Page 5

Joely

Sometimes you can feel a mistake in your bones before it ever happens. Like the air changes or the ground tilts just a little. Like the universe taps you on the shoulder and says, ‘Hey, you sure about that?’ Because that’s exactly the kind of day it is. The kind where the wind carries a warning and the holiday lights flicker just a little too hard. Like they know something you don’t, but of course nobody ever listens. Not when they’re busy juggling bar tabs and chasing old dreams, and ordering coasters with good intentions and questionable execution. Not when the heart’s already halfway to disaster, and your brain’s lagging ten paces behind. But don’t worry, I’ve seen it all from the top of the arena to the edge of Lake Superior, and let me tell you, sometimes the best things in life come gift-wrapped in chaos sprinkled with denial and topped with a bright red bow that says, ‘Oops.’

Playlist: Oops!… I Did It Again by Britney Spears

The day’s been one of those where the clock seems to sprint while I’m still tying my shoelaces. With the afternoon rush at Power Play finally thinning out, I seize the moment to tackle the looming task of ordering our holiday coasters—a job I’ve been pushing off amidst the chaos of game nights and special events.

Grabbing my jacket and the holiday sample coaster Beth approved, I hustle out into the brisk air. The streets are bustling with the early stirrings of evening activity, the town gearing up for another lively night.

I push through the door of Heath’s family print shop, greeted by the familiar chime that always seems too cheerful. Inside, the warm, ink-scented air of the shop wraps around me, a stark contrast to the crisp outside. Heath is behind the counter, arranging some newly printed flyers, his back to the entrance.

“Heath!” I call out, and he turns, a broad grin spreading across his face as he spots me.

“Joely! To what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice is warm, filled with the easy familiarity of our long-standing friendship.

“Just the usual pre-holiday madness,” I reply, approaching the counter while fishing the coaster out of my pocket. “How’s business?”

“Booming, thankfully,” he answers, eyes twinkling. “You know, the usual chaos that December brings. Everyone wants something custom for the holidays.”

I nod, setting my bag down with a sigh. “Tell me about it. I’m here to make sure Power Play stays on that custom train. Got our holiday order ready to go.”

He leans on the counter, his interest piqued. “Oh, going for something special this year?”

“Just the annual refresh. Keeps the regulars happy and the place festive,” I say, hoping to breeze through this errand and get back before the evening crowd hits. “This year, Beth was hoping for some Christmas Carol trivia or something? The regulars love it.”

As Heath gestures for me to come closer, I get caught up instead in the comforting routine of small-town business and banter. Heath plays on the Slammers in addition to managing the print shop, and his little sister, Lynsie, is one of my best friends.

“So, do you think you can do the song trivia thing?” I prompt, already checking the time on my phone. Every minute counts when you’re running the busiest bar in town.

His eyes narrow again, and I clock the fact that he’s grimacing.

“Seriously, Heath. I’m running late. I don’t have time for this. You know who it’s for,” I add, trying to hurry him along. His pace today is like he’s intentionally moving through molasses.

He looks up, his eyebrows arching playfully. “Right. Beth Foster. And billing info,” he continues, pretending to shuffle through papers that don’t exist on the counter.

“Heath. Come on. She has an account. You know this. Tick tock,” I press, my voice edging into exasperation. “I’ve got to get the bar set up for the rush tonight.”

“Right. No time to spare,” he agrees, but his tone tells me he’s enjoying this far too much. “Did you bring a sample of the design? Beth must have done a mockup on a napkin or something?”

I pull out the coaster, slapping it down a bit harder than necessary. “Here’s the design. She wants trivia questions printed in candy cane stripes with little elves doing faceoffs in the corners.”

Heath picks it up, turning it over in his hands with an exaggerated thoroughness that’s starting to grate. “Huh. I guess Beth has a favorite son,” he remarks, a sly grin curling his lips as he nods towards the coaster.

“No. She loves them all equally,” I retort with a wink, trying to match his levity despite the creeping concern that I might be missing a joke here.

“So, you’re sure about this design?” Heath asks, his voice laden with a humor I don’t fully appreciate right now.

“I’m sure Beth will be pissed if you don’t use the design she gave me,” I snap, my patience thinning. “She was very clear about the trivia aspect.”

