once. Loud.

“Alright, you delinquents, listen up—”

But he never gets the rest out.

Because that’s the moment a dozen Mega Mites bust into the room like a stampede of puppies on Red Bull. There’s screaming, giggling, someone has a horn, and I’m ninety-percent sure one of them is wearing a cape made out of a Slammers practice jersey.

“Coach D.U.F.F.!” one of them shouts, pointing right at him. “It means Dumb, Ugly, Fat, Friend!”

Shep snorts. “I love these kids already.”

Duff just stands there blinking. Then sighs. “Yep. This is hell. I’ve died. And this is hell.”

I try not to laugh, I really do. But it’s impossible. Even Bennett cracks a smile when one of the kids hops on his lap and tries to braid his uber-short hair.

“D.U.F.F. has a nice ring to it,” Boone says from behind me.

“Shut it, Foster 2,” Duff growls. “You’re not cute enough to get away with anything.”

It’s total chaos—but the good kind. The kind that makes you realize maybe hockey isn’t just about winning or stats. Maybe it’s about this. Laughter. Community. Being a part of something that matters to people who don’t even care how many points you have this season.

I glance around at my teammates—these idiots I’d go to war with—and I feel something in my chest shift. Like maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to figure out what comes next.

And for the first time in a long time, that thought doesn’t scare the hell out of me.

By the time we make it onto the ice, the place is buzzing. Parents in the bleachers, phones out. Kids practically vibrating with excitement. And in the center of it all, standing next to his pride and joy, is Virg.

Sleetwood Mac gleams under the rink lights. Not because he waxed it—he didn’t—but because that thing glows with the kind of love only a man who talks to machines could give. I think it almost killed Virg when the Mac got retired for the new Zamboni Model 552.

“I’ve got a schedule,” Virgil barks to no one in particular. “One kid at a time. Five minutes per Zamboni lesson. No steering. No horn. No snacks.”

“Why do I feel like snacks have been an issue before?” I ask, skating past him.

Virgil side-eyes me like I just accused his kid of shoplifting. “You put one banana peel in the ice resurfacer, and suddenly you’re the villain for life.”

I smirk. “Got it. Respect the Mac.”

He grunts. “Damn right.”

I leave Virgil to his Zamboni kingdom and start circling the ice with the kids. They’re split into loose groups, each one assigned a Slammers player. Mine are a gang of absolute gremlins—tiny elbows, lopsided helmets, and an alarming commitment to falling dramatically and pretending they’re dying.

One kid—Carter, I think—is already prone on the ice, yelling, “I brOKE MY BUTT.”

“Let me see,” I say, crouching beside him.

“No, it’s my secret butt,” he replies, totally serious.

Okay, then.

I help him up and hold his hand as we skate slowly across the rink. He wobbles like a newborn deer and beams at me like I’m Santa Claus and The Rock rolled into one.

Something about the way these kids look at us—it does something to me. It strips away the pressure. The bullshit. The noise in my head. I’m not Brogan Foster, the guy who hasn’t scored in five games. I’m just a guy helping a kid fall less.

Since Power Play catered this event, Joely is on the edge of the rink, clipboard in hand, talking to Mom and Madeline. She’s smiling—like actually smiling. Her whole face lit up like it’s getting all the warmth in the room. Our eyes lock for a second, and her smile softens. It does something to me I don’t have words for yet.

“Coach Brogan!” one of the kids yells, grabbing my pant leg. “Watch this!”

He takes off—if you can call it that—arms flailing, nearly crashing into Shep, who’s currently letting a little girl put a pink sparkly sticker on his helmet.

“Is that legal?” I call out.

“She’s got good taste!” Shep yells back.

I laugh. Full-on, belly-deep laugh.

“I told you to skate with your knees bent!” Duff bellows from the bench like he just got called up to coach the Minnesota Mayhem.

“D.U.F.F.! D.U.F.F.!” the kids chant, pounding their sticks on the ice in rhythm.

Coach folds his arms across his chest. “You little hyenas better knock it off.”

A kid skates up to me, face red from laughing. “Did you know it stands for Dumb, Ugly, Fat, Friend?”

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t,” I say, trying not to laugh.

The kid grins wider. “Last time we had community skate, he said it didn’t bother him. So we made shirts!”

I glance toward the stands. Sure enough—three kids are wearing white T-shirts with “D.U.F.F.” scrawled in sharpie across their chests like tiny anarchists. Duff looks like he’s either going to retire on the spot or adopt all of them out of pure spite.

I skate over to him. “You holding up okay, Coach?”

He groans. “If I wanted to be bullied by eight-year-olds, I’d have my grandkids over more often.”

“Kids love you. That’s what this is.”

He glares at me, then shrugs. “Well, I am kind of their hero.”

“That’s what the shirts say, for sure.”

Coach mutters something under his breath that sounds like, “These damn kids are lucky I like ‘em,” then turns his attention to another Mite tripping over a cone and slipping spread eagle across the ice.

Joely’s still by the boards. She’s not watching the chaos anymore—she’s watching me. And not in that flirty way she sometimes does when we’re alone. It’s different. Like I’m a stranger she’s meeting for the first time but still somehow knows.

