Page 6

Brogan

Our hearts might freeze over but the gossip never does. I’ve seen a lot of things from my perch above these snow-choked streets. I’ve seen dreams rise like the steam off a fresh cup of Beth Foster’s chili, and I’ve seen them fall faster than a puck in overtime. I’ve watched boys become legends and legends become cautionary tales, but today, I’m watching something quieter. Something softer. Something real. Sometimes, the biggest wins don’t come with confetti or champagne. They come with skinned knees, foam fingers, and a little kid shouting your name like you’re the hero of their story, and isn’t that something we could all use a little more of? We cheer the loudest for the ones who show up. Not just when the spotlight’s hot but when no one’s watching at all.

Playlist: Lose It All by Foo Fighters

The team meeting room buzzes with the usual pre-meeting energy as I push through the door. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and determination—lingering reminders of our morning skate. I find a spot near the back, nodding at a few of the guys as I settle in. Everyone’s here, the low rumble of conversation punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. It’s like the calm before the storm—this room, our strategy hub, where plays are dissected and game plans forged.

Heath is animatedly recounting last night’s date mishap to a captive audience comprising of Wolfe and Holden, their laughter echoing off the walls. The grumpiest Foster throws in the occasional dry comment that only adds fuel to their amusement.

“Alright, boys, settle down!” Coach Duff’s voice cuts through the chatter like a skate blade on fresh ice. He strides to the front of the room, a stack of playbooks under his arm. His gaze sweeps over us, a stern warning in his eyes that tells us it’s time to switch gears from locker room banter to business.

“There will be a special guest today,” Duff announces, and the room instantly falls into a curious silence. His look hardens, preempting the potential groans or jokes. “You will be nice to her.”

A murmur ripples through the room, speculative glances exchanged. I can’t help but straighten up a bit, interest piqued. The arrival of a guest—especially one that warrants such a directive from Duff—isn’t common. Whoever she is, she’s important, maybe even a game-changer in some way. I glance around, catching the equally intrigued expressions of my teammates, all of us wondering the same thing: who is she, and why is she here with us today?

As the whispers around the room begin to die down, the door opens with a quiet click and Madeline steps through. Her presence seems to command immediate attention, a sharp contrast to the rugged backdrop of our team meeting room. She’s dressed professionally, her demeanor confident as she strides towards the front, clutching a handful of glossy brochures.

“Good morning, everyone,” she starts, her voice clear and carrying. “I’m here today to discuss an exciting opportunity for the team that extends beyond the ice.”

She lays the brochures out on the projector stand, each one emblazoned with the vibrant logo of the Minnesota Slammers juxtaposed against a backdrop of kids on a local ice rink. “We’ve been given a chance to be featured on a local Northern Minnesota news station,” Madeline explains, her eyes scanning the room, gauging our reactions. “They’re planning a special story showcasing our involvement in supporting local youth hockey programs.”

The room shifts with interest, some guys leaning forward now, the earlier casual banter replaced by a more focused attention. It’s a chance to step up, to give back to the community that cheers us on through every high and low of the season.

Madeline’s hand sweeps over the brochures as she continues, “This is more than just good PR—it’s about making a real impact. So, I have to ask,” her gaze settles on each of us in turn, a challenge laid bare in her expression, “Who can volunteer for this amazing outreach?”

The question hangs in the air, a palpable call to action as she waits for volunteers to step forward.

The tension in the room thickens slightly, the good-natured banter replaced with a dash of uncertainty. Madeline’s gaze cuts through the silence, landing squarely on me. It’s like she’s pegged me as the one most likely to step up—or maybe the one most in need of some positive press.

“Is this because of Britt?” I ask, my voice a mix of curiosity and slight annoyance. The last thing I want is to feel like I’m being pushed into something just because my agent thinks it’s a good PR move.

“All I’m saying is this is some good publicity, Brogan,” Madeline replies smoothly, the corners of her lips tilting in a non-committal smile.

“I hate publicity,” I grumble, my discomfort with the whole situation growing. The idea of cameras and reporters poking into what I do off the ice isn’t exactly my idea of a good time.

