Page 27

Joely

You can always tell when someone’s heart finds a landing place here. It’s not loud, not flashy. It’s in the way headlights sweep quiet snowdrifts at dawn, or how the bakery door stays propped open an extra minute in case someone’s hobbling in on crutches. Around here, love doesn’t announce itself with fireworks—it lingers in the hush between breaths, the steadiness of old friends, the careful hands that keep you warm when everything else is cold. I’ve seen my fair share of heartbreak, but I know the look of a girl who’s finally being cared for, and the boy who can’t help but hover until he’s sure she’s got everything she needs.

Playlist Song: Home by Phillip Phillips

I wake up to silence.

Not the kind that’s peaceful and soul-soothing. The other kind. The kind that whispers, you’re alone again, dumbass . The sheets next to me are cool, not even the faintest imprint of his body. No hoodie tossed over a chair. No cup of coffee steaming on the nightstand like some romantic movie scene. Just... nothing.

The urge to pee is immediate, fierce, and completely inconvenient. I eye the crutches across the room like they’re medieval torture devices. I bite my lip, already dreading the humiliating trek. In my head, I hear all the horror stories of girls peeing themselves after anesthesia, and if Brogan Foster has to mop up my bodily fluids, I swear I’ll just move to Siberia. There’s no way I’m making it without something dramatic happening—like a re-injury, or my dignity collapsing in a heap on the floor.

For a second, I lie perfectly still, half hoping Brogan will pop out of the bathroom with bedhead and a bear claw. When he doesn’t, my heart sinks a couple of floors down my chest and settles somewhere near my stomach. A place it absolutely does not belong.

You can do this, Parnell. You’ve survived worse. Middle school dodgeball. The Great Period Disaster of Homecoming. This is just logistics.

I roll over, reaching for my phone on the nightstand and swiping the screen to life. Missed call from Lynsie. Text from Beth checking in on my ankle. No Brogan.

Awesome.

I hit Lynsie’s contact and put her on speaker. The phone rings twice before she picks up, far too chipper for this hour.

“She lives!”

“Barely.” My voice is gravel and regret. “Sorry I didn’t call you back last night. I was kinda drugged out of my mind.”

“Oh, I bet you were a lot of fun.”

I swallow. “I told Brogan I loved him.”

Silence.

“You did not .”

“I did.”

“That’s huge! What did he say?”

“He said he loves me, too.”

Another beat of silence, and then, “Girl.”

I sigh. “Don’t worry. I’m not holding him to it. I was high. He was humoring me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I woke up alone, Lyns. It’s okay. Really. I’m fine.”

“Joely…”

“I said I’m fine.” But I’m already blinking back stupid tears. “I’ll be even better once I get my pain meds.”

Outside, I hear the familiar rumble of his truck. I freeze.

“Gotta go. I’ll call you back.”

“Joely—”

Click.

I toss the phone aside and swing my legs over the side of the bed, aiming for my crutches like a girl in a bad rom-com. Except I’ve got a bad ankle, a giant T-shirt with questionable pizza stains, and exactly one functioning knee. I’m halfway to toppling over, and actually considering crawling when the door swings open.

“Hold up,” Brogan says, stepping inside. “I’m here. Thought you’d sleep longer. Sorry.”

He’s holding coffee and a bakery bag.

My traitor heart does the thing again.

“Breakfast?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

He grins. “Coffee. And bear claw. Because I remember the meltdown of ‘21 when you sprained your wrist and Molly’s was out.”

And just like that, my heart reattaches itself and goes full sprint.

I open my mouth to make a sarcastic remark, but my bladder beats me to it with a not-so-gentle nudge.

“Uh… emergency,” I mumble, nodding at the bathroom door.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Let’s go, JoJo.” He tucks an arm under my shoulders, cradling my cast, and practically carries me to the bathroom, crutches dangling uselessly from his other hand.

“You’re really going to help me pee?” I ask, half-mortified, half-in love with this dork.

“I’d build you a new porcelain throne and attach it to the headboard if it’d make you comfortable,” he says, lowering me gently onto the closed toilet seat. “You want privacy or are we officially at the ‘all bodily functions shared’ stage?”

I glare up at him, cheeks blazing. “Don’t look at me like I’m a wounded animal.”

He grins, completely unbothered. “JoJo, you’re my favorite wounded animal. Besides, you did the same for me when I got that concussion in peewee hockey, remember?”

“That was different,” I mutter.

“Sure,” he teases, “but you still wiped drool off my chin, so I think we’re even.”

“Give me thirty seconds,” I mutter. He grins, closes the door almost all the way, and hums ‘Eye of the Tiger’ until I call him back in.

Brogan reappears, all business, like he’s running the world’s tiniest rehab center. “Alright, let’s get you back to base camp.” He loops an arm around my waist and carefully lifts me up.

“Can I brush my teeth first?” I ask, feeling self-conscious about hospital breath.

