Page 30

Brogan

I can spot a big gesture from a mile away. The kind that turns heads, starts rumors, and fills every barstool with a new version of the story before sunset. I’ve seen my share of proposals at halftime, pickup trucks with painted windows, and enough prom-posals to last three generations, but this—Brogan Foster dangling from a cherry picker with fishing line and a red-letter sign flapping in the February wind—might just set a new record for “ridiculous and heartfelt.” People slow down on Main Street. Phones come out. Even Virgil, usually immune to romance, pretends not to watch from behind old Sleetwood Mac. I tell myself I’m not sentimental, but deep down, this is what keeps me coming back: a place where even the hardest hearts get sucker-punched by love and a crooked sign is enough to make all my citizens believe in happy endings again.

Playlist: Still by The Japanese House

The contract sits in my passenger seat, buckled in like it’s a damn newborn.

It’s not even a thick stack—just a few pages of legal speak and HR lingo—but it feels heavier than any offer I’ve ever gotten. No zeroes at the end of this one. No bonus clause. Just… fulfillment. A job title that doesn’t come with bruises or the weight of family expectations.

Head Coach, Sorrowville Mega Mites.

It sounds kinda ridiculous when I say it out loud. But it also sounds right.

There’s no late-night bus rides or getting benched if I have a bad day. No wondering if I’ll get traded or released. Just early evenings, Saturday afternoons, squeaky skates, kids who still think a backwards crossover is magic. I’ll teach them what I know, and hopefully, they’ll fall in love with the game without the pressure that nearly crushed me.

I’m not getting rich coaching squirts and peewees, but it’s enough to build a real life. The Mega Mites job pays steady—decent city money, solid benefits, respect that comes from giving back. I’ll fill the gaps with private lessons, off-season camps, maybe snag a couple local endorsements if I play my cards right. It won’t be flashy, but it’ll be enough. Enough for a mortgage, enough for the kind of family dinners I had growing up, enough for the future I want with Joely—even if we have a whole houseful of little Fosters one day.

I tap the steering wheel and glance at the clock. Joely’s still at work. I’ve got time.

Pulling out my phone, I scroll to Bennett’s contact. This is either going to be genius or the dumbest plan I’ve ever had. But if I’ve learned anything over the last couple months, it’s that the right kind of chaos is exactly what makes life worth living.

He picks up on the second ring. “What do you want?”

“I could just be calling to say hi.”

“You could,” he says. “But you’re calling me in the middle of the day. You’re bored. Your girl’s at work. You don’t know what to do with yourself.”

“You’re only half right. I know what to do. I just need help.”

“And there it is,” he mutters. “So, I ask again—what do you want?”

I grin. “Wanna meet me at the arena with the cherry picker?”

He goes quiet. That always means he’s intrigued.

“Is this about the sign?”

“Yes.”

“Will it piss off Virgil?”

“Definitely.”

“Any chance he’ll be there?”

“Probably.”

I can almost hear him smirk. “See you in twenty. I’ll bring schnapps. An entire case.”

I hang up, toss my phone onto the seat, and glance at the contract again. Then I open the glove box and pull out Joely’s bracelet—the one she gave me when we were eight. I still wear it sometimes when I need to remember who I am.

Today, I don’t need the reminder.

I’m not just Brogan Foster, Slammer forward. I’m Brogan Foster, future coach, boyfriend of a badass, and proud owner of a plan so sweetly stupid, it might actually work.

Time to make a sign.

Bennett rolls up in the beat-up family truck. The cherry picker’s strapped in the back like it’s a siege weapon, and I swear to God, he’s wearing aviators like this is Top Gun: Sign Edition .

“You ready to piss off a grumpy old man and potentially get banned from the arena for life even though we both work here?” he calls out as he hops down.

“I was born ready.”

“Also, I brought backup.” He points to a case of alcohol in the truck bed clearly pilfered from out mother. “Peppermint schnapps. The official drink of bribing Virgil into silence.”

“Nice.” I grab the cherry picker controls and gesture toward the arena. “Let’s do this.”

We get everything lined up, avoiding the Zamboni garage like it’s enemy territory. Sleetwood Mac is parked outside, but I don’t see Virg yet. The sign looms overhead, blank and expectant. My palms sweat just looking at it.

I pull out the plastic tote I packed this morning with carefully cut-out red letters and a roll of fishing line. I might not be the artsy one—that’s more Joely’s jam—but I managed to print out block letters big enough to get the point across.

“‘Joely, will you be my girlfriend?’” Bennett reads, arching a brow. “Kinda basic.”

“Basic gets the job done.”

“Like missionary.”

“Jesus, Bennett.”

He snickers and slaps the cherry picker’s side. “Let’s get you up there, Romeo.”

I strap in, haul the letters up with me, and start threading them through the rig. It takes longer than I thought—fishing line tangles like my brain on a bad day—but eventually, I’ve got it. Each red letter hangs from the edge of the sign like a Valentine’s Day ransom note. The wind flaps them a little, but they’re secure.

