Page 3

Joely

Here in my county, land of blue-collar backs, black coffee, and broken-in dreams, I’ve seen more crushes crash and burn than pucks slapped against the boards at Miner Arena. Joely Parnell’s holding the biggest torch since the city council tried to light the bonfire with damp wood and municipal shame. Everybody knows it. The Slammers know it. Hell, even the barstools know it. Except Brogan Foster. He’s skating through life like he doesn’t have a damn clue that his forever girl is standing three feet away, pouring beer like it’s not killing her a little more every time she watches him light up for someone else. But that’s the thing about my people. They don’t give up easily. Not on dreams. Not on love. Maybe someday, Joely Parnell will prove it. And then I’ll smile.

Playlist: Almost (Sweet Music) by Hozier

The tap lets out a violent hiss-pop, shooting a frothy stream of foam straight up my arm and across my apron like I’m the guest of honor at a frat party gone wrong.

“Son of a—” I slam the tap back, grabbing for a towel as sticky beer drips down to my elbow. Perfect. Nothing like smelling like an old dive bar.

“Need a hand?”

My head snaps up so fast I nearly whiplash myself. Of course it’s him. Brogan fucking Foster. Propped against the end of the bar like he lives here—like he doesn’t already live rent-free in my head. His stupidly perfect mouth quirks like this is the funniest thing he’s seen all day.

“Unless you’ve got a new keg under that hoodie, you’re useless to me,” I fire back, trying to sound casual, but my voice cracks on the word useless, betraying every humiliating ounce of what I actually feel when he looks at me like that.

Brogan leans in, dropping his voice low enough to curl right down my spine. “Gotta say, JoJo… you wear beer well.”

JoJo. God, kill me now.

I try to glare at him, but it’s basically impossible when he looks like that—hair all wild and messy like he just rolled out of bed (and probably did), blue flannel hanging open enough to show off a light smattering of chest hair, like he’s auditioning for some calendar featuring rugged lumberjacks. He’s got this scruffy jaw and these eyes—a sharp hazel that always see straight through me, no matter how hard I try to hide.

There’s always a half-smirk on his mouth, equal parts trouble and comfort, and just standing there, Brogan radiates a kind of effortless confidence I’ll never understand. If Sorrowville handed out medals for ‘guy most likely to ruin your focus,’ he’d win every damn year.

I force a laugh, wiping my arm like my skin isn’t buzzing just from him standing this close. “Flattered. Really. I’ll be sure to list it on my resume.”

Brogan’s already moving before I can shut the tap down for good, pushing off the bar with that lazy, unbothered swagger that makes half the women in Sorrowville sigh into their beers. He ducks behind the end of the counter as if I’m not standing right here, perfectly capable of handling my own damn mess.

I throw the towel on the bar with a slap. “I can do it, Foster.”

He crouches down in front of the cooler, shooting me a look over his shoulder. “Yeah, I know you can.” He pops the latch on the cooler door like it’s nothing. “I’ve seen your biceps.”

My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

His head snaps up like he’s just realized what he said out loud. “Shit. I mean—” He scrubs a hand down his face, already turning red. “That came out wrong.”

I cross my arms, trying not to smile like an idiot because of course it did. “Uh huh. Go on. Please, dig your hole deeper.”

He lets out a half-strangled laugh, hauling the empty keg out with a grunt. “What I meant was—you don’t need me to do this. But I want to. So… shut up and let me.”

And just like that, my heart forgets how to beat in any kind of normal rhythm. Because it’s nothing. Stupid. Small. A keg.

But to me?

It’s everything.

I swallow the lump clogging my throat and step back, giving him room. He switches out the keg like he’s done it a hundred times—which, to be fair, he probably has. His family does own the place. Still, he doesn’t have to do it tonight. Not when he looks about ten seconds away from falling apart.

And yet here he is… doing it anyway.

Before I can say something completely pathetic, like ‘thank you for changing my keg, you perfect human,’ the front door swings open with a gust of frozen air that makes every hair on my arms stand at attention.

The cold announces Britt’s arrival before she steps in, all business in her crisp suit that screams ‘I argue for a living.’ Great. Now I smell like Miller Lite, look like a wreck, and have to listen to Beth and Britt verbally joust over Brogan’s career while he’s standing right there.

Awesome.

She strides over, her heels clicking against the old, wooden floor like a metronome set to ‘anxious.’ “Hey, Joely,” she greets, though her eyes are scanning the room, probably counting heads or calculating the Slammer’s salary cap. Classic Britt, always multitasking.

Britt’s nod is all business, her gaze already sliding past us toward the back where Beth is probably eavesdropping with the stealth of a ninja in an apron.

And just like that, whatever fragile thing had been building between Brogan and me… poofs into thin air.

Because work is work. And hockey?

Hockey is life around here.

“Hey, Britt. Chili’s just about ready,” I say, motioning to the pot simmering behind me, its spicy aroma a promise of warmth and a touch of Beth’s culinary magic.