Shep, the chaos goblin that he loves to be, chimes in with a chuckle, “But you like money! Get some, dude. Coach the kids!”

Bennett scoffs from his corner, his arms crossed over his chest in a clear sign of refusal. “Madeline said volunteer , you nimrod. Besides, I’m not coaching kids. I hate them. They hate me. Plus, I’m probably a bad influence.”

Boone nods, adding his two cents with a smirk, “He’s definitely a bad influence. He wasn’t allowed near Brogan for the first five years of his life.”

“That can’t be true,” I argue, my brow furrowing in confusion. “Is there a way we could go back to that?”

Bennett, with a deadpan expression, counters, “Have you looked at family pictures?”

“I’m calling Mom,” I declare, already pulling out my phone.

“Allow me. I have her number saved,” Bennett offers, too quickly.

“We all have her number saved,” I shoot back, not missing a beat.

“Top spot?” Bennett asks, a challenge in his tone.

“No, mine is taken by women who will have sex with me, not the woman who gave birth to me. Of course, I can see why Mom gets your top spot,” I retort, the room breaking into laughter, though the tension simmers just below the surface.

“That was funny. Also, you should run,” Bennett says, his voice laced with a brotherly warning.

“You’re gonna hit me, aren’t you?” I say, half-joking, half-prepared to dodge a friendly punch.

“Definitely,” Bennett confirms, though the smirk suggests it’s all part of the routine.

Madeline throws up her hands, her patience with our sibling squabbles wearing thin. “I’m outta here. Brogan, stick around. The kids will be here in a couple of hours.” She turns to Bennett, “Maybe beat him later? We don’t want to scare the little buggers.”

“Just keep my name out your mouth,” Bennett grunts, his tone half-serious. “I’m serious, Madeline.”

“Fine. No dances for you,” Madeline replies quickly, a slight edge to her voice.

“Thank you.”

“For now,” Madeline adds, turning to leave.

“I heard that,” Bennett calls after her, not letting her have the last word.

“You were supposed to,” Madeline shoots back without looking back, her steps firm and decisive as she exits the room, leaving a mix of amusement and anticipation swirling in the air.

I trudge back down to the locker room, my steps heavy, echoing down the stark hallway like a slow drumbeat of my reluctance. Grumbling under my breath, I can’t help but replay the whole meeting in my head. Publicity stunts. Fan engagements. They’re necessary evils in the world of professional hockey, but that doesn’t make them any less aggravating.

I push through the locker room door, the scent of sweat and rubber hitting me like a wall. It’s familiar, comforting in a way that the gleam of cameras and the scrutiny of public appearances will never be. I head to my locker, pulling out the jersey and pads I had just shed what feels like moments ago. The fabric feels cool and slightly damp against my skin as I pull the jersey over my head.

“Could be worse,” I mutter to myself, fumbling with the straps of my pads. “Could be doing dance routines on ice again.” The thought brings a reluctant grin to my face, the absurdity of my last public spectacle still fresh in my memory. At least today, it’s just smiles and maybe a few puck passes—no viral dance moves required.

As I lace up my skates, I can hear the distant sounds of the arena beginning to fill up again, the low murmur of voices and the occasional laugh echoing through the corridors. It’s game day, even if the game is just for show today. With a final tug on my laces, I stand, gear fully donned, ready to face whatever this publicity thing throws at me.

“Let’s get this over with,” I sigh, pushing off towards the rink.

The rink carries an electric charge, like the air before a storm. The Mega Mites, a sprightly youth team, are already gathered, their faces lit with the sort of excitement usually reserved for playoff games. Each child wears their excitement uniquely: some bounce on the balls of their feet, others cling to their sticks with nervous energy, and a few chatter nonstop about the day’s special guest.

As the local news crew sets up, cables snake across the floor, cameras are mounted, and microphones tested—a symphony of preparatory chaos. Amidst this, the Mega Mites line up along the boards, their eyes darting between the equipment and the entrance, eagerly anticipating my arrival.

