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Brogan

If you ask me, this is a place where we hang our hearts out to dry on the hockey boards and hope the Zamboni doesn’t run them over. Saturday nights at the Power Play are our own kind of religion, full of ritual, rivalry, and a healthy dose of humiliation for anyone foolish enough to leave their dignity unattended. Just ask Joely, who’s about to get taken for a ride by a thousand custom coasters, or Brogan, who’s still reeling from being the punchline of every viral dance meme this side of Duluth. Nothing stays secret for long here—not your crush, not your most embarrassing doodle, not even that time Virgil tried to install a dartboard and nearly took out half the regulars. So grab your drink, keep your head on a swivel, and remember your manners. Within my city limits, there’s always someone watching, always someone keeping score, and the only thing thicker than our accents is the skin you’ll need to survive a Saturday night at Power Play. Especially, when love—and laughter—are on the line.

Playlist: Human by Rag ‘n’ Bone Man

As I step onto the rink, the chill hits me right in the ass—nature’s way of saying “rise and grind, Foster.” The place is mostly empty except for Virgil slow-rolling the Zamboni. The fresh ice gleams with that new-car smell, promising a clean slate, or at least a less sticky one.

Madeline—Sorrowville’s answer to an espresso shot with a Wi-Fi password—pounces before my skates even stop moving. She’s already clutching her phone, flashing a “Let’s Make You Go Viral” grin that’s only slightly less terrifying than a two-on-none breakaway. Her clipboard is loaded with TikTok ideas, hashtags, and possibly a “Free Shep” sticker.

“Brogan! Just the guy I wanted to embarrass today!” she chirps, her ponytail bouncing like she’s paid commission on enthusiasm. “Okay! New social media challenge: Who would you never let date your sister? It’s for engagement! Hashtag ‘SlammerSiblings’!” She beams, convinced this is Pulitzer stuff.

I tilt my head to the side. “What if I don’t have a sister?”

I glance across the ice—cue the rest of the team trickling in, eyes already suspicious. Madeline’s corralling them before they can get away.

First up, Holden. He gives the camera a smolder so cheesy it should come with a warning label. “Shep. That dude would forget your sister’s name before dessert. And probably ask if you want to split the check at Taco Bell.”

Shep, lurking nearby, throws his arms wide. “Hey! I like a woman who can appreciate a Crunchwrap Supreme and a man who can leave early!”

Boone is next, already rolling his eyes. “Shep, obviously. His idea of a classy date is letting the girl finish his fries before Ubering home.”

Heath snorts, “No one’s sister deserves to be third-wheel to Shep’s Tinder notifications. Mine especially. Lynsie wants nothing to do with him.”

Gage, sharpening his skates in the corner, just says, deadpan, “Shep. He brought a date to Jim Morey’s wedding. And left with someone else.”

Madeline beams, loving this more than her morning oat milk latte. Even Wolfe, who usually communicates by grunting, raises his stick and points straight at Shep. Then he glares and shakes it a few times. The guys lose it.

Coach Duff walks by, pointer finger extended. “That boy’s got the moral fiber of a cheese stick. Even though my sister is old enough to be his mother, I doubt that would stop him.”

Shep throws his arms in the air. “Cougars! Woooooo!”

Virgil, still in love with his Zamboni, honks the horn and hollers, “Shep! Wouldn’t trust him with my sweet old lady, Sleetwood Mac, let alone my granddaughters.”

By now, Shep is loving every second, mugging for Madeline’s phone like he’s auditioning for The Bachelor: Sorrowville Edition. “Everyone’s just jealous I’m the people’s choice! I love everyone’s sister. I don’t discriminate!” He strikes a pose, accidentally dropping his stick, which ricochets off the boards and nearly takes out Gage’s Gatorade.

Madeline, unable to stop giggling, finally turns to Shep for his answer. Shep glides up, winks, and says, “And even though everyone else said me, I say, Holden. Because his love notes have footnotes. And no woman’s ever going to recover from getting serenaded in public unless she’s got therapy money.”

Holden bows, “Guilty as charged. Good thing I put a ring on it.”

The laughter is so loud even Virgil’s Zamboni seems to pause in appreciation. Madeline’s phone is probably overheating with content gold.

As the chaos dies down, Madeline elbows me. “See, Brogan? You survived another viral moment. Maybe next time we’ll let you be the bad boy.”

I groan. “As long as Shep’s around, my reputation’s safe.”

Shep blows me a kiss. “You’ll always be our fans’ second choice, BroFetti!”

I shake my head, but inside? The team, the chirps, the mayhem—damn if it doesn’t feel like home. I wonder what I would do if I ever got released? Probably go kicking and screaming.

