Page 28

Brogan

There’s a certain hush that settles over me in the dead of winter, the kind of quiet that’s thicker than snow and heavier than secrets. By the time the rink lights flicker off for the night, only the hum of the Zamboni and the ache in the bones of every player still linger. People in this town live for Friday night games, for marquee lights and hope strung up in block letters. But sometimes, even I can sense when one of my own are fading, and the silence between the shouts is where the real story cracks open.

Playlist: Coney Island by Taylor Swift (feat. The National)

I’m barely five minutes into my drive to practice when my phone lights up with Britt’s name. I should let it go to voicemail, but I don’t. Mostly because I’m not in the mood to get a “WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?” text followed by a three-paragraph strategy plan and an insult to my intelligence wrapped in legal jargon.

“Morning, sunshine,” I answer.

“You sound chipper,” she says, dry as a vodka martini. “Too bad your stats aren’t.”

I sigh and flick on my blinker, merging into traffic. “Ouch. Coming in hot today, counselor.”

“I don’t have time to hold your hand, Brogan. You’re playing like shit, and word’s getting out. Management’s watching. Sponsors are watching. I’m watching. You’re making my job so much harder than it has to be. And that chips away at my alone time with my hunky husband.”

I rub the back of my neck. My stomach’s already in knots, and I haven’t even hit the rink. “So what? I’m due for a few off games.”

“Off games don’t last two weeks,” she fires back. “What’s going on with you? Burnout? Injury? Existential crisis? Lucinda’s blow job skills have been altered by her lip filler?”

“Some of the above,” I mutter. “And Lucinda’s old news. Haven’t been with her in years.”

She pauses, then softens. “Look, I know this game can get in your head. But you’re better than this. If you want to renegotiate your contract, you can’t just coast through on name recognition.”

“Noted.”

“No. Not noted. Fix it.”

The call ends, and I sit there at a red light, staring through the windshield. I toss my phone onto the passenger seat, watching the screen go dark. Britt used to just be our legal shark—untouchable, all teeth and contracts—but lately, she feels almost like family. Even when she’s chewing me out, it’s like someone’s got my back, whether I deserve it or not.

By the time I walk into the rink, I’m already dragging. The arena’s freezing, the lights too bright, and the locker room feels like a pressure cooker set to boil. I go through the motions—pads, skates, jersey—but nothing fits right today.

We hit the ice. First drill? Miss a pass.

Second drill? Wipe out.

By the third screw-up, Duff’s had enough. “Foster. Bench.”

I glide off, eyes burning with frustration. Every part of me is wound so tight I could snap.

Behind me, Shep tries to joke. “At least you didn’t faceplant like Gage last week. Then his skates got tangled up in his own net.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. Because if I open my mouth right now, I’m going to lose it. I slump onto the bench, stick between my knees, helmet dangling from my glove.

This isn’t burnout. It’s something worse. It’s knowing deep down I might not even want to fight for it anymore.

For months now, the idea of life after hockey was just a distant blur—some foggy future where I’d coach little kids or run power play drills for the next generation, maybe crack a beer with the guys and tell war stories about the good old days. But I always pictured it way down the road, like something you plan for with half a heart, just to make your parents stop worrying. I never imagined it could sneak up on me this fast, or feel so damn close, or that I’d be the one considering letting go before the world ever made me. The thought guts me. It wasn’t supposed to be now .

And that scares the hell out of me.

I don’t even make it halfway to my locker before Boone steps into my path like a human roadblock with a buzzcut and a chip on his shoulder.

“You good?” he asks, but there’s no real curiosity in it. Just that older brother tone that says he already knows the answer and I’m about to hate it.

“I’m fine,” I say because that’s the knee-jerk response when you’re anything but.

Boone crosses his arms over his chest, his jersey damp with sweat, his jaw tight. “Bullshit.”

I sigh and try to sidestep. He steps with me.

“Dude. Not today.”

He leans in, voice low but razor sharp. “Every day has been ‘not today’ for you lately. We’re all watching you spiral and nobody knows if we’re supposed to throw you a rope or just let you crash.”

“Thanks for the team pep talk.”

“You think this is just about hockey?” Boone hisses. “You’re playing like you don’t give a shit, and it’s bleeding into everything. Practice. Games. The locker room. Joely.”

I freeze. “What about Joely?”