Beth zeroes in from the other end of the bar, wiping her hands on her apron as she approaches. She clocks that Brogan has already returned to his post by the back door before she says, “I thought you were the miracle worker. Look what you did with Heath.” She’s teasing, but there’s an edge to her words that’s sharper than the knives she uses to chop onions.

Britt sighs, the kind of exhalation that says, ‘I’ve had this conversation a dozen times today.’ “Heath’s a star. And I’m a lawyer not Anne Sullivan.”

Beth chuckles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m not asking you to teach the blind to read. Just get the kid a contract, so you don’t break his heart.”

“He has a contract. For now. Have his brothers teach him how to shoot. Or pass. Or… skate,” Britt retorts, her voice tinged with frustration and worry—a cocktail she’s been serving a lot lately.

“It’s not that bad,” Beth counters, but even she doesn’t seem convinced by her own reassurance.

“At some point, we need to talk about if this is what he really wants,” Britt adds, her gaze drifting towards the TV where another game flashes stats and player highlights.

I’ve been doodling on a coaster again, my pen dancing over the cardboard in aimless loops and swirls. My hand stops, the last swirl unfinished. The weight of her words feels like a puck to the gut. I’m really worried about Brogan. I’ve loved the man since grade school, long before he knew how to lace his skates right. I don’t want him to lose his dream. But watching from the sidelines, I’m not sure what I can do.

Beth seems to read my thoughts—or maybe it’s just the frown I can’t hide. She grabs the chili pot, her movements brisk. “I’ll talk to Brogan,” she declares, and it’s not a suggestion. It’s a promise from one mother hen to another.

She hands the to-go container over to Britt, who manages a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Beth.”

Britt leaves, the bell above the door jingling. I watch her go, the worry gnawing at me growing teeth. It’s not just Brogan’s contract that’s up in the air. It’s everything he is, everything we—all of us here—have come to love about him.

I toss the pen aside, the coaster looking like a storm hit it. I wish I could do more, say more. But for now, I wait, hope, and serve another round.

As the door closes behind Britt, the hum of conversation and laughter swells back up, filling the spaces she leaves behind. I should be used to this, the ebb and flow of bar noise, the way it can both soothe and smother. Tonight, though, it’s just white noise against the static of my thoughts.

The bar door swings open again before I can even get my heart rate under control. In floats Lucinda Jean Marigold—yes, her real name—wearing leggings that should be arrested for public indecency and a top that’s hanging on by a thread, daring gravity to finish the job.

Lucinda. One of the Slammer’s booster girls. Like a puck bunny, but the Walmart version.

I stiffen as she zeroes in on him like he’s the last prize in the damn claw machine at Sorrowville’s bowling alley. Brogan’s grin kicks up, cocky and effortless. God, that grin. I know that grin. I hate that grin. I live for that grin.

“LuLu,” he says, leaning over her like a goddamn snack—all lean muscle, tattoos curling over tan skin, abs like the universe personally chiseled them just to make my life miserable. His stupid flannel shirt is hanging open, showing off the full spread like he’s on the fucking menu. Because of course he is. He’s Brogan Foster. Sorrowville’s favorite mistake.

Lucinda does that annoying little shoulder wiggle she’s probably practiced in the mirror. “Brogan,” she purrs, dragging out every syllable like it’s a seduction.

Literally stab me with a cocktail skewer.

I grab the bar towel, twisting it so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in half.

He leans in closer to her, and—fuck me—he actually laughs. Laughs. The same deep, rough laugh that used to make me believe in things like hope and forevers. And I, imbecile that I am, got excited when he called me ‘JoJo’ earlier. That was just hours ago.

I feel like the world’s biggest idiot.

Because, of course, that’s all it ever was to him. I’m JoJo. She’s LuLu. Next, Bennett will probably be BenBen.

Leaning against the back counter, I let my gaze drift over to the dartboards where some of the regulars are lining up shots. Laughter erupts from a misfired dart, and it should make me smile. It usually does. But my chest feels tight, squeezed by the vise of what-ifs and if-onlys.

Everyone suspects I have a thing for Brogan. It’s the worst-kept secret in Power Play. From Beth’s knowing glances to the teasing nudges from the other Slammers, it’s a communal acknowledgment, except for the one person who matters. Brogan, blissfully unaware, skates around my feelings with the same ease he usually skates on ice—effortlessly and without a single stumble.

My mind flicks back to countless moments shared in this very bar, laughter mixed with the clink of glasses. Those nights when his smile seemed to be just for me, when I let myself believe maybe, just maybe, he saw me as more than Joely the bar manager, unofficial Slammer little sister, or maybe just a bit more than a friend. My heart throbs painfully at the thought, a dull, sweet ache that’s all too familiar.

The scent of lime and tequila pulls me back to the present, to the margarita I’m mixing. My hands go through the motions, but my thoughts are syrupy slow, thick with memories of Brogan’s laughter, the warmth of his eyes. The way my name sounds different when he says it, like it’s a promise he doesn’t know he’s making.