Making my way over to the Mega Mites, every step I take draws a chorus of excited whispers and nudges among the young players. I can’t help but smile broadly, waving casually back, fully aware of all the young, hopeful eyes fixed on me.

“It’s BroFetti!” one kid shouts, practically vibrating out of his tiny skate boots.

My grin falters just a little. “Hey now, we’re just sticking with Coach Foster today, alright?”

“Do the slide!” another pipes up, dropping his stick to start wiggling side to side on the ice, nearly eating it.

A third one skates up, bold as hell, tipping his helmet back like he’s about to make the trade of the century. “Is Shep here? He’s way funnier.”

My jaw ticks. “Nope. Sorry to disappoint, kiddo. Just me today.”

They groan like I’m the backup act nobody paid to see. One of the older ones elbows his buddy. “Told ya Shep was better. He goes ‘Woooooo!’ and shoots off road flares.”

I clap my gloves together, trying not to let it show that even these mini pipsqueaks are in on the joke now. “Alright, you little chirpers—line up! You’re here to learn how to skate not roast your coach.”

“Coach BroFettiiii!”

The high-pitched squeal comes from one of the kids near the boards. A couple of them start doing the cha-cha slide right there on the ice, slipping and laughing like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever seen.

Harper’s voice floats through my head—“The kids love this stuff.”

Yeah, until they don’t.

I force a grin, skating right up to the little ringleader who’s still shimmying like a broken bobblehead. “You think Shep’s got better moves than me, huh?”

The kid nods, fearless. “Way better. He didn’t look like he was gonna cry.”

Jesus. These kids are savages.

I glance toward the bleachers where Coach Duff’s standing with his arms crossed, watching like he’s waiting for me to fold.

Nah. Not today.

Dropping my stick to the ice with a loud clack, I point at the kid. “Alright, hotshot. Bet you can’t beat me to the blue line.”

His grin falters for half a second, but then he’s nodding like I just threw down a gauntlet.

“Loser does ten pushups!” another kid shouts.

“Deal,” I say, already turning. “Line up. First whistle wins.”

Coach Duff blows it before I even get my stance set, and suddenly I’m racing five tiny maniacs down the ice like my life depends on it. I let them win—barely—but the way they cheer like they just scored the game-winner in the Kelly Cup Final makes my throat go tight.

We run the drill again. And again. And again.

No more BroFetti. No Shep this, Shep that.

Just me. Just them. Just… this.

Somewhere between the third and fourth race, it hits me. I don’t feel like a fucking failure out here. I don’t feel like the dumbest Foster brother. I don’t feel like a clown in a jersey waiting to get cut.

I feel… right.

By the time we’re deep into the practice drills, the same kid who called me BroFetti is the first in line for a fist bump. His face is flushed, his grin is wide, and when he reaches me, he leans in and says, “Nice job today, Coach Foster.”

It’s not much, but I’ll take it.

I’m herding the Mites into a huddle when I spot Tommy—eight years old, gear two sizes too big, helmet sitting crooked like he borrowed it from his dad’s beer league team. He’s out here flopping around like a newborn giraffe, but damn if he isn’t trying harder than anyone.

I skate over, crouch low, and tap my stick on the ice next to him. “What do you say, Tommy? Think you can give me your best Mighty Ducks power stride?”

He pushes up, wobbles, and immediately eats ice again.

“Yup,” I say under my breath, helping him back to his feet. “Dead ringer for Charlie Conway.”

The other kids giggle, but Tommy’s grinning like he can handle anything that gets thrown at him. “I’m okay!” he shouts, punching his little gloved fists in the air.

I give him a tap on the helmet. “Dang right you are.”

While the rest of the kids run basic skating drills, I stick with Tommy, showing him how to bend his knees and keep his weight forward. “Look where you’re going, not where you’re falling,” I tell him, skating slow circles around him until he finally gets his feet under him.

And that’s when I spot Mia. Quiet. Steady. Hanging back like she’s trying to disappear into her jersey.

Perfect.

I slide over and whisper, “You ever score on a Foster before?”