“She’s the only one bringing out anything close to fire in you, and even that’s coming out sideways. You act like she’s your everything, but you’re keeping her in the dark even after she fell and shattered her ankle for you.”

A few of the guys—Holden, Shep, Gage—gather around, silent but definitely listening.

“I’m not keeping her in the dark,” I mutter.

“Then why aren’t you shouting it from the rooftops?” Boone pushes. “Because from where I’m standing, she’s risking everything—her heart, her job, probably her second damn ankle—and you’re too wrapped up in whatever this is,” he gestures at my gear, “to see that she’s standing right in front of you, waiting.”

“Jesus, man, dial it back.”

“No. You dial it up.” Boone’s voice sharpens. “Hockey is mindset. Life is mindset. You’ve got all the tools, Brogan, but you’re playing like a guy who doesn’t know what the hell he wants. And at your age, it’s not a good look.”

I clench my fists. “Maybe I don’t know what I want.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

Shep clears his throat. “Look, bro… we all love you. But we need the guy who throws hits and takes names. Not the dude moping through drills like he’s waiting for someone to save him.”

“Yeah,” Gage adds. “Even your secret admirer gave up. No signs lately.”

Holden shakes his head. “Pretty sure that last one got her hospitalized.”

My gut twists.

They’re not wrong. I’ve been flailing, and the person getting caught in the rip current is Joely.

Boone steps back, giving me space. “Figure your shit out, little brother. Before the game’s over and you don’t even notice the buzzer’s already gone off.”

I’m sitting on the locker room bench after practice, helmet dangling from one hand, sweat still dripping down my neck. I’m not even sure if I’m breathing heavy from the drills or from Boone body-checking my soul into the glass. Either way, my legs are jelly and my chest feels like it’s caved in.

“Want some advice you won’t take?” Bennett drops down next to me, smelling like sweat and sarcasm.

“Absolutely not. Our other brother already ripped me to shreds.”

“Perfect.” He pops open a water bottle and takes a long swig like he’s a wise old monk instead of a grumpy bastard in overpriced skates. “You don’t want to play hockey.”

I turn to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Thanks for the inspiring locker room speech, Captain Dickhead.”

“I’m serious.” He gestures toward the rink with his water bottle. “You’ve been half-assing this for months. You used to show up early, hit hard, and skate like you had a point to prove. Now you skate like you’re trying not to wrinkle your laundry.”

“I’ve had a lot going on.”

“We all have a lot going on. The difference is, some of us want to be here.” He tosses his towel over his shoulder. “So do you? Want to be here?”

I stare at the row of battered lockers, the flicker of fluorescent lights making the whole place feel colder, harsher. Gear bags slumped on the floor. The stale smell of sweat and old tape hanging in the air. It used to feel like home—now it feels like a cage I can’t decide if I built or inherited.

I love the locker room chirps. The inside jokes nobody outside this team would ever get. The way we all roll our eyes at Virgil’s Zamboni worship or roast Gage for eating gas station sushi before a game. That’s the stuff I’ll miss. The brotherhood. The way a win makes the whole damn town feel like they’re on top of the world, and a loss means you’re buying your own beer for a week. But the grind? The constant ache, the ice baths, the double practices and midnight bus rides for a shot at maybe, possibly, not sucking?

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I think I’ve been trying to be something I’m not. For Dad’s legacy. For the town. For all of you.”

Bennett shrugs. “None of that matters if you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it. I just… I think I like the idea of it more than the day-to-day.”

Bennett leans forward, elbows on his knees. “So what do you like?”

I don’t even hesitate. “Coaching the kids. The Mega Mites. That day at the rink with them? I haven’t felt that good about hockey in a long time.”

He nods like he’s known the answer the whole time. “Then maybe that’s the dream. Doesn’t have to be mine. Or Boone’s. Or Dad’s. But it has to be yours.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not. But it is simple.”

I exhale slowly. “What if I let people down?”

“You already are. The good news? You can stop.”

I blink at him, caught off guard by how un-Bennett that sounded.

My skates creak against the floor as I stare down at my hands, still shaking a little. I press my knuckles into my thighs and try to slow my breathing. The rink’s chill seeps through my gear, making the whole world feel a little sharper, a little more real. I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears—every word Bennett said sticking to my ribs.

He stands, stretches his back with a groan. “Also, if you cry, I’m calling Mom.”

