Page 7

Joely

There’s something about watching a girl come face-to-face with her own heartache in the form of a box of overpriced bar coasters that makes even an old town like me pause and hold my breath. Because me and my citizens aren’t just built on ice and duct tape. We’re built on the things we don’t say out loud—like how the girl who grew up folding bar towels for the Foster family somehow doodled the word ‘Brogan’ on a scrap of cardboard that’s now plastered on a thousand drink coasters for all to see. While everyone laughs and drinks and pretends not to notice, the truth hangs heavier than a wet parka on a coat rack. Because this is how it happens here, folks—someone opens their heart by accident, someone else stands there too dumb to read the fine print, and the rest of us? Well, we lean back, pour another round, and wait to see if the damn fool figures it out before the ice melts.

Playlist: Fool’s Gold by Briston Maroney

It’s a typical Saturday at the Power Play where the locals mingle with the lingering excitement of last night’s game. I’m behind the bar, lining up glasses and filling pitchers with Beth manning the grill like a seasoned pro. The clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation create a familiar symphony that feels like home.

From my spot, I can see Brogan and Bennett at the far end of the bar. They’re huddled over what looks like the world’s most stubborn bar stool, armed with a toolbox that’s seen better days. Brogan’s brow is furrowed in concentration as he tries to tighten a bolt while Bennett, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, holds the stool steady, his patience obviously thinning.

“Hand me the Phillips head,” Bennett mutters, not even looking up as he extends a hand backward towards the scattered tools.

“Which one’s that?” Brogan grumbles, clearly not versed in the nuances of screwdriver identification.

“The one that looks like a star, not a flat line,” I call out, unable to resist the urge to tease as I shake a cocktail with a practiced hand.

Bennett chuckles, flashing me a quick grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes—there’s too much concentration for that. “Thanks, Joely. Maybe you should come over here and show my little brother how it’s done.”

I cock my head, leaning my elbows on the bar like I’ve got all the time in the world. “Oh, believe me, I’d love to show him how it’s done,” I murmur, mostly to myself—but Beth hears it anyway, snorting loud enough to rattle the ketchup bottles. I straighten, schooling my face into something way more innocent than what’s actually playing out in my head. Because fixing a stool? Please. That’s child’s play.

What I really want is to get my hands on the six-foot-three mess of muscle and charm currently wrestling with a rusty screw like it’s his mortal enemy. And something tells me… he wouldn’t mind a little hands-on demonstration, either.

Beth laughs, flipping a burger with a flourish. “Let the boys play handyman, Joely. We’ve got a bar to run.” Her tone is light, but there’s pride in her quick glance around our bustling establishment.

Saturday nights at Power Play are never dull, and tonight, Virgil decides it’s the perfect time to install the new dartboard. It’s a high-tech model, complete with electronic scoring and flashy lights, a far cry from the old, battered board that hung on the wall for what seemed like an eternity.

Virgil, armed with an enthusiasm unmatched by his actual handyman skills, positions the ladder smack in the middle of the bar. He’s got a drill in one hand and a level in the other, his glasses slipping down his nose as he squints at the instructions. The regulars at the bar watch with a mix of amusement and mild concern as he attempts to measure the correct height.

“Gotta make sure it’s regulation height!” Virgil declares, stepping back to assess the wall. He plants his foot on the first rung of the ladder, which wobbles ominously. The chatter around the bar grows quieter, everyone’s attention now fixed on Virgil’s precarious balancing act.

Beth watches from the food pass window, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips. “Maybe you should wait for Bennett to finish with the stools, Virg. He’s got steadier hands.”

But Virgil waves her off with a chuckle. “Nah, I got this, Beth. What could go wrong?”

Famous last words. As Virgil ascends the ladder, drill in hand, the entire contraption sways dangerously. Boone, nearby, looks up from cleaning a spill, ready to leap to Virgil’s rescue. But before anyone can move, Bennett steps in with a sigh, grabbing the ladder to stabilize it.

“Virg, you’re gonna bring the whole wall down,” Bennett grumbles, his voice laced with reluctant concern as he takes over, pushing Virgil gently aside. “Let me do it. Just... hand me the screws and stop waving that drill around like it’s a magic wand.”

Virgil steps down, handing over the drill with a sheepish grin. “Alright, alright, you take over. I was just trying to liven up the place a bit.”

With Bennett at the helm, the installation goes smoothly, though not quietly. Bennett’s gruff directions fill the air, instructing Boone to hold the dartboard still while he drills. The crowd starts to relax, their attention drifting back to their drinks and conversations, though a few can’t help but chuckle at the scene.

Once the dartboard is securely in place, Bennett steps back, wiping his brow. “There. That should hold, even if you throw like Brogan here. He’s about as good at darts as he is at hockey.”

Brogan, who’s been watching with a half-smile, throws a playful jab Bennett’s way. “Hey, watch it. I might just challenge you to a game to show you how it’s done.”

With the dartboard now a bright, blinking fixture on the wall, Virgil claps his hands, a grin spreading across his face. “Let the games begin! Thanks to Bennett, our resident party pooper turned handyman.”