Her eyes go wide, shaking her head like I just offered her a trip to Disneyland.

“Well, today’s your lucky day.”

I drop the puck at her blade and give her a little nudge forward. She takes off—tentative at first—but the second I start hyping her up like she’s Gretzky in pigtails, she kicks it into gear. She dekes left, right, zips between two cones, and flicks the puck straight through the kid goalie’s pads.

The place goes nuclear.

Her teammates dogpile her like she just scored the game winner in OT. She pops up red-faced but grinning like she owns the damn rink.

I hold up my glove for a fist bump. “See? Told ya.”

We keep running the scrimmage—me tossing out chirps, the kids eating it up like Halloween candy. Every pass, every shot, every tiny win starts stacking up until they’re all skating better now than when they arrived.

And when the camera crew swarms in, shoving mics in my face, I don’t even flinch.

Because for the first time in… hell, maybe ever…

I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

By the time Coach blows the whistle to wrap it up, the kids are still buzzing like they’ve just downed three Pixy Stix and a Mountain Dew. The second their skates hit the boards, Madeline and Harper sweep in.

“Alright, Mega Mites!” Madeline’s voice carries across the rink, bright and peppy as if she’s been waiting all day to unleash her inner cruise director. “Who wants free Slammers gear?”

You’d think she was handing out PS5s the way the kids swarm her.

Harper’s already rolling a cart full of mini foam fingers, Slammers slap bracelets, beanies, ball caps, and tiny replica jerseys toward center ice, all with Slammy waddling along behind them. The big fuzzy bastard’s got a stack of stickers in one hand and a Sharpie in the other, all set for autographs.

I lean on my stick, watching the chaos unfold with a stupid grin on my face.

Tommy comes barreling toward me, helmet lopsided again. “Coach Foster! Coach Foster! Can Slammy sign my helmet?”

Before I can answer, Slammy’s already there, pulling Tommy into a dramatic mascot hug and signing his helmet with exaggerated flair.

Tommy spins around, wide-eyed. “BEST. DAY. EVER.”

“You’re the real Slammer, Slammy!” one of the kids yells, high-fiving the mascot like I’m chopped liver. I fake clutch my chest, grinning like an idiot anyway.

After glancing up, I find Mia standing a few feet away, clutching one of the foam fingers to her chest. She meets my eyes, shy but beaming, and I swear I feel something crack wide open inside me.

Madeline waves me over toward the cameras. “Brogan, you’re up!”

I skate over, wiping the sweat from my brow, still catching my breath. Harper’s already rolling, her camera light blinking like we’re live on ESPN or some shit, but I think it’s just WDIO in Duluth.

“Today was about more than just hockey,” I start, my voice steadier than I feel. I glance back at the kids, who are all still buzzing around Slammy, showing off their new gear. “It’s about showing up. About believing you can do something even when it feels impossible. That’s what these kids did today. I’m really proud of them.”

Coach Duff steps in beside me, nodding like a proud dad. “Brogan’s a natural,” he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Not just out here skating with ‘em, but connecting with ‘em. That’s what makes the difference.”

Harper turns the mic to the kids. Tommy practically tackles it. “Coach Foster taught me how to check! And he let me try his stick!” His face is about to split from smiling so hard.

Mia edges closer, clutching her foam finger. “He helped me not be scared of the puck anymore,” she whispers, awed by the entire experience.

The camera crew eats it up, getting close-ups of the kids, Slammy, the whole scene. I hang back, watching it all unfold—their excitement, their pride, their joy—and it hits me harder than any open-ice check I’ve ever taken.

I might suck at playing right now. But this feels like winning.

As the crew starts packing up and the kids gather their new treasures, I skate one last slow lap around the rink, letting it all settle deep in my bones.

“Bye, BroFetti!” a kid yells as they head toward the exit with their parents. I just shake my head, already regretting that’s the nickname that’ll follow me into retirement.

When I finally step off the ice, untying my skates with frozen fingers and a full damn heart, I know one thing for sure:

I could volunteer to work with kids forever.