I nod, watching as the team disperses back to drills, the camaraderie a tangible force on the ice. It’s moments like these that remind me why this team is more than just about hockey—it’s about brotherhood, even if it means getting thrown under the bus or, in Shep’s case, the Zamboni.

As we shuffle into the locker room, the air is still buzzing from the morning’s laughs on the ice. The clatter of gear hitting the lockers provides a familiar backdrop as everyone starts peeling off their sweaty jerseys and pads.

“Shep, you planning on giving any actual dating advice, or just gonna keep stealing hearts and disappointing everyone’s sister?” Boone teases, slinging his towel over his shoulder.

Shep, still grinning from being the star of our impromptu roast session, shoots back, “Hey, I give plenty of advice. Just because you guys don’t follow it doesn’t mean it’s not gold.”

My friend stretches out on the bench, towel slung around his neck like he’s giving a TED Talk. “Listen up, boys—dating is simple. If you’re nervous, just talk about yourself until she’s impressed. Women love confidence.”

Boone doesn’t even look up from tying his skates. “You mean narcissism?”

Shep shrugs, unfazed. “Tomato, tomahto.”

Holden, toweling off, can’t help but grin. “You’re gonna die alone, Shep.”

Shep waves him off. “Don’t text her for at least three days. Or three hours. Actually, just text her when you remember. Keeps ‘em guessing.”

Boone snorts. “Keeps ‘em blocking your number, maybe. I’m pretty sure even Lucinda has you blocked.”

Shep ignores him, rolling right into the next nugget of wisdom. “And if you forget her name, just call her ‘champ.’ Chicks love nicknames.”

Gage pipes up from across the room. “That’s how you end up on TikTok, bro. And not in a good way.”

Unbothered, Shep lifts his chin, grinning. Then he gestures to what lies below the belt. “Final tip—send a… ahem… selfie first thing in the morning so she knows what she’s working with. Natural lighting, though. No filters. Be authentic, bro.”

Boone groans, grabbing his stick like he’s about to smack Shep with it. “Shep, for the love of God, stop talking. You’re singlehandedly lowering the collective IQ in this locker room.”

Shep just winks, finger-guns blazing. “And that’s why you’re still single, Boone.”

The room erupts with more laughter and a few playful jeers thrown in Shep’s direction. I chuck my own gear into my locker, shaking my head at the ongoing banter. There’s a comfort in these moments, the easy jabs and the camaraderie that comes with them.

“Bennett put up a new dartboard up at the Power Play,” I mention, changing out of my skates and into a more comfortable pair of sneakers. “Anyone up for a few rounds after this?”

“Count me in,” Holden says, already half-dressed for the bar. “I need to see if my dart game is as good as my hockey.”

“Yeah, and I need to redeem my family honor after this morning,” Boone adds, pulling on his shirt with a mock-serious expression.

As everyone gets ready, the chatter continues, light and easy. We gather our things, eager for a bit of downtime together at the bar, where the competitive spirit can switch from ice to darts, keeping the day’s high spirits rolling. The promise of a cold beer and some friendly competition is the perfect cap to our morning, and as we head out, the locker room’s echo carries our laughter all the way to the parking lot.

As we pile into our cars, the brisk air nips at our faces, a sharp reminder of the chilly Northern Minnesota weather outside the comfort of the heated locker room. Shep hops into my truck, still chuckling from the locker room antics. We pull out of the parking lot, the engine’s hum and the road’s steady rhythm lulling us into an easy silence.

Halfway to the Power Play, Shep’s phone buzzes violently on the dashboard, the screen lighting up with notifications. He grabs it, a grin spreading across his face as he swipes through.

“Dude, that TikTok’s blowing up,” he announces, holding the phone so I can see the view count ticking higher. “Looks like everybody wants me to date their sister. But your Cha Cha Slide still has more views.”

I groan, the memory of that embarrassing dance flashing before my eyes. “Great, just what I needed. More attention for all the wrong reasons.”

But Shep is too amused to sympathize. “Come on, man, it’s all in good fun. Plus, looks like those coasters are adding to your name being on everyone’s lips around here.”

We pull up to the Power Play, and the rest of the guys are already there, clustered around the new dartboard but clearly distracted by their phones—probably watching the same viral sensation. As we step inside, the warmth of the bar envelops us, a stark contrast to the cold outside.

Bennett spots us first, a smirk playing on his lips. “Hey, Brogan, planning on autographing those coasters for your fan club?”

Heath, leaning against the bar with a beer in hand, chimes in, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Yeah, Brogan, heard the coasters are more popular than your slap shots lately.”

I roll my eyes, but can’t suppress a smile. Walking up to the bar, I grab one of the infamous coasters, flipping it to see the design that’s been causing all the stir—a cheeky depiction of me, obviously drawn by someone who thinks more highly of me than I probably deserve.