“Right. So this is the design she gave you,” he repeats, a note of finality in his voice that suggests he’s about to let the matter drop—but not without one last dig.

“How many times have we done this?” I demand, my hands on my hips as I lean across the counter slightly.

“This is year four, I believe,” Heath responds, his tone neutral now, businesslike.

“Exactly. And every year, I show up. I hand over the coaster mock-up. I give you the details. I basically shout instructions on my way out the door. And we get on with our lives. What gives?” My words come out rushed, a cascade of frustration that’s been building since I walked in.

Heath shrugs, a playful twinkle in his eye. “Huh. Well, we had one customer who gave us the wrong sample and then she wanted a refund. So now I have to double check everything. The whole… assuming makes an ass out of you…”

“Don’t worry. We won’t be asking for a refund. Have a nice day,” I retort, my tone clipped. I’m out the door before he can toss another quip my way, the bell jingling mockingly above me as I leave.

Back on the street, the air feels cooler, or maybe that’s just the chill of realization beginning to seep in. Did I just make a massive mistake of some sort? Shaking my head, I dismiss the thought. Beth was clear. Christmas carol trivia in shades of red and green. Maybe an elf or two. Heath’s just messing with me... right?

As I stride briskly back to Power Play, the chill in the air seems to match the growing unease twisting in my gut. The streets of town flicker with the warm glow of early evening lights, shoppers mingling with diners and the after-work crowd, all oblivious to the nagging worry nibbling at the edges of my thoughts. Heath’s playful taunts echo in my mind, his words tingling like a warning I might be too stubborn to heed.

With every step, the familiar clatter and buzz of the bar draws nearer, pulling me back into the reality of my responsibilities. Shoving aside my interaction with Heath, I push open the door to the welcoming clamor of Power Play, ready to dive into the controlled chaos of another busy night. The transition from the print shop’s quiet mockery to the bar’s vibrant hustle helps refocus my energies on the immediate tasks at hand—serving customers, managing staff, and keeping the evening running smoothly.

“Did you get the coasters ordered?” she calls out as I slip behind the bar to stash my jacket.

“It’s handled,” I reply, forcing a confident smile, though the weight of uncertainty lingers.

“Great. You know how everyone looks forward to the Christmas coasters.” Beth’s voice is light, but there’s a hint of something else—maybe expectation, or just the usual pre-holiday stress that gets to all of us. “They’re going to be excited about the trivia.”

“Sorry I’m late. Heath kept me forever, writing everything down by hand,” I explain, beginning to line up glasses for the next round of drinks.

“No problem. You’re usually really reliable. Hardly ever make a mistake. And you’re practically family,” Beth responds, her tone teasing but with a warmth that feels like a gentle nudge.

“Ugh. Don’t,” I sigh, not in the mood to delve into the implications of being ‘practically family.’

Beth chuckles, leaning on the counter with a knowing look. “Worried it’s the kiss of death?”

“You think of me like a daughter, which means… others might think of me… not as an option…” I confess, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

“Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure he already doesn’t think of you as an option,” Beth retorts with a wry smile, her bluntness a trait I both admire and at times, like now, dread.

“You used to be nicer,” I shoot back, only half-joking.

“And you used to show up on time,” she counters without missing a beat, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Before I can formulate a comeback, Virgil ambles over, his ever-present grin in place as he sidles up to the bar. “Hey, Joely, Beth, how’s about a round for the old man to celebrate the season?”

“Only if you promise not to call yourself old. It makes the rest of us feel ancient,” Beth quips, pouring him his usual without needing to ask.

The door swings open again, carrying a blast of cold air—and every hair on my body stands at attention before I even look up.

Because of course it’s him.

Brogan strolls in like the damn mayor of Sorrowville, tugging off his beanie, running a hand through that mess of dark, sweaty curls like he doesn’t know half the women in this bar are already staring. He looks like he just rolled out of bed and somehow still manages to be stupid hot. Hoodie tight across his chest. That same lazy grin that ruins me every damn time.

Beth leans toward me, muttering under her breath, “Speak of the devil.”

I ignore her, grabbing a glass like I haven’t already cataloged every single detail about the way his jaw flexes when he’s scanning the specials board.

Brogan makes his way to the bar, leaning across it like it’s a goddamn crime scene lineup. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a burger and wings around here?”

