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Brogan

Funny thing about me—I don’t just watch my boys fall apart, I document it like it’s folklore, like it’s my civic duty to remember every glorious rise and every slow-motion crash. And if you think for one second my people aren’t lined up at Power Play rehashing it over wings and whiskey, then you clearly haven’t been paying attention. On my hallowed streets, we love a hero, but we live for a trainwreck, and tonight, our golden boy Brogan “BroFetti” Foster just rolled out a front-row seat to the biggest disaster since Holden’s bachelor party at the bowling alley when Slammy accidentally twerked his foam ass into the nacho cheese dispenser—so buckle up, buttercup, because you can bet your last Fireball shot that this mess isn’t over, not by a long shot. Between you and me, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion the best (or worst) is yet to come.

Playlist: Let’s Dance by David Bowie

I’m sitting across from Franklin in his cluttered office, the walls crowded with memorabilia that smells of old victories and stale cigar smoke. He’s laid it out bluntly: up my game or it’s the bench for me. “Work with Madeline,” he suggests, pointing his thick finger toward the door. “She’s got ideas, fresh ones. Might help sway the fans, get the buzz back around your name.”

Madeline, the new Slammers publicist who slid into Tierney’s spot after Declyn hit the big dance, waits just outside. When I nod and stand to leave Franklin’s office, she meets me with a clipboard in hand, her eyes bright with what I can only guess are marketing strategies and social media campaigns.

As we walk down to the locker room, her heels click in a steady, rapid beat against the concrete, echoing off the walls of the empty hallway. “Brogan, we need to boost your image, make you a fan favorite again. How do you feel about TikTok?”

“TikTok?” I repeat, skepticism probably painted all over my face.

“Yes, it’s perfect for fan engagement. There’s a dance trending—lots of athletes are doing it. It could really humanize you, make you relatable,” she explains with a fervor that almost makes me believe in the power of dancing on camera.

Madeline introduces me to Harper, a spry young woman with a camera practically glued to her hand, our official social media guru. “She’ll film it, and we’ll upload it to the Slammer’s channel. What do you say?”

I’m not much of a dancer, more a glider on the ice where my skates do the fancy work. The thought of dancing, of being out there without my gear, feels more daunting than a tiebreaker shootout.

“Just a few steps,” Harper chimes in, her smile encouraging. “We’ll make it fun. Think of it as a play, but off the ice.”

As I look from Harper’s eager face to Madeline’s expectant one, I realize this might be just the breakaway play I need off the ice to keep my game alive on it. “Alright, let’s give it a shot,” I concede, figuring I’ve faced tougher opponents than a dance routine. Maybe it’s time to show the fans that I can do more than just shoot and skate—maybe I can dance, too.

Madeline gestures for me to follow her down the corridor leading to the locker room. The closer we get, the louder the sounds of pre-game prep become—sticks clattering, skates scraping, and my teammates’ voices melding into the familiar chaos that always precedes a game. It’s comforting, at least until I remember why Madeline’s tagging along tonight.

Stepping into the locker room, the smell of sweat and determination hits me like a slapshot. The guys are suiting up, their banter bouncing off the walls, adding to the pre-game energy that’s almost tangible.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask Madeline, trying not to let my teammates hear the hesitation in my voice.

“Yes. This is your time to shine,” she responds with a confidence I wish I could mirror.

“Why me?” I mutter, half-hoping she’ll back down.

“Rumor has it, we need to up your star power for contract negotiations,” Madeline explains, a hint of mischief in her eyes.

“I see you’re friendly with Britt,” I comment, recalling the recent office gossip.

“She helped me acclimate. I owe her. Yes, we’re going to get you big money,” Madeline assures, her tone all business.

Bennett, overhearing, chimes in with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, “Spoken like someone who hasn’t seen him dance.”

“Harper and I worked together all afternoon, so we’d understand the trend,” Madeline counters, unfazed. “But don’t worry. This will be a breeze. Nothing complicated or anything.”

Bennett snorts, “I feel like you should know how this is going to work then. Whatever you say, Madeline.”

I rub the back of my neck, feeling the weight of their expectations and my own dread. “My brother’s right. I don’t dance.”

Bennett claps me on the shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips, “Yup. I’ve seen you. You don’t need to convince me.”

Madeline glances at her phone, then nudges me toward the bench. “Go get suited up. You’ve got warmups in ten, and we’ll need you ice-ready before the TikTok.” I nod, ducking into the back hallway where the rest of the guys are pulling on pads and snapping on helmets. I go through the routine—gear up, tape my socks, snap the chinstrap.

By the time I’m lacing up my skates, the tension in the locker room is peaking. The music’s louder, the jokes sharper, but it’s all noise as I move on autopilot, muscle memory from a thousand games kicking in. As I shrug into my warm-up jersey, Madeline and Harper reappear—Harper, at least, waiting just outside the main locker area with her camera and a nervous grin, only stepping inside once everyone’s fully dressed. Even she knows there are boundaries, and the locker room before a game isn’t the place for a photoshoot.

