Page 24

Brogan

I’m not a place that likes to keep secrets, but lately, every streetlamp and signpost is trying to whisper one. By the time dawn cracks over Miner’s Arena, clear plastic glints on the sign outside Miner’s Arena, and tire tracks are stamped through fresh snow. Word travels fast here, especially when it involves love notes and a certain Foster boy. Before the coffee’s even brewed, the regulars are already taking bets—was it the bartender, the TikTok queen, or just plain old magic with huge boobs? One thing’s for sure: around here, romance always comes with a side of chaos, and nobody’s getting away clean.

Playlist: Stuck Like Glue by Sugarland

I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee, freezing my balls off, and trying not to take it personally that the Miner’s Arena sign now looks like it got gift-wrapped by a pastry chef on Red Bull.

“Shep,” Bennett says, squinting up at the monstrosity, “is that fucking Saran Wrap?”

I follow his line of sight, and yep—clear as day, the whole bottom row of letters is shrink-wrapped several times over.

Shep whistles low and long. “Whoever your secret admirer is gets props for ingenuity.”

I bite back a smile and stuff my hands deeper in my jacket. I should be annoyed, but I’m not. I should be weirded out, but... yeah, still not.

“I’m not cleaning that shit up,” Virgil grumbles as he lumbers out of the arena, wearing his usual expression of mild homicide. “I’ve got better things to do than peel cling wrap off sentimental nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense,” Gage offers. “It’s dedication. Or possibly a nervous breakdown. Either way—romantic.”

Virgil shoots him a death glare. “You’re all dead to me.”

“Good morning to you too, sweetheart,” Bennett chirps.

Virgil flips him off and keeps walking, mumbling something about “jackasses on ice” and “quitting this damn job to be a crash test dummy.”

I hang back, staring at the sign, trying not to let the grin tug too hard at my mouth. The message underneath is obscured, but I don’t need to see it to know what it says. Hell, I knew the second I saw the cling wrap that is definitely stored in the supply closet we have christened. Twice.

Joely.

Has to be.

And somehow, instead of feeling freaked or cornered, I feel... seen. Like every time I doubt myself, she’s been out here with a damn ladder and a message, trying to prove me wrong.

“Alright, lovebird,” Bennett says, smacking me on the back. “Morning skate waits for no man. Or sign. Or mid-life identity crisis.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“Exactly.”

Whoa. Harsh.

We head inside, the doors groaning open with a burst of warm air and the scent of rubber and sweat. But I glance back one more time before going in, watching Virgil kick snow at the sign.

There’s no denying it anymore.

Someone believes in me.

And I’m finally starting to believe in myself, too.

The cold clings to my skin as we strip down in the locker room. Everyone’s chirping like it’s game day, probably because Shep brought a Bluetooth speaker and is blasting something that sounds like EDM and farm animal noises had a baby.

“Is this music?” Gage shouts, lacing up his skates.

Shep throws him finger guns. “It’s ambiance.”

“It’s a cry for help.”

I tug on my jersey, trying not to grin. I should be focused. We’re halfway through the season, and every practice counts if I want to get out of this damn scoring slump. But instead, my brain’s hung up on coasters and Sharpie hearts and cling wrap declarations.

The rink is cold, the way I like it. Ice sharp and fresh. I jump the boards with the rest of the team, my skates slicing into the sheet. Coach Duff’s barking drills from the blue line, clipboard in hand and whistle already halfway to his mouth.

“Line rushes!” he calls.

We fall into formation. Bennett’s got his usual scowl on, more focused than he looks. Boone’s flying down the wing, and Shep’s chirping every poor soul within earshot, including himself.

“I feel fast today,” he says.

“You feel delusional,” Bennett mutters.

I dig deep on a breakout pass, and for a split second, I feel good. Better than I have in weeks. Like I might actually remember how to play this game.

And then we rotate off the ice and pile onto the bench, sweaty and breathless, only to see Virgil standing on top of the maintenance truck holding a ball of Saran Wrap in one hand and what might be a garden rake in the other.

Bennett’s phone rings.

He puts it on speaker.

“Bennett,” Virgil growls. “Bring the cherry picker.”