“You here for takeout or planning to actually tip me for once?” I deadpan, already reaching for the order pad.

Virgil lets out a low whistle. “Ooooh. She’s feisty tonight.”

Brogan flashes that grin—the one that probably gets him out of speeding tickets and tabs at Molly’s. “I’m here to eat, JoJo. Right here. With you.”

Beth snorts so loud she nearly spills Virgil’s beer. “You better be careful, Brogan. That line’s gonna get you smacked with a bar towel.”

I roll my eyes, ignoring the heat climbing up my neck. “One Slammer Burger, extra crispy wings. I’ll put it in.”

Brogan leans in closer, his voice dropping just for me. “You see my fan club last night? Lucinda was practically ready to propose after I nailed the Cha Cha Slide.”

Beth’s eyes narrow instantly. “Lucinda? That puck bunny with the crop tops and frosted lips? Just to be crystal clear here, I will not be that woman’s mother-in-law.”

“Hey, she’s got spirit,” Brogan says, winking at Virgil, who looks like he’s trying not to choke on his beer.

I set the order slip on the pass-through with more force than necessary. “You definitely had spirit, all right. And confetti.”

Brogan laughs, running a hand over his jaw like he’s still processing the entire trainwreck. “Shep’s never gonna let me live that down. BroFetti. Jesus.”

Beth leans on the bar, folding her arms. “You’ve been called worse.”

Virgil chimes in, smirking, “Yeah, but never with a confetti cannon. Luckily, they used the kind that dissolves in water.”

Brogan groans and scrubs a hand over his face. “Can we not? I’m still recovering. That mascot’s got better moves than me. Pretty sure Slammy’s getting my endorsement deal.”

I snort before I can stop myself, and Brogan’s eyes flick to mine—softer this time, less bravado.

“Seriously, though,” he says, tone shifting just a little. “Thanks for not laughing me off the ice last night.”

Beth gives me a look that could gut a fish, but I hold Brogan’s gaze, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Anytime, BroFetti.”

Beth slides his burger and fries across the bar a few minutes later, and for once, Brogan doesn’t launch into one of his usual dramatic food critiques. No commentary about the perfectly melted cheese or the ratio of pickles to mustard. Just quiet chewing, like every bite weighs more than it should.

I busy myself restocking the cooler, wiping down the taps, pretending not to watch the way he picks at his fries looking for the crispiest ones. The bar hums around us, but somehow it feels like we’re moving in slow motion—like the whole damn night is holding its breath, waiting for something neither of us is ready to say.

Brogan pushes his empty basket away, like the weight of the world is still sitting on his chest.

“You ever feel like… you’re running out of time?” His voice is quieter now, like he’s not sure he wants me to actually answer.

I glance up from wiping the bar, heart thumping harder than it should. “Every damn day.”

He leans forward, elbows braced on the worn wood between us. His eyes are tired in a way I’ve never seen before. Like the light’s flickering out just a little. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

The air feels like it’s been sucked clean out of the room. “Hockey?”

He nods once. Tight. Barely there.

I round the bar before I can stop myself, like getting physically closer might somehow fix the distance between what he wants and what’s actually happening.

“Brogan—”

His head tips up, and the look on his face nearly shatters me.

“I’ve been skating my whole life,” he whispers. “And I think I’m starting to hate it.”

I reach for his hand—God, what am I doing?—but I freeze halfway. Afraid if I touch him, he’ll break. Or worse… I will.

So I shove my hands in my pockets and force the words out instead. “Then stop.”

He lets out this laugh—bitter and sharp. “It’s not that simple.”

“Maybe it is,” I whisper. “You just don’t want to let everyone down.”

His eyes lock on mine like I just peeled back every layer he’s been hiding under. And maybe I have.

“Who am I if I’m not a Slammer?” he asks, voice cracking just enough to ruin me.

I take a shaky breath and say the only thing I can. “You’re Brogan fucking Foster. That’s who.”

His mouth tugs into something almost like a smile. Almost.

But before I can say another word—before I can tell him that being Brogan is enough—he stands, raking a hand through his hair.

“Thanks for the burger, JoJo.”

And just like that…he’s gone.

The door swings shut behind him, rattling on its hinges like it’s holding all the things I’m too afraid to say.