Page 26

Brogan

My nights don’t ever end quietly—not really. Just when the last set of headlights blink out and the snow starts to reclaim the roads, there’s always some poor fool climbing a ladder or falling in love, or—if they’re especially unlucky—doing both at once. The hospital lights burn late this time, throwing a flicker of hope and chaos across the town square. We pretend not to watch, but everyone knows which truck is parked at the ER and whose heart is tangled up in the girl with the busted ankle and the too-big heart. Around here, we say love’s a contact sport. Looks like Joely Parnell finally took a penalty for holding. And I’m just holding my breath, waiting to see if Brogan Foster’s finally going to drop his gloves and fight for her.

Playlist: The Night We Met by Lord Huron

The second I walk into Power Play, I know something’s off.

No Mom. No Joely. Just a bunch of regulars and the ghost of responsibility breathing down my neck.

Mom left in a hurry—that much I know. She sent a text that said, “Handle the bar. Don’t burn it down.” Which, honestly, feels like a low bar to clear.

I sling my jacket behind the counter, mentally prepping for the chaos that is Monday Night Football. The place is packed. Wall-to-wall flannel, foam fingers, and dudes arguing about fantasy stats like it’s life or death. I haven’t even made it behind the bar before Lynsie blows in to man the kitchen in a pinch, eyes scanning like a hawk on a mouse hunt.

Then Bennett barrels through the side door, scowl is locked in place, jaw tight, dark hair slightly damp. That means Mom must’ve dragged him out of the house mid-shower. Impressive. And terrifying.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, still trying to manage the crowd forming by the bar.

He doesn’t answer—just grabs a bar towel and slaps it onto his shoulder. “I’m your new bartender. Go man the door like you’re supposed to. It’s Monday Night Football. This place is packed.”

“You have work at seven a.m.,” I remind him, pointing at the wall clock ticking too fast for my liking.

“Of course I do. Does anyone care? No. I just get ordered in to cover Mom’s shift like I’m the unpaid intern of the Foster family.”

“Where’s Joely?” I ask again, more sharply this time, but the question lodges in my throat.

I check my phone for the tenth time in as many minutes, thumb hovering over Joely’s name. No text. No call. Just a blank screen and a pit in my stomach. I half expect to see one of her little notes tucked by the register—a stick figure Brogan, lopsided heart, some snark about ‘bartender of the year.’ But there’s nothing. Just a lone pink hair tie wound around a tap handle, like she left a piece of herself behind to haunt me. My nerves are chewing through my patience.

Lynsie shrugs, lips pressed tight. “I’m your new chef, by the way.”

Bennett snorts. “God help us.”

“Why is no one answering me?” I demand.

“Because you’re still standing here when you should be greeting drunk uncles and carding teenagers at the door.”

I man my post for a good ten minutes before my grumpy elder brother calls me over. “Go deliver this.” Bennett says, shoving a red plastic tray with a burger basket into my hands. “It’s for Shep.”

I peek down. “Since when do our burgers have smiley faces drawn on the bun in ketchup?”

Bennett jerks his chin toward Lynsie, who is suddenly very invested in stirring a pot of chili.

“Since our new chef is one smitten kitten.”

“Bennett,” Lynsie says, tone low and dangerous. “Come here.”

He leans through the pass-through window, completely unbothered. “What up, kitten?”

“You think you’re so clever,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Tell Shep and I will cut you.”

“With what? A rubber spatula?” he deadpans.

“I’m improvising!” she hisses, brandishing it like a sword. “There are knives back here. Big ones. So don’t press your luck.”

I roll my eyes and carry the order out toward Shep, who’s holding court by the dartboard.

“Here, lover boy,” I mutter. “Your burger’s happy to see you.”

Shep raises both hands. “Woooooo! I love this bar!”

The moment’s barely funny to me. I glance at my phone. Still nothing from Joely. No missed calls. No texts. Just a stomach full of dread and a head full of worst-case scenarios.

Then I spot movement at the front. One of Shep’s little brothers, Nash, tries to sneak in under a winter beanie that’s way too low on his face.

“Little dude,” I bark, pointing to the door, “not tonight. Go home.”

“My name is Nash,” he says, wounded.

“I don’t care which Sawyer you are. Still not getting in. Go home.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Finally.

But it’s not Joely.

Mom: Not coming back tonight. Sorry.

I feel my blood turn to ice. I shoot a look to Lynsie, who’s suddenly frozen mid-step, her phone clutched to her hand.

She turns to me slowly. “It’s Beth.”

Everything in me goes still. Cold. Hyperaware.

I grab my phone and call her instantly.

“Mom,” I say, voice hoarse. “Where are you? Where’s Joely?”

Her sigh crackles through the line. “I’m at the hospital, Brogan. Joely’s in surgery.”