It hits me. This moment. This rink. These kids.

This life .

I’ve been chasing something for so long—first points, then praise, then contracts—and it all fades a little when I see Carter finally make it across the ice without face-planting. Or when Addie makes a goal in the tiny pop-up net we brought, and I get tackled with a hug so hard I nearly go down with her.

I’m not a star out here. I’m a helper. A coach. Dare I say an inspiration? And maybe that’s…enough?

Joely’s mouth twitches into a half-smile when I catch her staring. She doesn’t look away. Neither do I.

My chest tightens. Maybe this is what she sees in me—this guy. Not the Slammers forward with a decent slap shot and streaky stats. Just a man who can show a kid how to stop on skates without eating ice.

That thought does something to me. Something that settles low and heavy and real.

I think I’m falling harder than I thought and not just for her.

But for this.

For all of it.

“Who wants to ride Sleetwood Mac ?” Virgil shouts like a carnival barker with a nicotine addiction.

A dozen hands shoot into the air. One kid actually dives belly-first onto the ice like he’s sliding into home plate to improve his odds.

Virgil’s already standing proudly next to the Zamboni, one hand on the hood. He’s wearing a trucker hat that reads ICE ICE BABY and a pair of aviators despite being indoors. I’m almost impressed.

“Alright, you degenerates. One at a time. This ain’t a Lyft.”

“Can I drive it?” one kid asks.

“Not unless you got a CDL and a death wish,” Virgil grunts. “You can pretend to steer. Just don’t touch the blade.”

“What happens if we touch the blade?”

“You won’t be playing hockey, or piano, or eating McDonald’s French fries for a long, long time.”

The kids gasp like he just told them Santa Claus is fake and also sells meth.

Joely laughs behind me, full and unfiltered. I glance back at her. She’s got a pen in one hand and her other shoved in the pocket of her puffy red coat, which is way too big for her but somehow makes her look even cuter. She looks happy. Really happy.

I can’t stop watching her watching me.

One of the kids finally climbs up next to Virgil. The moment he sits down, the horn honks—purely by accident—but the arena echoes like the damn Titanic’s coming in for docking.

Every single kid screams.

Virgil clutches his chest. “Jesus on ice skates, ya little gremlin! I thought I was gonna meet my maker.”

“You honk that thing again,” Coach Duff says from across the rink, “and you’ll be resurfacing the ice with a kid’s snow shovel for the rest of your damn life.”

Virgil glares at him with the elegance of a man twice his age and half his patience. “Relax, Duff. You’re just mad no one wants to ride on your shoulders.”

“Because I’m not a motorized deathtrap.”

Pru looks mortified. “Did everyone sign the release form?”

The banter flies, the kids lose their minds, and I… I actually feel good. Relaxed, even.

No pressure. No scouts. No plays to memorize or stat sheets to stress over.

Just… joy.

Pure, chaotic, juvenile joy.

The event winds down slower than I expect. The rink’s gone from chaos to calm—just a few kids skating lazy circles, their parents wrangling gear, Coach Duff nursing a juice box like it’s a post-game beer.

I should be tired. My back’s killing me from tying a million skates, and I’m pretty sure one kid sneezed directly into my mouth. But I feel… good.

Like really good.

Joely’s over by the snack table, deep in conversation with Madeline and my mom. She’s laughing again, and even though I’m too far away to hear, I know it’s that breathy kind of laugh she does when she’s flustered but flattered. She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, then catches me watching and gives me a shy little wave.

And just like that, I’m wrecked.

I lean against the boards, arms crossed, heart doing that stupid drumroll thing it always does when she’s around.

This day wasn’t about my contract. Or impressing Coach. Or stacking points.

It was about the kids.

And it was about her. About how a normal life can bring joy in the little things.

I glance down the line of locker room doors and see a row of tiny hockey sticks leaned up against the wall, each one labeled with names written in crooked Sharpie. Tommy. Devon. Ellie. Max.

One of them, maybe all of them, could be great.

Hell, even if they’re not, I still want them to love the game. To believe in themselves the way nobody really taught me to. Not until Joely.

I hear Coach Duff’s voice in my head from earlier this season: Figure out who you are when the cheering stops. That’s what matters.

Well, damn.

I might actually be figuring it out.

I want this. The chaos. The noise. The mess.

But more than anything, I want purpose .

Skating with these kids… it’s the first time in months I didn’t feel like a screw-up. Like I was spiraling or flailing or just trying to stay relevant.

This was me. Whole. Grounded. Maybe even a little happy.

A hand claps my back. Virgil. “You did good today, kid.”

“Thanks,” I murmur.

“Didn’t think you had it in you. Guess I was wrong.”

“You’re wrong a lot.”

He grunts, then hands me a beat-up beanie. “One of the kids dropped it. Said it was their ‘lucky hat.’ Wanted you to have it.”

I stare at it like it might bite me.

“That a problem?” Virgil grumbles.

“No. Just—no one’s ever called me lucky before.”

He shrugs. “Then maybe it’s time they start.”

I look back over at Joely.

Maybe it is.

Yeah, I want this. All of it. Her. This town. This chaos. Maybe for good.