Catching myself before I can spiral further, I slam the mental door on those thoughts. This isn’t the time for daydreams. Not when his career, his future, hangs by a thread as frayed as my nerves.

Turning to face the bar, I plaster on the requisite smile, and serve up the drinks. Yet, as the evening wears on, the facade cracks. Each laugh feels a step out of sync, each cheer a note off-key. I’m here but not here. Part of me is with Brogan, wondering how he’s handling the pressure, if he’s thinking about his contract.

The idea that he might not want hockey—the very thing that defines so much of who he is and what we are to each other—is a cold splash of reality. What would that mean for us? For the future I haven’t let myself fully imagine?

A couple at the end of the bar waves for another round, pulling me from my reverie. I fix their drinks with a mechanical efficiency, my smile fixed, my heart not in it.

As the night winds down, the last of the regulars cling to their conversations like the ice clinging to their glasses. Beth ambles over, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyes twinkling with that mix of mischief and maternal wisdom that always prefaces a lecture or a laugh—sometimes both.

“I’m going to start charging you for the coasters since you’re using them for your art projects,” she declares, picking up one of my latest doodle masterpieces—a particularly fluffy rendition of Brogan’s name tangled in hearts.

I chuckle, sliding the coaster under an abandoned drink to hide the evidence. “This is why I stopped doodling on the napkins.”

Beth smirks, shaking her head. “I know. This isn’t cheaper. Also…” She leans in, lowering her voice as if about to share state secrets. “Could we discuss the puppy dog eyes?”

I freeze, the coaster halfway to its hiding place. “These aren’t puppies. Or clouds. They’re puffy letters.”

“Yes. And they spell out Brogan + Joely. I can read. I meant the way you look at him,” Beth says, her tone softening.

“Oh, hell.” My face heats up more than the chili pot simmering behind me.

Beth laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Yeah. Maybe dial direct. But not here. Like…”

“At a bonfire in front of the team? Pass. Oh…or at the arena in front of the town? Pass again,” I reply, trying to muster humor to cover my embarrassment.

“So… what are your options to declare yourself to my most ignorant son?”

“I don’t have any.” I sigh, the sound lost in the clink of glasses and the low hum of the fading crowd. “I hold it in until I die.”

Beth arches an eyebrow. “Okay, well don’t announce your passing on a coaster. Speaking of which…it’s that time. We order the holiday coasters tomorrow.” She hands me the order form, her fingers brushing mine with a silent solidarity that only Beth can communicate. “Here’s the order form and the sample. This year… red and green.”

“How exciting,” I murmur, the sarcasm dripping like the tap that needs fixing.

“It is. Everyone loves the holiday coasters.”

I take the form, my fingers tracing the edges of the sample coaster—red and green, cheerful and bright, a stark contrast to the grey knot of anxiety in my chest. The festive colors should lift my spirits, signal joy and celebration. Instead, they’re just another reminder of the facade I maintain. Smiling, serving, hiding.

Turning the heavy paper over in my hands, I ponder Beth’s words. She’s right; the scribbles, the doodles, they’re all whispers of a voice I’ve muted for too long. Everyone sees it, everyone knows it—everyone except Brogan. And what’s worse, I’m not sure he’d want to hear it even if I found the courage to tell him.

“Thanks, Beth,” I finally say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I’ll get these ordered.”

She nods, giving my shoulder a squeeze that feels like an anchor in the swirling sea of my thoughts. As she walks away, I tuck the order form under the bar. As the last of the patrons trickle out, the noise of the night dwindling to a few leftover laughs and the clink of glasses being gathered up, I find myself alone with my thoughts and the closing duties.

I wipe down the counters with slow, methodical sweeps, the motion familiar and grounding. The rough texture of the rag against the wood, the squeak and drag of it, fills the quiet moments between my thoughts, which tonight just like most every night, are all about Brogan.

Beth’s voice snaps me out of my spiral. “Go home, Joely. You’ve done enough for tonight.”

I glance up, expecting another lecture or a list of things I missed. But she just leans on the bar, watching me like she already knows the war I’m waging in my head.

“I’ve got the rest,” she adds, nodding toward the rag in my hand. “You need sleep. You’re back at it tomorrow.”

I hesitate, but there’s no point arguing. Not when Beth’s already untying her apron like she’s dismissing me with a damn period at the end of the sentence.

I grab my coat and head for the back door, the sticky bar mats squishing under my boots one last time. The wind hits me the second I step into the alley, slicing through my jacket like it’s paper. My little rental house isn’t far, but tonight, it feels like a hundred miles. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and start walking.

Beth locks up behind me, turning toward the stairs that lead to her apartment above the bar. She catches my eye one more time, her expression softer than usual.

“Get some rest, kid,” she calls. “Tomorrow’s a new game.”

I nod, but my throat feels tight. Because tomorrow… tomorrow, I’m done playing safe. Tomorrow, I take my shot—whatever the hell that means.

I turn toward home, leaving Beth and my dignity in the dust.