Mom, polishing a glass behind the bar, overhears and joins in. “You know, if this hockey thing doesn’t pan out, at least you’ve got a career as a coaster model,” she jokes, but her eyes are warm, her fondness for her makeshift family clear.

Joely’s cheeks flame, and I catch her biting her lip as she pretends to be busy with the soda gun. Nobody else notices, but I do.

I shake my head, tossing the coaster back on the bar. “Guess I better step up my game, huh? Both on the ice and with the fans.”

Shep, not missing a beat, slaps me on the back. “Let’s give the people what they want. How about a live performance of your dance? Could boost morale.”

“Or scare everyone off,” Bennett adds, deadpan.

The evening unfolds with more jokes, a few rounds of darts, and plenty of ribbing about my unexpected social media fame. The night’s been long, all cheap shots and good-natured chirps, the kind of laughter that only makes the quiet that follows even lonelier. I’m restless, half-crazy with the hum in my bones that says I’m not really wanted here—not like I used to be. There’s an ache gnawing under my sternum that beer can’t touch.

Just as I’m about to make my escape, a familiar figure drapes herself against the bar beside me—Cassie, or maybe Callie, but it honestly doesn’t matter. She’s got the practiced smile, the too-bright eyes, the scent of perfume that tries too hard to mask the desperation underneath.

“Hey, Brogan,” she breathes, all glossy lips and easy promises. “You heading out soon? Maybe I could join you?”

A couple months ago, I’d have let her. I’d have welcomed the distraction, the quick fix—hell, anything to feel wanted, even if it’s just for the night. But now the idea feels hollow, like licking the bottom of an empty shot glass. There’s nothing left for me in this game.

“Nah, not tonight,” I say, forcing a polite edge that sounds foreign in my own throat. “Got an early morning.”

She pouts, used to getting her way. I watch her drift off, searching for another open door. The relief that floods me is sharp, almost shameful. I’m not that guy anymore. I don’t know who I am, but I know I can’t go back to that.

The bar starts thinning, shadows stretching long across the sticky floor. I find myself watching Joely, steady and bright behind the counter, as if she’s the only lighthouse left in a storm I built myself. She’s always the last one here, scrubbing away the mess, keeping the wheels turning while the rest of us try to pretend we aren’t spinning out. There’s something in the way she moves—this quiet, stubborn grace that makes me want to stay, even when I don’t belong anywhere.

I watch her tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she wipes the last table. My fingers itch to do it for her, and for a second, I think about just grabbing my jacket and slipping out the side door. But tonight, I can’t.

When she finally shrugs on her coat, I can’t help myself. “Need someone to walk you to your car?” The words tumble out rougher than I mean, all the yearning I can’t say twisting up my guts.

She glances up, startled, a spark of surprise flickering before her smile turns gentle, almost sad. “Sure, why not,” she says softly, like maybe she’s been waiting for someone to notice she’s still here.

Outside, the air is so cold it stings my teeth. We walk together, breaths mingling in the night, boots crunching on icy gravel. The silence between us is thick but not uncomfortable—not like it is with everyone else these days.

She bumps my arm with her elbow. “What’s with the chivalry, Foster? You grow a conscience or something?”

I huff out a laugh, more air than humor. “Guess I just… didn’t want you to be alone out here.” And maybe, selfishly, I didn’t want to be alone, either.

We reach her car, the streetlight painting silver across her hair. She looks at me, really looks, and for a second it’s like there’s nowhere to hide. “You okay?” she asks, her voice all warmth and worry. “You don’t seem like yourself tonight.”

I stare past her at the dark, empty street, fighting the urge to say too much. “Yeah. No. I don’t know. It’s just… everything’s heavy lately. I keep wondering if this is it. If I’m done. If I’m… enough for anything off the ice.”

She’s quiet, and the silence is a balm, not a blow. “You are,” she says, just that, simple and true. “And if you ever wanna talk or just sit here and listen to nothing, you know where to find me.”

Her hand lingers on my sleeve for a second, warm and solid. She squeezes, once, then pulls away like she’s afraid of how much that touch might mean.

That’s the thing about Joely. She doesn’t try to fill the cracks. She just lets me be broken in peace. Somehow, that hurts less than anything.

“Thanks,” I say, swallowing down the ache that threatens to spill out. “That actually means more than you know.”

She smiles, soft and real, then slips into her car, leaving the window cracked. “Goodnight, Brogan.”

“Night, JoJo,” I answer, voice rough.

I stand there long after her taillights disappear, feeling the cold sink in, but for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t chill me all the way through. There’s a warmth there, small but stubborn, and it’s got her name on it.

Shoving my hands deeper in my pockets, I exhale clouds of breath into the dark. For the first time in months, I don’t want to leave—I just want to feel everything. Maybe I’m more lost than ever. Or maybe, I’m finally waking up.