“Go to hell.”

He grins. “I live there. Rent-free.”

I finish unlacing my skates, every movement feeling heavier than it should. The rest of the guys have already filtered out—voices echoing down the hall, the smell of sweat and winter air fading as the locker room empties. I stuff my gear in my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head out.

The arena’s cold in the late afternoon, the kind of cold that gets under your skin and sticks. My boots squeak on the rubber mats as I make my way past the darkened concession stand, past Virgil cursing at a loose bolt on Sleetwood Mac, and out into the gray parking lot. My breath clouds in the air. The only thing waiting for me is my truck, a dusting of snow on the hood and an empty passenger seat.

Joely’s message is gone.

For a second, I stand in front of the empty sign, glove pressed to the metal yards below where her crooked letters used to be. The cold stings my palm, and I let myself miss what it meant. Just for a second. Then I turn away, heading for my truck with a new ache in my chest.

Virgil fixed it. No more letters strung in blocky black letters. No more late-night declarations that made me feel like I was worth something more than a stat sheet. Now it’s back to the basics: “HOME GAME FRIDAY—SLAMMERS VS. BULLDOGS.” Just another lineup. Another night under the lights.

And that’s what I feel like—just another name on the roster. Something people watch because it’s tradition not because they actually believe I matter.

I drive around Sorrowville like the answers might be hiding in the snowbanks. Like clarity might be tucked between the antique shop and the bakery. But this town doesn’t hold answers. It holds memories—ones I’ve been dragging behind me like a bag of busted pucks.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder. It’s Madeline. I pull over to safety before I read her text.

Madeline: News crew wants a follow-up story. Mega Mites program. They want YOU. Big local feature. You in?

I stare at the message.

It’s like someone cracked open the door and left the light on. A way forward that feels like mine.

I tap out a quick reply: I’m in.

I text Joely next.

Me: You busy tonight?

Three dots.

Joely: Depends. Why?

Me: Thinking about pizza. Thinking about you. Thinking about both of those things happening at the same time.

Joely: Is this your idea of a date?

Me: Wouldn’t dare. I’ve seen you with garlic knots. I’m not that brave.

Joely: I could be talked into it.

I grin, for real this time. Not the fake, crowd-pleasing, team morale grin. The kind that shows up when everything makes sense for five minutes in a row.

My house is quiet by the time I get back. Bennett’s still there, stretched out across the couch like he owns the place, taping up his stick even though practice is long over. That’s Bennett—always doing something just for the sake of doing something.

“Thought you ghosted,” he says, without looking up.

“Nah. Just needed air.”

“Air, huh?” He rips a strip of tape, smooths it down, and finally lifts his head. “That what they’re calling existential dread these days?”

I chuckle, dragging my gear bag through the hallway and dropping onto the floor across from him. “You ever feel like you’ve been chasing someone else’s dream?”

He shrugs. “Sure. Usually when I’m dating women who shop exclusively at Lululemon and think hockey’s just ‘that game on ESPN.’”

I crack a smile, but it fades fast. “I’m serious. I don’t think I ever chose this. I think I just didn’t want to disappoint Dad. Or Mom. Or anyone.”

He watches me for a beat, then tosses the tape aside. “You know what I think?”

“Here we go.”

“I think you’ve been playing hockey like it’s a job interview, not a passion. Like you’re scared to lose something you don’t even want.”

“That’s messed up.”

“Maybe. But it tracks.” Bennett leans forward, elbows on knees. “You think Joely fell for a stat line? She fell for you, dumbass. The guy who helps kids lace their skates just right. Who’ll make snow angels with toddlers right in the middle of town square, and then talk hockey with their parents. That’s the guy who matters. She doesn’t give two shits about whether or not you’re a Slammer. She just wants you to love what you do.”

I run a hand through my hair, exhale hard. “I just want to get it right. For her. For me.”

“Then stop trying to be what everyone else expects and start being what you actually are.”

“What am I, then?”

Bennett grins. “A goon with a heart of gold and the emotional maturity of a Roomba.”

I snort. “Screw you.”

“You’d miss me if I was gone.”

“Not immediately.”

Bennett gets up and slaps my shoulder on the way out. “Go see your girl. Tell her what you want. You’re not as confusing as you think, Brogan.”

I’m not sure he’s right.

But now I know where I’m going.