Page 25

Joely

If you drive through my streets before sunrise, you’ll notice I’m quieter than any town has any right to be. But don’t be fooled—beneath the ice and half-buried mailboxes, someone’s always up to something. Around here, love confessions aren’t whispered—they’re right out in the open. Sure, it looks peaceful on the surface. But if you listen close, you’ll hear it: the sound of a heart hitting the pavement, the thud of a stubborn girl in love falling, and me holding my breath, waiting to see if this time—finally—one of the Fosters gets it right.

Playlist: Can’t Fight This Feeling by REO Speedwagon

Brogan’s still tangled in my sheets when I glance at the clock.

“I’ve got a few hours before my shift.” I slip into my leggings and hoodie.

He stretches like a smug lion, arms behind his head, abs on full display. “So, you’re saying there’s time for round two?”

I toss a pillow at him. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are.” He grins, catching it one-handed.

I lean against the doorframe, watching him. He’s glowing. Not from the sex—which, yes, was absolutely five-alarm fire—but from something else. Confidence. Hope.

“What?” he asks, catching me staring.

“You look… happy,” I say, voice soft.

He shrugs, but there’s that flicker in his eyes again. “Yeah, I guess I am. I mean, I’ve been thinking.”

“Always dangerous,” I tease, but something about his expression stops me cold.

“I’m thinking about the future. After hockey.”

That lands hard. Too hard.

My stomach twists. “Like retirement?”

“Not right away,” he says quickly, sitting up and raking a hand through his hair. “I’m just saying… I like working with the kids. The camps. The clinics. The charity events.”

“Oh,” I say, but it comes out flat. Hollow. He’s smiling, but all I feel is the floor tilting under me.

He notices. Of course he does.

“I’m not giving up,” he adds. “I just… I want a plan. Something more than chasing goals and hoping the contract comes through. A plan B if you will.”

I force a smile. “That’s smart. Responsible.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, bare chest distracting as hell. “I can’t be a player forever.”

“But you haven’t even had your shot yet,” I whisper. “Your real shot to go after your dream of the NHL.”

His gaze lifts to mine, soft. “Joely…”

“No, I get it. I do.” I push off the doorframe, grab my boots, anything to look away. “You want to be realistic.”

“I want to be ready,” he says, voice low.

“Right.” I nod, stuffing my feet into the boots with a little too much force. “Well, I should get going. Thanks for the… you know. Everything. You can stay as long as you want. Help yourself to snacks whatever. Just lock up when you leave.”

He stands, walks over, brushes a kiss to my temple. “You okay?”

“Totally,” I lie. “Just need to run an errand before my shift.”

He watches me too long. I feel his stare like a touch.

Pausing in the doorway, I watch him stretch out in my sheets like he belongs there—and he does, in every way that counts. My heart’s pounding with all the things I want to say, but I don’t trust my voice not to break. I want to tell him he’s not done. That his dream isn’t dead, just changing shape. But the words get tangled up with everything else—fear, longing, the kind of reckless hope that makes you do stupid shit involving ladders.

So I grab my coat and step into the cold.

And I know exactly what I need to do.

If Brogan’s dreams are fading, I’ll just have to burn brighter for both of us.

By the time I pull up to Lynsie’s house, the plan is solid in my head. A full-on covert mission, Operation Pep Talk. I just need my partner in crime.

Lynsie answers the door looking like a moody housecat in all black, mascara flawless, nails… not so much.

“You’re dressed like a cat burglar again,” she says flatly. “That’s never a good sign.”

“I prefer the term stealth goddess,” I reply, holding up the oversized black duffel like it’s a baby. “I brought supplies.”

She squints at me. “Is that… Saran Wrap?”

“It’s waterproof and windproof,” I say, like I’ve done this before. “And festive. And it did the trick the last time like a dream.”

She folds her arms. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean no, as in: not again. Not after the last time you convinced me to scale a ladder like some deranged spider monkey. I almost died.”

“You stubbed your toe.”

“I saw my life flash before my eyes.”

“You were on the second rung.”

She points at her foot. “My nail split. Down the middle. It still haunts me.”

I blink. “We had a deal.”

“I thought you were my friend.”

“I am your friend. That’s why I need your help.”