For a second, I can’t breathe. The whole bar gets blurry around the edges. I think of every time Joely’s been reckless—for a friend, for a stray dog, for me. Her on the lake in a storm because she wanted a better photo. Climbing that stupid rock for a joke. I always thought I’d be there to catch her. But this time I wasn’t. And suddenly, the idea of a world without Joely Parnell in it is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever tried to picture.

*****

Hospital parking lots suck.

They’re gray and grim and somehow always filled with the most complicated maze of minivans and pickup trucks. I don’t remember turning off the ignition. Just remember slamming the door and jogging through the sliding entrance, breath clouding in the cold, heart hammering in my chest like I just finished a shift on the ice.

The waiting room smells like disinfectant and cheap coffee. Mom’s pacing near the vending machines, arms folded tight across her chest.

“Where is she?” I ask, my voice low but sharp.

Beth stops moving, eyes tired. “She’s in recovery.”

“Recovery from what?” My gut’s doing pirouettes now. “What the hell happened? I saw her earlier. She was fine.”

“She fell,” Mom says.

Fell.

The word drops like a puck in sudden death. She motions for me to sit, but I can’t. I’m vibrating.

“She was working on a new message,” Beth continues, her tone softening, “on the sign.”

I blink. “Wait—the sign?”

Beth nods once. “The sign.”

“No. That was… that was Joely? For sure. You’re not lying?”

Mom gives me a look. One I’ve seen before. Usually when I’ve done something monumentally stupid.

“Brogan. Not Madeline. Not Pru. Not Lucinda. Not your contract team. Just Joely. The girl who’s been in love with you since forever and somehow still doesn’t think you’ve figured it out even though you’ve been desecrating my supply closet for months.”

I sink into the nearest plastic chair, mind spinning. “Twice. And I’m on my knees begging your forgiveness. So you’re saying that she climbed up the ladder… by herself?”

“She fell,” Mom says again, quieter this time. “Broke her ankle. She needed some pins, so they had to do surgery.”

“I didn’t know,” I murmur. “I mean… I suspected…”

“You didn’t know for sure,” she says, “because she didn’t want you to. She didn’t cop to it because she didn’t want credit. Or thanks. She just wanted you to feel supported. She wanted you to feel loved. She wanted you to be able to chase your dream.”

I swallow hard. “She risked that—for me?”

Mom sighs. “There are only two people in this town who love you like crazy. One just had surgery. The other one? Standing right in front of you.”

Before I can respond, a nurse appears at the hallway entrance. “Ms. Parnell’s in recovery, and she’s asking for Brogan.”

I stand so fast the chair screeches backward.

“That’s me.” I’m already halfway down the corridor before she finishes turning.

My boots echo on the tile floor. My hands are sweaty. My heart feels like it’s been cracked open and everything I’ve shoved down is bubbling to the surface.

The recovery room is dimly lit, humming with machines. And there she is. Eyes heavy. Skin pale. But even with the hospital gown and IV and tangled hair, she’s still Joely.

Mine.

She smiles when she sees me. “Brogan Foster,” she says, slow and slurred, “I love you. I needed to tell you that before I die.”

The words hit me harder than any cross-check I’ve taken. Harder than that slap shot to the ribs last month that left me wheezing through two games and half a practice.

I freeze at the foot of her hospital bed. She’s propped up slightly, drugged out of her mind, looking like a whole damn fever dream in a paper gown and the world’s most unattractive no-slip socks.

“I love you, too,” I say, voice low, raw. “Baby, I—”

Joely waves a hand weakly, like she’s swatting away a fly. “No, I mean it. I have loved you forever.”

I smile. “Same, Joely. Same.”

She narrows her eyes. “No. I’m serious.”

A nurse glances up from the corner. “It’s the meds.”

“It’s not the meds,” Joely insists, wiggling her fingers dramatically. “Where’s my purse?”

“I’ll find it,” the nurse says, but she keeps checking Joely’s vitals.

Joely sighs dramatically, her wrist flopped across her forehead. “I want nachos,” she whispers to me. “Not hospital nachos. Real ones. From Power Play. Extra cheese. I’ll trade you a pain pill for it.”

I snort. “You’re not supposed to negotiate with controlled substances.”

She grins, all dimples and bad ideas. “Live a little, Foster. And get yourself a handsome man visitor pass while you’re at it.”

The nurse glances over, half-smiling, half-exasperated. “He already has one. It’s called your heart monitor going off the moment he walked in.”

She giggles. “Remember when we were in kindergarten? I tripped on my shoelace?”

“Yeah,” I say softly, stepping closer to the bed. “I remember.”

“Instead of running off to play kickball or dig in the sandbox, you sat with me. You blew on my knee and tied my shoe while we waited for the nurse. You looked like this tiny, serious little man-child.”

