Page 29

Joely

Some towns wake up slowly, but I never really sleep. I hold my breath through every fresh fall of snow, every distant siren, every new sign on the marquee—half-expecting heartbreak, half-daring hope. This morning, the light cuts through the clouds just right, making my salt-stained streets almost shimmer. Somewhere, worker clocks in to the job. Virgil fires up the Zamboni. And in houses all across town, old dreams rattle the windows while new ones try to sneak in. No matter what the day brings, one thing is always true: my citizens keep showing up for each other, even when it hurts.

Playlist: If We Were Vampires by Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit

I struggle through the painkiller haze to wake all the way up, and stifle a groan. My phone is charging on the dresser, screen lit up with missed texts. After tossing the covers off, I spot my crutches on the wall right next to it. Damn it. Why did I leave them just out of reach? I try to swing my legs over but before I can hobble my way into the world’s slowest action sequence, the front door opens.

My stomach rumbles, but my ankle throbs harder. I eye the painkillers on the nightstand, willing them to float across the room like I’ve suddenly developed telekinesis. No dice. I consider calling for Brogan, but pride—and the last shreds of my dignity—say, “Wait two more seconds.”

“Hold up,” Brogan calls, stepping inside. He must have used the key I gave him last time when he insisted he could take care of me. His hair’s still damp from a shower, and he’s got a takeaway coffee cup in one hand and a pharmacy bag in the other. “Dammit, I have bad timing again. Sorry.”

After he helps me through my morning routine again, Brogan plops down beside me on the edge of the bed like he lives here. Like he’s done it a hundred times. And maybe, in a hundred different dreams I’ve had since I was sixteen, he’s done exactly this.

He helps me brush my hair, gentle with the tangles. “You could be a professional, you know,” I mumble as he coaxes a snarl loose.

“Thought about it,” he says, smirking. “BroFetti’s House of Hair & Hockey. You think Sorrowville’s ready?”

“Gisele wouldn’t be able to stand the competition.”

He nods toward the pill bottle. “You sure you don’t need help getting that thing open?”

I already have it twisted open and one white oval pressed between my fingers. “You kidding? I’ve been training for this moment my whole life.”

He snorts and hands me a protein bar. I take a bite so I don’t have to admit that my hands are trembling. Not from the injury. From him. From how soft his eyes look right now.

“So,” I say after swallowing, “I guess you came over to check on the invalid. Very heroic of you.”

“Actually, I came over to tell you something.” His voice shifts. Not deep and brooding like one of those romance book guys but serious in a way that puts me on high alert. “And yeah, check on you. But mostly the thing.”

“You brought coffee. I can’t be mad.”

He smiles but doesn’t meet my eyes right away. Instead, he’s fiddling with the contents of the pharmacy bag. Pulling out my stupid pink fuzzy socks from earlier like they belong there next to a bottle of ibuprofen and a pack of gum.

“Did I tell you how I got into hockey?”

“Not exactly,” I say slowly. “I always assumed it was a Foster thing. Your dad. Your brothers.”

“Yeah. That’s it.” He exhales and leans back on one elbow, staring at the ceiling like it might have the words for him. “They love hockey. Like—live for it. And I was the kid who tagged along, wanting to be just like them. I was good at it. Still am. But somewhere along the way I forgot to ask myself if it was mine.”

I pause, halfway through another bite. “Are you saying…?”

“I’m saying I’m not like them, Joely. I like hockey. I’m decent. But I don’t wake up itching to get on the ice. I never have.”

He finally looks at me, and it’s not fear I see there—it’s honesty. And something like relief. Like this is the first time he’s ever said it out loud.

“Do you like me playing hockey?” he asks, voice soft now.

I put the protein bar down.

“I like you being happy,” I say simply.

He nods once, then leans in and brushes his thumb along the edge of my wrist. “I’m happiest right here.”

Grabbing a blanket, Brogan tucks it around me, plumping up the pillows behind my back like he’s building a nest. Then he grabs the remote and lines up something dumb on TV— cartoons, a hockey blooper reel, whatever will make me laugh without jostling my cast. It’s excessive, and a little embarrassing, but I let him. Because right now, being babied by Brogan Foster is my new favorite form of physical therapy.

And maybe it’s the pain meds kicking in. Or maybe it’s him finally letting me see all the parts he’s been hiding. But either way, I feel something inside me settle.

Like this is where he belongs.

Like maybe he’s finally found his own ice to skate on.

“You’re not happy playing,” I say, and it comes out quiet. Matter-of-fact. Like saying the sky’s blue or that I’ve been in love with him since third grade. Undeniable.

Brogan lets out this breath—long and slow—and then scrubs a hand down his face like he’s trying to wipe off years of pretending.