Despite the laughter from some of the others, anxiety twists in my gut. This isn’t just about a dance per se. I know I have to fight to keep my spot on the team and get my already pitiful contract renewed. I need to prove I can bring more to the table than just recent stats and missed shots.

“Tell me you have my back,” I say, locking eyes with Bennett.

He meets my gaze squarely, the earlier jest gone. “I have your back. As long as you’re not flat on it.”

Madeline steps closer, her voice commanding, “With feeling, Bennett. Your brother needs you right now.”

Bennett’s response is louder, for the benefit of the room, “I have your back!”

The guys echo him, a chorus of support that buoys my spirits slightly. Harper, the social media girl, edges into the room with her camera, her smile encouraging.

She catches my eye, nodding as if to say, You got this .

I take a deep breath, the cool, recycled air of the locker room filling my lungs. Around me, the team’s energy morphs from humorous to supportive, their faces set into determined lines that mirror the resolve I’m trying to muster.

As the guys file out onto the ice for warm-ups, I hang back with Madeline and Harper, stomach churning like I’ve just chugged a week-old protein shake.

The arena lights dim.

The PA crackles to life, and my blood runs cold.

“Ladieeeees and gentlemen... put your hands together for the one... the only... BroFetti!”

What the actual fuck?

A spotlight hits center ice, catching Slammy the goddamn Mascot already shimmying like his life depends on it. He’s got a giant glittery chain around his fuzzy neck that says #BroFetti, and the crowd loses their minds.

I glance at Harper.

She’s practically vibrating with excitement, already holding up her phone like she’s about to catch the greatest content of her life.

I lean toward Madeline. “Bro-Fetti?”

She shrugs, beaming. “Marketing gold.”

I’m gonna puke.

Harper gives me a double thumbs up, mouthing, “Get out there, BroFetti! Show ‘em how it’s done!”

I want to crawl under the bench and die.

Instead, I push off toward center ice, praying to every hockey god I’ve ever ignored that I don’t faceplant in front of eight thousand people.

“Alright, let’s do this,” I say, more to convince myself than them. As Harper sets up her equipment, I square my shoulders, focusing on the natural rhythm, determined to turn this into something that might just save my contract and my pride.

The stadium around me is a blur of anticipation and the cheering from the home crowd kicks in, echoing off the rafters. I nod to Harper, who gives me another thumbs up from behind her camera, and then there’s no turning back.

Desperate for some sort of approval, I turn toward the bench, expecting to see the guys ready to jump in or at least throw me a lifeline.

Nope.

They’re just standing there—silent, wide-eyed, like I’ve just declared myself Mayor of Cringeville, including my grumpy-ass elder brother who swore he would have my back.

And then, like the second-hand embarrassment isn’t bad enough, the speakers skip to the “Cha-Cha Slide.”

Are you fucking kidding me? We never talked about this!

I glance toward Harper, who gives me two thumbs up and mouths, “Do the slide!”

I shoot her a look that says, “I will fake an injury right now,” but she just keeps filming.

So, like a complete idiot, I start stepping to the left, stepping to the right, taking it back now, y’all, mouthing the words like my life depends on it.

And that’s when I realize… I’m not alone.

Slammy’s out there right behind me, crushing it.

The big bastard’s sliding, spinning, and moonwalking like he’s auditioning for So You Think You Can Mascot. His stupid foam feet somehow have more rhythm than I’ve had in my entire life.

And the crowd is losing their ever-loving minds.

My so-called friends and neighbors are on their feet, clapping along, chanting Slammy’s name like he’s the fucking main event, not me. Every cheer, every whoop, every goddamn cell phone light in the air is for the guy in the oversized hammer/man suit which we affectionately call the Mammer suit—not Brogan Foster, not BroFetti, not the desperate idiot cha-cha sliding for his career.

And because life is a sick joke, Slammy finishes with a backward worm that gets the biggest pop of the night.

I’m out here fighting for my life, and the fucking mascot just stole my soul.

It’s brutal. Worse than brutal. I’m one “cha cha real smooth” away from faking a groin pull just to get off the ice.

And that’s when Shep comes barreling out of the tunnel like he’s been shot out of a goddamn cannon.

“WOOOOOO!”

He skates past me, spins once, and starts twerking—twerking!—in the center of the rink.

The crowd starts to escalate, the din growing even louder, unsure if this is part of the bit or a full-blown mental breakdown.

And just when I think things can’t possibly get any worse, and that Britt will never be able to negotiate me a new contract, it happens.

BOOM!

A giant confetti cannon explodes above us, raining down black and silver paper like we’ve just won the Kelly Cup.

Shep throws his arms in the air like he’s Moses parting the sea, pointing to the rafters. “YEAH, BABY! THAT’S FOR ME!” he shouts, doing another lap, throwing fake kisses to the crowd.

And just like that, Lucinda’s frown is turned upside down. She even takes her top and pulls the deep V down a few inches until her ample tits are in danger of falling out.

For motherfucking Shep Sawyer.

Meanwhile, Harper’s doubled over, gasping, “BroFetti! Oh my god—BroFetti, you’ve done it!”