He grabs my toothbrush and toothpaste, squirts out the perfect amount, and sits on the edge of the tub, coaching me through it like I’m learning dental hygiene for the first time.

“You missed a spot,” he teases, taking over and brushing gently, careful not to jostle my sore ankle.

“You are so weird,” I mumble around the toothbrush, but it feels intimate in a way that’s brand new and ancient at the same time.

Once I’ve splashed some cold water on my face, he walks me back to bed, moving slow, as if I’m made of glass—or maybe like he’s worried he’ll drop his favorite trophy. Once I’m settled, he fusses with the comforter, arranges my pillows behind my back, then grabs the bolster from the end of the bed and props my ankle up just right, checking the angle with the focus of a man diffusing a bomb.

“Too high? Too low? You want another pillow?” he asks, already fluffing a spare just in case. He tucks the blanket around me, presses a gentle hand to my knee, and gives me that crooked grin. Then he checks my position again, and even runs his fingers through my hair to untangle the “hospital knot” at the base of my neck.

“You look like a baby bird,” he says softly, working out a particularly stubborn snarl.

“I feel like roadkill,” I reply, but I lean into his touch anyway.

“Anything else, Your Highness? Water, snack, painkillers, Netflix remote, ceremonial crown?”

I eye the bear claws like they hold the answers to the universe. My mouth waters, but my pride’s still trying to catch up with the part where Brogan didn’t run.

“Ah, time for sugar and yeast.” He walks over, all easy confidence and stupid perfect hair. “Eat this before the pain meds. You know the drill.”

“You’re bossy this morning,” I say, but I take the pastry because my stomach’s already making pathetic noises.

“I’m always bossy. You just like it more now.”

I freeze mid-bite. My gaze snaps up to meet his. That cocky smirk is on full display, but there’s something behind it. Softness. Intention.

“Smooth,” I murmur.

He shrugs, dropping the pharmacy bag onto my nightstand. “I’m just saying. You love it.”

“I think there might be drugs in your system.”

“Then take one of these, and we’ll be on equal ground.”

I roll my eyes, but do exactly as he says. Because it’s easier to take meds and make dumb jokes than it is to ask why my heart is still trying to recalibrate after confessing a decade-long crush under the influence of anesthesia.

While I swallow the pill, he fumbles in his hoodie pocket and pulls out something familiar. The old bracelet. The one I gave him in third grade. The elastic’s worn out, the beads faded and cracked, but he holds it like it’s a damn crown jewel.

“I fixed it,” he says.

My hand flies to my nightstand drawer. I pull mine out, the one he gave me. I still wear it sometimes, even if it’s just been tucked under my sleeve for the past fifteen years.

“I never forgot about it,” I whisper.

He grins, tugging his onto his wrist. “You think I forgot bracelet day?”

“I didn’t think you remembered.”

“Jojo, I remember everything. ” He leans forward, thumb brushing a piece of hair out of my face. “Especially when it comes to you.”

And just like that, I’m goo.

I nod, swallowing hard. “It’s weird. I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

“You have.”

“Then how come this feels brand new?”

He exhales, eyes locked on mine. “Because we’re finally doing it right.”

The air stretches between us. It’s heavy with things unsaid, with promises neither of us quite knows how to make. But we’re here. And for now, that’s enough.

“Okay,” I whisper.

He smiles. “Okay.”

And just like that, I let myself believe—maybe just a little—that this might actually stick.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, just sipping coffee and letting the sugar from the bear claws sink into our bloodstream like some kind of emotional buffer. He keeps glancing at me over the rim of his cup, and I pretend not to notice, but my cheeks are warm, and I’ve got that fluttery, can’t-sit-still feeling in my stomach.

“So,” I say finally, breaking the quiet. “That whole ‘I love you too, baby’ thing last night. That was…?”

He sets his mug down gently and shifts on the edge of the bed so he’s facing me full-on. No deflection. No jokes.

“That was the truth,” he says simply. “I meant it.”

I blink, hard. “Even after I rambled on about hospital passes and bracelet day like a concussed fifth grader?”

He chuckles, and it’s so damn affectionate that my throat tightens. “Especially after that. I’ve had a lot of girls tell me they love me. You’re the first one who brought up a friendship bracelet to seal the deal.”

“Yeah, well,” I murmur, voice catching. “I’m a real romantic.”

“You are,” he says, voice low. “And I’m an idiot for not seeing it sooner.”

I swallow the lump rising in my throat. “So what changed?”

Brogan runs a hand over the back of his neck, that sheepish thing he does when he’s about to be too honest.

“I think I always knew,” he says, looking right at me. “But I was scared. Scared I’d screw it up. That if I let myself want you… really want you… that I’d lose you. So I convinced myself the friend zone was safe. That it was enough.”

“And now?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.

He reaches out and laces his fingers through mine. “Now, I want all of it. The bracelet days, the late-night phone calls, the karaoke disasters. I want you in my bed and in my life and at my games and with me when I figure out what the hell I’m doing after hockey. I want us .”