The bar erupts into laughter and toasts to Bennett, the earlier tension dissolving into the warm, familiar camaraderie that makes Power Play more like a home than a bar. And with the new dartboard up, it looks like the evening is just getting started, promising a night full of games, jokes, and maybe a few dart-induced rivalries.

Heath strolls inside just as the laughter from the dartboard debacle begins to settle. He’s carrying a large box labeled “Power Play Custom,” which he sets down with a slight grunt at the end of the bar. Before he can address the delivery, his eyes catch the sight of the new dartboard, and a smirk tugs at his lips.

“Nice setup,” Heath comments, walking over to inspect the dartboard more closely. Brogan, still hovering nearby, offers him a nod.

“Yeah, Bennett finally saved the day after Virgil nearly brought down the house,” Boone jokes, tossing a dart casually. It lands with a satisfying thunk in the outer ring.

Heath laughs, shaking his head. “Should’ve been here earlier then. Missed the entertainment.” He throws a dart himself, scoring closer to the bullseye, eliciting a mock glare from Brogan.

Then Heath turns and makes his way back to the bar, his demeanor shifting as he approaches me and Beth. The box of coasters sits like a silent accusation between them.

“Your coasters, Beth,” Heath announces a bit too cheerily, sliding the box across the bar towards her.

Beth, wiping her hands on her apron, eyes him suspiciously. “Why are you acting weird?” Her voice drops low, the kind of low that makes grown men flinch. “You’re standing there looking like you just peed in my pool. You want to tell me why?”

Heath shifts on his feet, clears his throat like he’s buying time, but Beth isn’t having it.

“Don’t you dare say ‘no reason’ again. Not when you look like you’re two seconds away from bolting for the door.”

The bar goes quieter, noses half-turned toward us, sensing a show coming on.

Heath’s eyes flicker to me as I try to appear absorbed in rearranging some glasses on the shelf behind the bar. “Um,” he mutters, giving nothing away but a quick, knowing glance my way that only adds to the tension.

The bar falls into a brief, awkward silence, broken only by the distant thud of darts hitting the new board. Heath shifts uncomfortably, aware that his nonchalance might not be as convincing as he’d hoped.

As Beth pulls open the box of coasters with a flourish, her brow furrows almost immediately. I feel the blood drain from my face. Like I’m watching a slow-motion car crash, fully aware I’m the one driving. My fingers go cold. My heart? Nope, gone. Probably slipped under the floorboards with the rest of my dignity.

I open my mouth to stop her—too late.

Beth pulls one coaster free and holds it up to the light. And there it is. The stupid, stupid bubble-lettered doodle of Brogan in bright, embarrassing glory.

“I see we took a few liberties with the design,” she says dryly, her eyes narrowing slightly as she inspects the coaster more closely.

“Not we. Not me ,” Heath is quick to clarify, hands raised in a defensive gesture as he steps back from the counter.

“Oh, I know,” Beth responds, her tone teasing yet sharp. “I recognize the artist’s work.” She turns to me, passing one of the coasters across the bar.

My heart skips a beat, and my hands feel clammy. “Who designed them? What artist?” I feign ignorance, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the panic rising within me.

Beth chuckles, oblivious to my internal turmoil. “Check them out,” she says, gesturing towards the box that now feels like it weighs a ton. “We have a thousand. One thousand ,” she continues, emphasizing the magnitude of the order.

“I know,” Heath replies, an amused smirk playing on his lips.

Beth’s eyes scan the contents of the box. “I don’t see the fancy ones we use for the parties, with the cork back.”

Heath nods, his expression turning serious. “I held them.”

“Close to your heart? Where are they?” Beth probes, her curiosity piqued.

“I wanted to see your reaction to these before ordering the more expensive ones,” Heath explains, his gaze flitting between Beth and me.

Beth’s response is a simple, “My reaction?” filled with a mix of amusement and disbelief. Beth’s eyes flick up to Heath like she’s about to murder him with nothing but her apron string. “You knew, didn’t you?” she accuses quietly, deadly calm.

Heath raises both hands, backpedaling. “I… I just thought it’d be funny. A little holiday surprise—”

Beth leans on the bar, voice sharpening like a blade. “You did this on purpose to get a rise out of Joely. Thought it’d be a cute little joke, huh? You spent my money just to call her out in front of the whole town?”

The room hums with people not-even-pretending-not-to-listen.

I can’t hold it in any longer. My part in this. Shit. Shit. Shit. I gave Heath the wrong coaster, and that asshole knew and he didn’t correct it! And now, Brogan is inside this bar right now about to find out in the worst way possible that I’ve been crushing on him since we were in grade school.

“Oh crap. Oh, no. We have to throw them out,” I blurt out, the words tumbling from my lips before I can stop them.

Beth frowns. “Coasters cost money. I’m on a tight budget for this bar, you know.”

“So, if you have another design for the fancy ones, I’ll be on my way,” Heath says, looking ready to escape the impending drama. “Perhaps one with Christmas Carol trivia and tiny elves shooting slapshots?”

Beth turns to me, expectant. “Joely? Any chance you have the other design somewhere?”