I’m tying off the last knot when I hear the roar of a golf cart. I peer down just in time to see Virgil skidding into the lot like a NASCAR driver with a vendetta.

“Goddammit, Foster!” he yells, shaking a wrench. “You better be replacing the bulbs I asked for last year!”

Bennett steps in like he’s been rehearsing. “Hey, Virg. How do you feel about a nice warm beverage?”

Virgil squints. “Depends. Is it cocoa or booze?”

Bennett reaches in back and pulls out a full bottle. “Tis the season.”

Virgil grumbles, but the wrench drops. “One of these days, you two are gonna be the death of me.”

“Not today.” I grin as I descend.

Virgil eyes the sign, sighs, then takes the bottle. “This better be worth it.”

“It is.”

He snorts. “Young love, vandalism, and alcohol. Warms the heart and the body.”

Bennett slaps him on the back. “Atta boy. You’re practically Cupid.”

“Cupid doesn’t have back problems.”

Virgil mutters all the way back to the Zamboni bay, bottle tucked in his coat like a peace offering. I step back, eyes locked on the sign. It’s askew. Slightly uneven. Possibly illegal.

But it’s perfect.

Now all I need… is her.

Bennett props his boot up on the cherry picker and squints up at the sign. “It’s a little crooked.”

“It’s heartfelt,” I counter, arms crossed like that’s going to protect me from second-guessing every damn letter placement.

He shrugs. “Girls like heartfelt. Especially when it comes in red plastic and fishing line.”

“Do you think she’ll say yes?”

Bennett gives me a look. “You practically live at her house, idiot. Pretty sure you’re past the will you go out with me phase. She deserves the label and so do you.”

“Still feels important.”

He eyes me for a long second, then nods once. “Yeah. It is.”

I check my phone. Joely should be finishing up her lunch with Lynsie soon. That gives me maybe fifteen minutes to get everything in place. I open the cooler I packed—blankets, hot chocolate, those shitty sugar cookies she pretends not to like but devours when no one’s watching. I toss in a little Bluetooth speaker, just in case I get brave enough to play Your Body is a Wonderland and completely ruin the mood.

“Alright,” I say, brushing my hands on my jeans. “Time to call in the big guns.”

I dial Virgil.

“What do you want?” he barks without preamble. “I just left you two idiots.”

“You know that thing you said earlier? About helping true love?”

“God help me,” he mutters. “What now?”

“I need you to pick up Joely from the bar. Bring her here. She’s gonna be suspicious if I do it.”

There’s a pause. Then, “Can I take Sleetwood Mac?”

I grin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He hangs up. No goodbye. Just the rumble of the Zamboni starting up in the distance a moment later.

Bennett raises an eyebrow. “You’re really sending the love of your life across town in a floor buffer with wheels?”

“She likes Virgil.”

“No one likes Virgil.”

“She… tolerates Virgil. And she loves Sleetwood Mac.”

“She loves Fleetwood Mac, ” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

We both pause, listening to the chug-chug of the Zamboni echoing through the alley.

Bennett crosses his arms. “You better marry that girl. Just so this story has a good ending.”

I watch the lights of Sleetwood Mac disappear down Main Street like a knight on a squeaky, slow-moving steed.

“Working on it,” I say.

Then I pace.

And pace some more.

Every light breeze makes the letters twitch. Every creak of the cherry picker has me rechecking knots. Every second without Joely makes me wonder if this was all too much—or not enough.

But I wait. Because this time, I’m not running.

This time, I’m all in.

The chug of Sleetwood Mac gets louder, echoing off Main Street like a slow-motion parade float driven by a man who’s never obeyed a single traffic sign. The Zamboni shudders to a stop at the curb, hazard lights blinking, and Virgil leans out the window like he’s about to toss candy at a parade.

I’m already jogging over, heart pounding. Joely’s perched up there, cast and all, trying to look casual, but I can see the stubborn set of her jaw. No way am I letting her try to jump down on her own.

“Don’t even think about it,” I call, climbing up the step before she can argue. She rolls her eyes, but there’s relief in the way her fingers curl into my jacket when I scoop her up—careful with her cast, careful with all of her.

“I could’ve managed, Foster,” she mutters, cheeks flushed.

“Not a chance,” I say, grinning as I carry her down and set her gently in the snow—like she’s the most important thing I’ve ever handled. Which, let’s be real, she is.

Virgil leans out the Zamboni window. “Drop her, and I’ll make sure Sleetwood Mac haunts your dreams.”

Joely throws him a salute from the safety of my arms. “Next sign’s got your name on it, Virg. Finally, the recognition you deserve.”

“You sure you don’t want a police escort, Parnell?” Virgil deadpans, voice carrying through the air. “Not sure I trust this particular Foster. But at least you got VIP drop-off for your meeting with the Slammer’s resident HO. Sleetwood Mac demands a tip, Foster—cash or whiskey, your choice.”

He winks, throws the Zamboni into gear, and rumbles off. I keep my arm around her, just in case she tries to prove a point. Truth is, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of being the guy who gets to carry her.