“Not happening,” Bennett says, not even blinking.

“Why not? I’ve seen you stop at Mrs. Gibson’s house more times than I can count to get a cat out of a tree. You don’t even like cats!”

“Correct. But I like chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven.”

There’s a pause.

“And my brother,” Bennett adds, so flat it takes a beat to realize it’s sarcasm.

“Flask of peppermint schnapps,” Virgil offers.

Bennett snorts. “My mom owns a bar. Try harder.”

I lean back against the boards, watching Virgil descend into another profanity-laced monologue. It’s chaos. Dumb, ridiculous, only-in-Sorrowville chaos.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I’m heading toward the locker room when my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. Not Joely—Britt. Her name on my screen makes my stomach clench.

“Hey, boss lady,” I answer, trying for light.

She skips pleasantries. “Just a quick update before Franklin corners you—contract talks are still stalled. He’s got demands, I’ve got counter-offers, but he’s not budging. I thought this would be easier, Brogan. He’s… harder than I expected.”

I rub my forehead, tension crawling up my neck. “Do I need to be worried?”

She sighs. “Not yet. But don’t do anything to draw attention off the ice, okay? Lay low. Let me work. And for the love of God, don’t end up on TikTok unless you’re scoring goals.”

“No pressure,” I mutter.

“It’s just business,” she says, but I can hear the exhaustion in her voice. “We’ll get there. I promise. Just… don’t let your head go sideways. We need you focused.”

“Copy that.”

She hangs up, and I stand there for a beat, the cold suddenly sharper. My contract. My whole damn future, hanging in the balance. I squeeze my phone and try not to spiral.

And that’s when Joely’s call comes in—like a lifeline, the one person who can pull me out of my own head.

I swipe on her face. Just seeing it lights me up in places I probably shouldn’t acknowledge in the locker room. Suddenly, I need her. More than I want to admit. More than I want to need anyone. I step into the hallway because I’m not about to have this conversation with Shep eavesdropping.

“Good morning,” I say, voice still ragged from skate. “What’s going on?”

There’s a pause. Then, “I have a dress I need help getting out of…”

Every single nerve ending in my body goes on red alert. “Really?”

“No,” she deadpans.

I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “Why would you do that to me? I’m surrounded by men. Sweaty, half-naked men.”

“I live to torment you.”

“Mission accomplished.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward—never awkward with her—but thick. Charged.

“I’m coming over anyway,” I say. “As soon as practice ends. I’m there.”

“I hoped you’d say that,” she replies softly, like she’s smiling.

I hang up and lean against the wall for a second, trying to remember how to breathe. Her voice does something to me. Grounds me. Ignites me. Wrecks me in the best way.

When I head back into the locker room, Bennett’s waiting with one eyebrow cocked. “You’ve got the look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says your blood’s all southbound and you forgot how to blink.”

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She’s fine,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “I’m wrecked.”

Shep appears out of nowhere, hair sticking up like he got electrocuted by a skate sharpener. “Tell me it was Joely.”

I just look at him.

“Ohhh boy,” he whistles. “You got that stupid face you only make when she’s involved. It’s like you’re constipated but also seeing heaven.”

Bennett snorts. “Better than the usual dumbass face he wears.”

“Shut up,” I say, grabbing my stuff.

“Going somewhere?” Bennett asks.

“Yep.”

“To Joely’s?”

I don’t answer. I don’t have to.

They both know.

And even if I tried to explain what’s happening between me and Joely right now, I don’t think I could. It’s bigger than just sneaking around or hooking up. It’s her eyes in the dark. Her smile when she thinks I’m not looking. Her voice calling my name like it means something. Like I mean something.

Yeah.

I’m going to her place.

And I’m not leaving anytime soon.

By the time I pull into Joely’s driveway, my thoughts have taken a nosedive from playful to something bordering on reckless.

Snow’s packed into the tire ruts. Her porch light’s glowing like a damn beacon. My heart kicks in my chest like I’m seventeen again, about to sneak into a girl’s room while her parents sleep upstairs. Only this isn’t some teenage crush. This is Joely. This is real.

I’ve got a dress I need help getting out of.

She was teasing. But God, I want her to mean it.