Feeling defeated, I reach into my apron pocket, pulling out the correct coaster, the one that should have been in the box. “I gave him the wrong one,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

“We’ve established that,” Beth says dryly, taking the coaster from my hand. “Thank you, but no thank you, Heath. You’re on my shit list. I hope the joke was worth it.”

“You’re welcome, Beth. Remember: no refunds on custom orders,” Heath reminds her, a playful glint in his eye.

Beth sighs, resigned. “I know. I know. We’ll just… have the logo side up.” Beth glares at Heath like she’s etching his name on the Official Shit List for eternity. “And we’re not even close to being even, Baxter. Oh, no. You’re giving me the fancy cork backs for free. And the next three months of menus. And next Christmas’s coasters. And maybe your left nut while you’re at it.”

Heath blinks, mouth opening to argue—thinks better of it.

“Got it. Free cork backs. Done,” he mumbles, retreating like he’s expecting a frying pan to fly next.

I rest my head down on the bar, the weight of the mistake crushing. “He can’t find out. Not like this,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.

Beth’s voice is gentle, almost encouraging. “Don’t you want him to find out someday?” she asks just as Brogan starts walking towards us, a curious look on his face.

“Please, Beth,” I plead, not ready for whatever might come next.

As I lift my head from the bar, Beth is already spinning a story to cover my blunder. She’s the master of quick thinking, and right now, I’m grateful for it—even if my stomach is twisting into knots.

“Okay. So... I guess I’m running a monthly coaster contest. Congratulations. This design won for December,” Beth announces with a flourish that only she can pull off. Her voice is loud enough to draw more attention, possibly more than I’d like right now.

Brogan, intrigued, strides over with that easy charm of his that makes the regulars love him. He reaches into the box, pulling out a coaster with a casual flick of his wrist. “Just the usual logo,” he murmurs, flipping the coaster over. His eyes widen slightly, a grin spreading across his face. “Wow. I guess you do have a favorite son.”

My face heats up as if I’ve been caught in a spotlight. I want to sink into the floor, disappear, anything but endure the amused looks from around the bar.

Bennett joins us, leaning in to peer at the coaster in Brogan’s hand. His eyebrows raise in mock surprise. “I heard I get Valentine’s Day,” he says, smirking in my direction. “Make it happen. I’m all about spreading the love.”

I muster a weak smile, my mind racing for any kind of witty retort that could defuse the situation. But nothing comes.

Beth chuckles, shaking her head. “Always the comedian, Bennett. But seriously, this could be fun. We’ll have patrons vote on their favorite designs each month. Keeps things interesting around here.”

Brogan studies the coaster again, turning it in his hands. “So, this is the winning design, huh?” His tone is teasing, but there’s a hint of curiosity that suggests he’s not entirely in on the joke. “Looks like someone took some artistic liberties.”

“Yeah, about that...” I start, my voice trailing off as I search for the right words.

Beth steps in, her tone playful yet pointed. “Let’s just say, Joely has hidden talents we’re all just now appreciating.”

The laughter that follows does little to ease my embarrassment. I glance over at Brogan, whose attention has returned to the coaster. His expression is thoughtful, almost tender, as if he’s seeing something more than just a misprinted design.

Boone, however, isn’t one to let a moment pass without stirring the pot. “So, when do I get my custom coaster? I’ve got some ideas that could really spice things up around here.”

Beth rolls her eyes, but her voice is light. “Don’t push your luck, Boone. Let’s not scare away the patrons before they’ve had their first drink.”

The banter continues, each joke and comment weaving a thread of normalcy through the awkwardness I feel. Brogan finally sets the coaster down, his smile lingering as he meets my eyes. There’s a question there, unasked but hanging between us.

I break the gaze first, busying myself with tidying up the bar, though my hands feel clumsy, my thoughts scattered.

Beth leans closer, her voice softening. “Joely, it’s okay. He doesn’t even seem fazed by it, right?”

I nod, more to convince myself than her. “Right,” I murmur. “Just didn’t plan on anyone else ever seeing that coaster, especially him.”

As the evening rolls on, the initial shock of the coaster reveal fades into the background noise of clinking glasses and laughter. Yet, every glance Brogan throws my way, every smirk Bennett flashes, reminds me that my secret is out, in the most unexpected way possible.

And as I watch Brogan laugh at something Bennett says, the coaster forgotten for the moment, I wonder if maybe, just maybe, this slip-up could lead to something more. Or if I’ve just etched my feelings into Power Play lore, to be chuckled over in the months to come, a constant reminder of the night my heart was laid bare on a piece of pressed fiberboard.

I wait until the door swings shut behind him before I drop my face into my hands. “Oh, my God,” I groan into my palms. “I’m gonna have to fake my own death.”

Beth snorts. “Over a coaster? Please. I’ve seen worse.”

“Not from me,” I mutter, peeking up just enough to see the box of humiliating fiberboard hearts sitting there like they’re waiting to haunt my every shift.

I groan again.

I’m gonna have to move to Iowa. Change my name. Maybe open a fucking juice bar.

Anywhere but here.