She crosses her arms tighter. “Call Shep. He’d probably do it shirtless. Or in a dragon onesie. Maybe both.”

“Oh, that’s rich. You just want to see him climb a ladder.”

“I want to see him fall off one,” she mutters. “In a funny, non-life-threatening way.”

“I can’t believe you’re bailing on me. This was your idea!”

“Technically, the water tower was my idea. You twisted it into Saran-wrapping a sign. That’s on you.”

I groan and press my forehead to her doorframe. “I just want to make him smile.”

“Girl,” she says, her voice softening, “he’s already smiling. Every time you walk in the room.”

I hate that my eyes sting at that.

“Fine,” I mumble. “I’ll do it myself.”

She sighs. “Please be careful.”

I pat her on the head. “Always am.”

She glares. “You are literally never careful.”

“Then wish me luck.”

She opens the door wider, lets me in for a hug. “Wear gloves. No fingerprints.”

I laugh into her shoulder. “I always do.”

I grab my gear and head back out into the cold.

This time, it’s just me, a ladder, and a mission.

What could possibly go wrong?

The world outside is bone-deep quiet, all the good citizens of Sorrowville tucked away in their houses after their work day while I crunch across Lynsie’s icy front walk, lugging the world’s sketchiest duffel bag. The streetlights buzz on the darker it gets like they’re in on the secret, casting my breath in little puffs as I march toward my car.

It’s ridiculous, really—risking frostbite and public humiliation just to prove a point to one hockey player who might never even know it was me. But that’s the whole deal, isn’t it? Love makes idiots of us all. I slide behind the wheel, crank the heat, and let my heart thump out a Morse code of hope and nerves all the way to Miner’s Arena. No turning back now.

The ladder groans under me like it’s just as bitter about this mission as I am about doing it alone. I ignore it. Because I have a goal. A dumb one. A heartfelt, wildly romantic dumb one.

The Saran Wrap crackles in my arms as I climb, one rung at a time, praying the wind doesn’t pick up again. The sign looms above me, letters freshly rearranged by Virgil with military precision. My message has to be better. Bolder. It’s the grand finale, the rom-com climax. The thing that finally gets Brogan to see what’s been right in front of him.

Me. Obviously.

“Okay,” I whisper to the letters as I reach the top, heart pounding. “You’ve had your moment. Time to step aside for greatness.”

I wedge the Saran Wrap into place, hands shaking partly from the cold and partly from nerves. It’s working. Kind of. Not pretty, but it’s readable. Almost.

I’m half-balanced on the top rung, fumbling with the plastic letters. It’s supposed to read, “brOGAN #29 = HOPE.” But right now, all I’ve managed is “brOGAN #29 = HO”—which, yeah, if I fall now, that’s exactly the legacy I’ll leave for the town rumor mill.

As if the universe just heard my thought, a nasty gust of wind blows through. That’s when the ladder shifts. Just a little. Just enough.

“Shit.”

I reach to grab the edge of the sign, but my foot slips. The world tilts. The wind howls. I flail.

And then I’m falling.

Oh, shit, this is how I die—mid-vandalism and with an unfinished love confession.

My back hits the ground with a muffled thud, the wind knocked straight out of me. There’s a snapping noise that can’t be anything good. Pain registers next. Specifically, my ankle. A sharp, hot pulse that radiates up my leg like a warning flare. For a few seconds, all I can do is lay there like an unfortunate snow angel, blinking up at the stars, Saran Wrap fluttering dramatically beside me like some rejected party streamer.

I try to sit up. Nope. Nope with a capital hell. I try to stand. That’s cute.

I lay there, staring up at the wobbly sign and the bruised sky, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Most girls send flirty selfies or bake banana bread for the guy they like. Me? I risk frostbite and a shattered ankle just to prove to a man who can’t see past his own doubt that he matters. I must be out of my mind.

“Awesome,” I groan, dragging myself through the snow with my phone clutched in one hand and my pride shattered in the other. “Joely, you dumbass. This is why normal people just send flirty texts.”

I crawl halfway to the car before collapsing in a heap against the front tire. The ankle is done. Toast. Just dangling there. Absolutely not vibing with walking.

My fingers are numb as I pull out my phone and dial.

“Power Play,” Beth answers, sounding far too chipper for someone about to receive my call of shame.