I cut the engine, but I don’t get out right away. Instead, I catch my reflection in the rearview, run a hand through my hair, and immediately regret it when it sticks up like I’ve been zapped by Shep’s static electricity prank again. I swipe my palm across my jeans, trying to dry off the sweat that’s somehow already slicking my hands.

What the hell am I even going to say? “Hey, Joely, can you tell me why I can’t breathe right unless I’m with you?” Yeah, smooth. I practice a half-smile. Way too creepy. I try again, more casual—cool, confident, Brogan Foster style.

Nope. Still looks like a guy who just got benched for excessive horniness.

Screw it. I grab my stuff, try not to trip over my own feet, and walk up to the door like I haven’t spent the last two minutes failing basic human interaction.

I knock once before she opens the door like she’s been standing on the other side, waiting. Her eyes meet mine, and for a beat, the air freezes. Not from the cold. From us.

“Hey,” she says, a little breathless.

“You sure you don’t need help with that dress?” I ask, voice lower than it should be. Half a growl.

“I don’t wear dresses unless I have to.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s color blooming in her cheeks. “Get in here before you freeze your eyelashes off.”

I step inside. The door shuts behind me and everything goes quiet. Just the sound of our breathing, the whisper of her socks on hardwood, the pounding of my pulse like a damn war drum.

She’s in leggings and one of those soft hoodies I love seeing her in. Comfortable. Cozy. A little dangerous when paired with the memory of last time.

“Bonfire?” she asks, grabbing her coat off a hook.

I blink. “You want to go back out?”

She shrugs. “Thought you liked making fires.”

I narrow my eyes. “You planning on starting one?”

She meets my gaze, and something clicks in the air between us—like a match struck, waiting to be dropped.

“Maybe,” she murmurs. “If you’ve got the spark.”

Jesus.

I follow her outside. The cold bites, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building in my chest. We build it together—her handing me logs, me lighting the kindling. We move in sync. Like we’ve done this forever.

When the flames start to catch, she tucks herself into my side, both of us watching the fire like it might tell us something we don’t already know.

“Thanks for coming over,” she says.

“Thanks for calling.”

She glances up at me. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Joely,” I murmur, brushing a hair from her face. “I’d come for you every time.”

And I would.

God help me, I would.

Joely’s laugh cracks open something in me I didn’t know I’d been holding shut.

She tosses another log on the fire, her cheeks flushed from the heat and cold. The wind toys with her hair, and for a second, I swear I forget how to breathe. She looks over at me, and I know—I’m done.

This isn’t just lust.

It isn’t even just love.

This girl? She’s carved into my bones.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” she asks, pulling her hoodie tighter around herself like it’s going to save her from whatever’s in my eyes.

I shake my head, slow. “Because I’ve never seen anyone glow like you do.”

She snorts. “That’s the firelight.”

“No,” I say. “That’s you.”

The air shifts. She’s not smiling anymore. Her lips part just slightly, like she’s about to say something, but the words never come. I take a step toward her, close enough now that our breath mingles in little clouds between us.

“You okay?” she asks, voice soft.

“Not even close,” I whisper.

Then I kiss her.

It’s not the kind of kiss I can pull back from. It’s the kind that demands everything—my past, my future, all the in-betweens. And when her fingers tangle in the front of my coat, tugging me closer, I know I’m not the only one falling.

When we break apart, I rest my forehead against hers.

“I’ve been thinking,” I murmur.

“That sounds dangerous,” she says, trying to make it light. But her voice shakes. Just a little.

“I don’t think I want to keep doing this halfway,” I tell her. “I don’t think I want to keep pretending I don’t feel everything when I look at you.”

She swallows hard. “Brogan—”

I cut her off with another kiss—gentler this time. Just a brush. Just a promise.

“I’m not asking for answers tonight,” I say, pulling back an inch. “I just needed to say it. I need you to know.”

She presses her hand to my chest, right over my heart.

“I know,” she whispers. “And you’re not the only one.”

We sit together, curled up beside the fire, no words, no rush. Just quiet. Just warmth.

Just her.

And for once, I don’t feel like I’m chasing something.

For once, it feels like I’ve already caught it.