“I couldn’t leave you,” I murmur. “I remember.”

“And third grade? Art class? Bracelet day?”

I grin, heart twisting. “How could I forget?”

“You gave me yours,” she says, her voice wobbling. “And I gave you mine.”

“I still have it,” I say.

She blinks at me, lashes heavy. “You do?”

I nod. “Right next to my jersey in my locker. You think I’m superstitious? Nah. It’s because of you.”

Joely pushes herself up a little, her hair sticking out in every direction, pupils huge and wild from the painkillers. “Then where’s your bracelet now? Because I want us to match.” She flops her wrist in my direction, flashing the ugly plastic hospital band. “Get the nurse. Tell her I want a Brogan bracelet. I want it to say Joely plus Brogan. And it has to have a heart emoji.”

I laugh, totally helpless against her. “You want us to get matching hospital bracelets?”

“Yeah,” she says, dead serious. “It’s romantic. We’ll keep them forever. Or at least until the glue melts off in the shower. Or I die.”

The nurse, already smirking, glances over. Then she mouths to me, “She’s not dying.” Aloud, she says, “I’ll see what I can do. But if he wants the heart, he has to earn it. We don’t give those out to the troublemakers.”

Joely grins at me, all glassy-eyed and stubborn. “You heard her. Better start behaving, Foster.”

I shake my head, smiling so hard my face hurts. “For you? Always.”

The nurse picks up her iPad. “As soon as you get dressed, you can go home.”

“I’ll leave,” I say gently, “if you don’t want my help.”

Joely tilts her head, eyes glassy but sharp. “Are you sure you know how to dress a girl? You’ve only ever undressed me.”

“Usually, this would feel counterintuitive to my goals,” I murmur, sliding my hand into hers, “but let’s get you dressed so we can get you settled.”

She smiles, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “I like the sound of that.”

Her grip tightens around my fingers. “Are you really staying?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Jojo.”

Her lashes flick up again. “You stopped calling me that in high school. Now, you’ve started again.”

“I’m bringing it back,” I say with a smile that feels like it’s cracking me open. “Just like I’m bringing you home.”

And yeah—I mean it in every sense of the word.

Mom pokes her head in just as the nurse returns with a folder full of instructions—wound care, medication times, signs to watch for, the whole nine yards. I prop Joely up, careful with her leg as I help her out of the drafty hospital gown and into her softest hoodie and a pair of borrowed shorts, making sure the cast fits without rubbing.

The nurse runs through everything twice, aiming most of it at me, because it’s clear I’m not leaving her side. Mom listens, too, her arms crossed, making it very clear she’ll be quizzing me later. Once Joely’s settled, I scoop up the prescriptions and discharge papers, drape her coat over her shoulders, and lift her gently into the wheelchair for the ride out. We’re exhausted, punch-drunk, but finally—finally—we’re going home. And I promise myself she’s not going to lift a finger unless she wants to.

I drive slower than I ever have in my life.

Not because I’m worried about icy roads. Because she’s asleep in the back seat of my truck, bundled in her puffy coat with the hood cinched tight around her face. Her ankle’s wrapped and propped on a pillow I stole from the hospital bed. She’s snoring just barely—soft little exhales that would be adorable if I weren’t so fucking mad at the universe for letting her fall in the first place.

Because she was doing something for me.

I glance at her car parked crooked outside the arena and feel the twist of guilt all over again.

She would’ve done anything to help me fulfill my dream.

But what if I’ve had it wrong all along? I know I have no chance in hell to make it to the NHL, and Joely probably knows it too. But only one of us refused to give up.

I help her out of the truck as gently as I can, one arm under her knees, the other around her back. “I can walk on my crutches,” she mumbles, eyes still half-closed.

“I know. But I’m carrying you anyway. Let a man live out his hero moment.”

She smiles against my shoulder. “You’re already my hero.”

Goddammit.

I settle her on the couch, tuck the blanket under her chin, and brush a strand of hair away from her forehead. She mumbles something, half-asleep, and I press a kiss to her temple.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, “for all of it. For not seeing you sooner. For not saying it enough.”

Her hand finds mine, sleepily clinging, and I realize—I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want to be the reason she smiles again.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jojo,” I promise. “Not ever. You’re stuck with me.”

“You staying?” she whispers.

“If you’ll have me.”

“I like that,” she murmurs. “A lot.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

“Joely, I’m always gonna be here.”

She tugs the blanket tighter around herself. “Even with steps?”

“I’ll carry you up every damn one.”

She smiles. “Good. Because I think I need help to the bathroom.”

I groan, grabbing a throw pillow and tossing it lightly at her. “You had one romantic second. One. And you blew it.”

She grins. “You love it.”

I do.

God help me—I do.

And I think I’ve known it since third grade.