“Hi,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Just wanted to let you know I might be… a teensy bit late.”

“You’re never late,” Beth replies. “Especially when Brogan’s working. What’s going on?”

“I’m just… uh—ow—just had a little mishap.”

“You’re hurt.” Her voice sharpens.

“No! I mean… yes. A little. It’s nothing.”

“Where are you?”

“I’ll pay you back for the Saran Wrap,” I mutter. “Just need to crawl to my car, then home to change, and then—can you drive with only one foot? I mean… is that legal?”

“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

I open my mouth to argue but—nah. Can’t argue while half-submerged in a snowbank, dragging a ladder and a broken ankle behind me like a tragic Hallmark heroine.

So I do the only thing I can.

I lay there.

Cold. Wet. Miserable. Waiting for rescue. Again.

After five minutes of waiting, I’m starting to lose feeling in my butt cheeks.

The cold’s seeping through my leggings, and I’ve given up on holding my head high. At this point, dignity is for people who didn’t fall off a ladder while trying to confess their feelings with craft supplies.

Headlights flash through the snow-dimmed haze.

I lift a hand and wave weakly, like I’m in a made-for-TV movie where the heroine’s been abandoned in the Arctic tundra. Only it’s not the Arctic. It’s Sorrowville. And my rescuer isn’t a gruff-yet-lovable sled dog trainer. It’s Beth.

Her truck pulls up, and the door slams shut with the kind of purpose only a mother of three boys can muster.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just stares down at me, arms crossed, lips pursed.

I try a smile. “Hey.”

Beth’s eyes narrow. “I knew it.”

“Define ‘it,’” I say, squinting up at her.

Beth jerks her chin toward the sign overhead. “The romantic comedy airstrike happening above this hockey arena.”

“I thought it was subtle.”

Beth snorts, glancing pointedly at the half-lit sign overhead. “Subtle? Sweetheart, you just called my son a ‘ho’ in thirty-inch block letters. If the shoe fits, I guess we’re buying Brogan a pair of thigh-highs and a walk down Main Street.”

I cringe. “He does have nice legs from all that skating.”

Beth looks at the ladder, the twisted wrap, the sad sprawl of Joely in the snow.

“You were off to such a strong start,” she deadpans.

“I was trying to say something,” I mumble. “Something big.”

“Big like ‘please call an ambulance’ or big like ‘I’m in love with your son but also broke my ankle trying to prove it’?”

I sigh, defeated. “A mix.”

She crouches, and her expression softens. “Let me see the damage.”

“Pretty sure it’s broken.”

Beth helps me sit upright, her movements careful but not gentle. She’s not a gentle woman. She’s a woman who’s been through hockey tournaments, bar rushes, and raising three sons. A broken ankle doesn’t scare her.

She slides her arm under mine and hoists me up like she’s done this a hundred times before. “Let’s get you to the ER, Picasso.”

I bite my lip, blinking hard against the sting in my eyes. It’s not just the pain. It’s the humiliation. The ache of wanting so damn much for someone and feeling like every big gesture ends with you flat on your ass in the snow. Maybe I should’ve just told him. Maybe I should’ve just said, “You matter. You always have. Because I love you.”

I nod, shivering. “Do we have to tell anyone?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Beth says, helping me into the truck. “Depends. You want Brogan to know you broke yourself trying to impress him or should I tell him you got into a street brawl with a rogue pack of leprechauns and one of them hit you in the ankle with their full pot ‘o gold?”

I groan as she slams the door.

She drives in silence for a minute before she adds, “For the record, I think it’s sweet. Reckless. Ridiculous. But sweet.”

“You think he’ll ever figure it out?”

Beth glances at me with a smirk. “He already has. It’s just that he’s a Foster. Totally emotionally constipated. Not as bad as Bennett, but it’s there. Just to be clear, they get that from their father.”

I smile faintly, resting my head against the cold window.

Even through the pain, even with my ankle swelling like a balloon animal gone wrong, I can’t help but feel it.

Hope.

Maybe this is what love looks like in Sorrowville. Messy. Cold. Slightly illegal. Wrapped in Saran Wrap and stitched together with sarcasm and sheer will.

And maybe—just maybe—it’ll be enough.