“I thought I had to be,” he mutters. “That if I didn’t keep going, I’d disappoint everyone. My dad. My brothers. The team. You. Because if you live in Sorrowville, and you’re not a Slammer, you’re nothing.”

“Me?” I blink. “How could you possibly disappoint me?”

“You believed in me.” His eyes find mine. “You always believed I had it in me to be great. And I wanted to live up to that.”

My chest twists. “I didn’t believe in hockey. I believed in you.”

He looks at me like that’s a foreign concept. Like I’ve just offered him a blank sheet of paper when he’s only ever been handed expectations printed in ink.

“I guess I got so used to skating on someone else’s ice, I forgot I could build my own rink.” He laughs once, short and humorless. “Is that a metaphor? That was bad.”

“It was adorable. I’ll allow it,” I say, nudging his knee with mine. “So… what do you want now?”

He’s quiet for a second, then looks toward the window like the answer’s out there waiting for him.

“I want to work with the Mega Mites,” he says finally. “I want to teach them. Be the guy who makes hockey fun. Who helps them believe in themselves.”

I swear my heart does this little stumble-step. “You want to coach?”

“Yeah. And not in that fallback way, either. I don’t feel like I’m giving something up—I feel like I’m finally getting something right.” He leans toward me, voice softer now. “Will you still love me if I’m not a Slammer?”

I scoff. “I would love you if you were Brogan the garbage guy.”

He grins, but his thumb keeps circling my wrist, soothing, like he’s grounding himself to me. For a guy who spent a decade hiding his soft spots under chirps and chest bumps, this is as naked as he gets.

“Like, driving the truck,” I clarify. “Not just… rolling around in banana peels and used coffee grounds.”

Brogan grins, the first real grin since he walked in. “Good to know.”

And then he’s quiet again, the moment stretching between us like a held breath.

“You really mean that, don’t you?” he says, voice full of awe.

“I do.”

He takes my hand, threading our fingers together. “You’re the only thing I’m sure about right now, Jojo.”

That nickname. God. It’s like hearing my own name spoken in a different language—one that means more, says more.

I squeeze his hand. “Then you’re doing better than most.”

He exhales slowly, and for the first time, I see the weight of years start to lift from his shoulders. He’s not the same boy chasing a dream that was never his.

He’s the man who just claimed a new one.

And maybe… maybe he finally knows it’s okay that the dream is me.

I look down at our linked hands, the rough pad of his thumb gliding slowly over my wrist. It’s steady. Reassuring. And also kind of unfair, how even his hands feel like home.

“I meant what I said,” Brogan says, his voice low and serious. “I don’t care if people think I’m crazy for quitting. Or if the team razzes me. Or if Bennett builds a bonfire out of my gear. I just want to be happy. Really happy. Not the ‘smile for the camera’ kind of happy.”

I nod slowly. “And the Mega Mites make you happy?”

“They do,” he says. “Even little Tommy, who wiped out seventeen times in five minutes and tried to tape his gloves to his stick. I look at those kids and see a chance to help them fall in love with the game the right way. With joy, not pressure. Not expectations.”

I blink away the sting behind my eyes. “God, that’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. Emotionally. Not just…” I wave at his face. “You know.”

He grins, cocky. “I mean, feel free to keep complimenting my face. I work hard on it.”

I snort, and it turns into a giggle that won’t quit. And for a second, it’s just the two of us laughing like idiots on my bed—no injuries, no secrets, no looming expectations. Just us.

When I finally catch my breath, I ask, “So, what’s next?”

He leans back and stretches one arm over the back of the pillows. “I talk to Duff. Let him know where my head’s at. I finish the season out strong. Maybe I talk to Pru about coaching. I keep working with the Mites. I look into training certifications.”

“And me?” I ask, trying to sound casual, even though my whole soul is holding its breath.

He turns to me fully, those stormy hazel eyes softening in a way that makes my stomach flip. “You,” he says, brushing a finger down my cheek, “are the part I’m most sure about.”

My chest goes tight. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

He grins. “Wouldn’t be the first time. I have it on good authority that I’m quite the emotional experience.”

I swat him with a throw pillow. “You’re an experience alright.”

We fall quiet for a beat. Comfortable. The kind of silence that speaks louder than words.

“Hey,” I say. “Wanna do something stupid?”

His brow arches. “Define stupid.”

“We drive to The Rock and paint ‘Coach Brogan rules’ on it in obnoxious neon colors.”

He laughs. “Are you allowed to climb anything with a busted ankle?”

“Nope,” I say. “But you are.”

He groans, but he’s smiling. “I swear, Joely. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“And the life of you,” I say softly.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to my temple.

“Sounds like something that would look good on a water tower. I’ll bring the spray paint.”