I help her under the sign, hand on the small of her back like she’s glass and I’ve just realized how badly I want to take care of her. She leans against me, and I swear I’m not even cold anymore.

“You gonna answer me officially?” I ask, nudging her with my shoulder.

Joely lifts her eyes to the sign one more time and then back to me. “You went all out for this.”

I shrug. “Minimal climbing. Maximum romantic impact. And I figured if I fell off the cherry picker, at least you’d be there to supervise my ER visit, since you know your way around the place.”

She chuckles, and the sound hits me like a shot of whiskey—warm, sharp, unforgettable.

“Is that a yes?” I press, half-teasing, half-holding-my-breath.

Joely turns to face me, tugging lightly at the front of my jacket until I’m inches from her.

“I’ve been your girl since the third grade,” she says softly. “But yes, I’ll be your girlfriend officially.”

And damn if that doesn’t knock the wind right out of me.

I can’t help it. I pull her in, slow this time, forehead to forehead, like we’re sixteen again and both terrified to make the first move. “I know it’s just a word, but it matters, Jojo. I want everyone to know. I want you to know.”

She grins, lips trembling just a little. “You planning on making a big Facebook announcement, Foster? Maybe a slideshow? A skywriter?”

“I’d do it,” I say, dead serious. “Don’t test me. I already risked death by cherry picker for this.”

Joely laughs, but there’s a wet shine in her eyes. “You’re such a dork. But you’re my dork. And I’m all in, okay? Like, stupid in. Like, buy-matching-flannel-and-post-cringey-couple-pics in.”

I tilt her chin so she has to see my face. “Promise?”

She lifts her hand, pinky extended, just like we used to do on the playground. “Promise.”

I link my pinky with hers and, for a second, I’m back to being that clueless kid who didn’t know how to ask for what he wanted. Only now I do.

“Be my everything, Joely,” I whisper, barely loud enough for the wind to hear. “Not just my girlfriend. Be my person. My first call, my last text, my ‘who gets the last slice of pizza’ forever.”

She pulls me close, buries her face in my jacket. “Only if you promise to always pick me up when I fall off ladders. And occasionally bring me snacks.”

“I’ll bring you snacks for life, babe. Even if you start requesting the weird pickled herring shit from Pru’s mini fridge.”

She snorts. “God, don’t tempt me.”

I brush my lips across her hairline, her nose, finally her mouth. This time, the kiss isn’t frantic or desperate. It’s slow and sweet and stupidly perfect. She clings to me like she’s scared I’ll disappear, and I realize—I’m never going anywhere. Not again.

When we finally pull back, her cheeks are flushed from more than the cold.

“You know this is just the beginning, right?” I say, brushing a strand of windblown hair off her cheek. “We’ve got a lot of firsts to cover. Like a real first date. And ice cream. And a meet-the-parents moment that’s not just… my mom yelling from behind the bar.”

Joely laughs again. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

She lifts a brow.

“Okay. I’m nervous. But also psyched. And weirdly sweaty despite it being below freezing.”

“You’re a walking contradiction, Foster.”

“Yeah,” I say, bumping her nose with mine. “But I’m your walking contradiction.”

Behind us, Virgil clears his throat so loudly it echoes. He must have parked Sleetwood Mac in the garage and jogged right back to put his two cents in.

“You two done makin’ out under my sign?”

“Your sign?” I ask.

He crosses his arms. “Didn’t see your name on the lease. Also, you left your ladder. Again.”

Joely leans into me. “You’re gonna have to buy him another bottle of schnapps, aren’t you?”

“Bennett already handled it.”

Then Bennett appears, holding up a phone. “I recorded all of it. You’re going viral, little bro.”

“You didn’t.”

“Say ‘coasters’, and I’ll send it to Mom.”

I groan. Joely beams.

Bennett whoops in the background, snapping a photo just as I spin Joely in a careful, cast-friendly half circle. Virgil’s grumbling, but even he’s got a smile hiding behind that scowl.

This is it. The crowd, the chaos, the town that never lets you go. And right in the middle—us. No hiding. No secrets. Just two idiots in love under a crooked sign.

I look down at Joely, and she grins up at me, the kind of grin that makes a guy believe in all the cheesy forever stuff.

“Hey, Foster,” she says, voice soft. “You gonna stand here all night, or you gonna take your girlfriend to the Power Play for a Diet Coke and some wings?”

“Girlfriend,” I echo, loving the way it sounds in her mouth. “I could get used to that.”

Scooping her up bridal-style, I’m careful not to jostle her cast. She rolls her eyes—something about being perfectly capable on crutches—but I’m not hearing it. I settle her gently into the front seat, tucking her puffy coat around her and making sure her leg is stretched out just right. I even lean in to buckle her seat belt, double-checking that it’s not digging into her shoulder.

“You know I’m not made of glass, right?” she mutters, but there’s a flush on her cheeks that says she loves every second of it.

I brush a kiss across her forehead. “Yeah, but you’re mine. That’s basically the same thing.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, soft and happy, and for once, I don’t care if anyone in Sorrowville sees.

And yeah—this is just the beginning.