Something in me cracks open at the way he says it—so direct, so sure. Like he’s been waiting to hand me this piece of himself for years and just didn’t know where to put it. I squeeze his fingers, feeling the weight and wonder of it all. “You’re really not going anywhere, are you?”

He shakes his head, no jokes, just steady. “Not unless you tell me to go. And even then, I’ll probably just camp out in your yard and bribe you with breakfast until you take me back.”

I stare at our hands, at the way they fit like puzzle pieces. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” I admit. “And I didn’t even know if it was real. If you’d ever feel it too.”

His thumb sweeps across my knuckles. “I feel it now.”

It hits me like a wave, hot and sharp and overwhelming. This isn’t a crush. It’s not a fantasy. It’s him. Brogan. My best friend. My first love. My always.

And somehow, impossibly, he’s mine.

We sit there a while, the warmth of the room wrapping around us like a blanket. My bear claw’s half-eaten, coffee gone lukewarm, and yet I don’t want to move. Don’t want to shift the moment. Brogan’s thumb is still brushing the side of my hand, like he’s memorizing the shape of me.

“So…what now?” I ask.

His brow creases. “You mean us?”

“I mean… everything.” I motion vaguely with my hand, careful not to jostle the pill bottle or the stack of ice packs he brought with him. “The team. The future. You said we’d talk more today.”

He leans back slightly, the air changing just enough that I can tell the weight of it’s been pressing on him.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about that,” he says, voice low. “What happens when hockey’s not the whole picture anymore.”

“You’re not done,” I say quickly, before I can stop myself. “You’re getting better. You still have it.”

“I know,” he nods, “but for the first time, I’m not terrified of what happens next. Not because I have a backup plan but because…” His voice catches. “Because I’m not alone in it anymore.”

My throat gets tight again. “You mean me?”

He meets my eyes and everything about him softens. “Of course I mean you. When I was trying to figure this all out before, it was like staring down an empty rink with no net, no goal. Just skating in circles. But now?”

“Now?” I breathe.

“I’ve got you,” he says simply. “I’ve got a soft place to fall.”

I blink, feeling that familiar wave crash again, steady and slow and so full of emotion I’m not sure I can hold it all in.

“I know coaching’s probably in the cards,” he adds. “I’ve been helping out with the Mega Mites more. I like it. I’m good at it. And maybe it’s not glamorous, but it’s real. And it matters.”

“It matters a lot,” I whisper. “You light up around those kids, Brogan. They adore you.”

His lips tug into a smile. “You think so?”

“I know so. And if it’s what you want… I’m behind you. All the way.”

He reaches for my other hand, both of ours now cradled between his.

“You’ve always believed in me,” he says, eyes shining. “Even when I didn’t.”

“Someone had to,” I whisper. “Might as well be the girl who’s been doodling your name in hearts since grade school.”

He laughs. “God, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

And just like that, the future doesn’t seem quite so scary.

Not when we’re facing it together.

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth like he secretly likes being needed.

“You’re fussing,” I murmur as he fluffs my pillow for the third time.

“I’m nurturing,” he counters. “Big difference.”

“Is this what I get now? Full-time Brogan Foster treatment?”

He drops onto the mattress beside me and rests on his elbow, gaze on mine. “You get all of me now, Joely. The fussing. The nurturing. The bad jokes. The equally bad rapping under my thug name #BroFetti. The loud chewing. The loyalty. The love.”

I blink at that last word. Not because I’m surprised—he’s said it already—but because hearing it again, here, in the soft morning light, makes it feel even more real.

Let me check your ankle,” he says, even though he’s already checked it twice. He fusses with the blanket, adjusts the ice pack, and then kisses the top of my foot like he’s blessing it. “I’ll bring you lunch in bed later. No arguments.”

My voice is small when I say, “I think I like the sound of that.”

He grins. “Good. Because I’m pretty sure I’m not going anywhere.”

He leans in and kisses me, sweet and slow. It’s not the kind of kiss that sets things on fire, though God knows we’ve had plenty of those. This one is deeper. More lasting. It lingers. Leaves fingerprints on my soul.

When we pull apart, I tuck myself into the curve of his body, my head on his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm under my ear.

“God, you’re gonna ruin me,” I whisper.

“I’m hoping for the opposite,” he says, pressing his mouth to my temple. “I’m hoping I make you feel whole.”

And damn it if he doesn’t.

I close my eyes and let myself have this moment. No hiding. No pretending. Just two kids who grew up and somehow found their way back to each other.

Outside, the snow starts to fall again, soft and slow.

Inside, I think my heart finally stops wandering. I press my face to his chest, inhaling the scent of pine and whatever laundry detergent he swears is just the cheapest one at Target. My voice comes out small: “You’re really here, right?”

His arms tighten, pulling me closer. “Always. Even when I’m not. Especially then.”