Bennett’s deadpan from the bench, not even cracking a smile. “Somebody take the phones away before this ends up on ESPN. Some of us take our careers seriously.”

In the sea of disapproval, my eyes desperately scan for Joely. Spotting her is like finding a lighthouse in a storm. Her face, open and concerned, offers a sliver of solace. For a moment, our eyes lock, and everything else falls away. The noise, the crowd, the sinking feeling of failure—it all fades.

In her chocolate brown eyes, I don’t see pity, just... understanding. It’s the kind of look that says she’s with me, in this moment, no matter how embarrassing it gets.

Pulling away from that comforting gaze, I skate over to Bennett, who’s managing to look both amused and sympathetic.

“You said you had my back,” I accuse, stopping hard enough that ice shavings scatter.

Bennett shrugs, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “I did. Your way, way back, BroFetti .”

The retort stings more than it should, given the circumstances. “You’re really hard to like sometimes,” I shoot back, the frustration of the moment making my words sharper.

“Same, dude,” Bennett replies, clapping me on the shoulder with a grin that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “It’s the family embarrassment that gets to me.”

As I skate off the ice, the boos still echoing in my ears, the humiliation is a heavy cloak around my shoulders. I pull myself together, the weight of the night still pressing down. I know there’ll be fallout, jokes at my expense, maybe even a clip or two going viral for all the wrong reasons. But amid that chaos, there’s a clarity forming, an understanding that sometimes, it takes a fall to really see who’s willing to help you back up—and who’s been at your side all along, just waiting for you to notice.

The puck drops, and I’m all adrenaline and shaky overcompensation. First shift, I overskate a pass that even Chance Sawyer’s peewee team could’ve landed. The puck slides right under my blade like it’s allergic to me. I clamp my jaw so tight my molars might crack.

I hear Bennett behind me on the bench, muttering under his breath, “Smooth.”

He doesn’t say it loud enough for anyone but me to hear, but it lands like a punch anyway.

Next shift, I push harder—too hard. I chase the puck like a fucking Golden Retriever on a tennis ball. I manage to snag it on a turnover, but the second I try to set up the shot, two defensemen collapse on me. My shot sails wide, slamming the glass with a hollow thunk that feels like a goddamn soundtrack to my career.

Back on the bench, Coach Duff doesn’t say a word, which is somehow worse than him going nuclear. He just tightens his jaw, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s trying to keep himself from yanking me off the bench permanently.

Shep leans in next to me, trying to break the tension. “You’re still my MVP, BroFetti. For the record.”

I shove his shoulder, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Blow me.”

Third period rolls around, and the ice feels heavier than it should. My legs are lead. My brain’s mud. The other team is toying with us now. Every shift is like skating through concrete. Every pass I touch turns to shit.

The fans are getting restless. I hear them groaning after every blown chance, the kind of groans that make your skin crawl and your heart sink. The ones that say, ‘we expected more from you’.

I catch Boone’s eye as I pass the bench, and he doesn’t say anything, either. Just scowls like I’m a busted gear in the family machine.

We pull Gage with two minutes left, desperate for a miracle. Spoiler alert—we don’t get one.

The other team scores the empty-netter. The place deflates like a popped balloon.

When the buzzer finally sounds, it feels like a mercy kill.

I skate off last, helmet low, chin tucked. The guys ahead of me bang their sticks on the boards, but it’s not celebration. It’s frustration. One by one, they peel off toward the tunnel.

I linger at center ice for a second too long. I can feel the eyes on me. The weight of every wrong move, every missed shot, every second I wasted dancing like a jackass for clicks instead of goals.

I hunch my shoulders and skate off after them, leaving every last shred of dignity in the arena. No one says much; nothing needs to be said. The clatter of sticks and the shuffle of skates on the concrete floor of the tunnel are the only sounds that follow us as we head to the locker room.

I don’t even make it to my stall before Bennett cuts in, voice low but sharp enough to slice me clean in half. “You gonna pull your head outta your ass sometime this season, or…?”

Since he’s forgone brother mode for captain mode, I don’t even bother looking at him. I just keep walking, letting his words ricochet around my skull like they’ve got nowhere else to go.

Shep’s standing at his locker, shaking his head like I personally ruined his night. “Should’ve let me take the last shift, BroFetti. I was feelin’ it.”

I shoot him a look that could burn the paint off the walls, but he just grins, like this—me falling apart—is all just a joke to him.

Holden doesn’t say a damn word. Doesn’t have to. The way he loosens the laces on his skates like he’s imagining they’re my throat says plenty.

I sink down on the bench, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor like it holds the answers which it doesn’t. And even worse, I know what’s waiting when I walk out of here.

My mother.

Ready to light me up because I embarrassed the name stitched on the back of my jersey. Again.

I press my palms into my eyes until I see stars, trying to block it all out. But there’s only one face I see. Joely. The only person who won’t hand me my ass tonight. The only person who still looks at me like I’m not already a lost cause. The only place I can fall without hitting concrete.

God help me, I need that.

And for the first time in my entire goddamn career…

I don’t know if hockey’s worth it anymore.