Page 9

Joely

This isn’t the kind of place where secrets stay buried, not even beneath a foot of snow, and especially not when it comes to love, heartbreak, or what gets spray-painted on the big boulder outside Miner Arena. Around here, everyone’s rooting for somebody—mostly for their own, sometimes for the Slammer’s favorite hockey player who can’t see what’s right in front of him—and if you think a little arctic wind or the threat of public humiliation is going to keep us from showing up, you’ve clearly never been to Molly’s at midnight or tried to out-stubborn a Foster. Because in my neck of the woods, hope always finds a way to break through, one bright splash of paint, one cup of cocoa, one wish at a time.

Playlist: Say You Won’t Let Go by James Arthur

Lynsie tosses her paintbrush on the ground and wipes her brow. “This is stupid. I don’t want to do it anymore. You’re buying me a latte at Molly’s. With whipped cream. And drizzle.”

I keep wielding the Slammer colored paint over and over across the stony surface. Even I have to admit that my hands are turning into ice cubes. “Anything else, princess?”

The frigid night air bites at our faces as Lynsie and I crouch near the massive boulder outside Miner Arena. The rock, usually a dull gray, is about to become a vivid testament to my not-so-secret affection for Brogan, though only Lynsie knows the depth of my feelings. Others might suspect a little crush. But my friend knows I am madly in love with the man.

As I start to outline Brogan’s jersey number, Lynsie keeps watch, her breath forming little puffs of mist. “Yes. Why don’t you just tell him you think he’s your forever?” she murmurs, glancing back to make sure we’re still alone. “This feels like we’re back in high school.”

“Do you really think he wants to hear this from me?” I reply, pressing the spray can’s nozzle, letting the bright color stain the cold stone. My hands are shaky, not just from the cold but from the weight of what we’re doing.

“He might. Try,” she prods, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Pass,” I say quickly, too quickly. The fear of rejection tightens in my chest like a knot. “If the fantasy dies, what do I have left?”

“Try or I’ll do it for you before one of us ends up in the hospital,” Lynsie threatens half-heartedly, but there’s an edge of seriousness to her voice that makes me pause.

“No, you won’t. Know how I know?” I retort, moving to a new side of the rock, starting on a detailed replica of a hockey stick.

“How?” Lynsie asks, her curiosity piqued as she follows me with a can of her own, filling in the background.

“Because you’re the same as me,” I say, focusing on my strokes. “You’re not painting on a rock, but you’re not so emotionally mature that you’ve told Shep how you feel.”

Lynsie scoffs, “I don’t feel anything about Shep Sawyer.”

“Right. So you wouldn’t care if I told him you’ve had a crush on him since junior high and you used to kiss his picture in the yearbook,” I tease, watching her cheeks redden in the dim light from the streetlamp.

“Fine. I’ll keep your stupid secret. I just… wow. You think you know someone,” Lynsie mutters, clearly flustered.

“I do,” I affirm, feeling a brief moment of triumph before guilt washes over me. “Well, I had no idea you could be so mean,” she adds, a half-smile breaking through her annoyance.

“Spend twelve hours a day with Beth,” I quip, and we both chuckle, the tension easing between us. “You’ll learn quickly how to bend or you’ll break.”

Our laughter is cut short by a sudden rustle nearby. We freeze, cans poised, eyes wide as we scan the darkness. A shadow moves, large and looming—Virgil, the arena’s night watchman, known for his sudden appearances.

“Heart attack, Virgil! You almost gave us a heart attack!” I exclaim as he steps into the light, a knowing grin on his face.

“Just making my rounds, ladies. This rock’s turning out quite nice, though. For Brogan, eh?” he mimes zipping his mouth shut, not waiting for an answer as he continues on his way, leaving us to our clandestine artwork.

Relieved, we resume our task, the image on the rock now nearly complete. As I step back to admire my handiwork, my chest tightens with a pride that’s more protective than romantic—because this isn’t about some stupid crush, not really. It’s about Brogan. About making sure he feels seen, even on the days when the rest of the world seems ready to give up on him. About making sure he knows someone—anyone—is in his corner, so he’ll dig a little deeper and keep fighting for the game that means everything to him.

It’s not about him seeing me. It’s about him seeing himself the way the rest of us do—worth fighting for.

If one bright splash of paint can remind him he’s not alone, then maybe, just maybe, it’ll be enough to help him play like himself again. That’s why I’m out here in the freezing cold, risking a lifetime supply of secondhand embarrassment—so Brogan Foster remembers he’s worth believing in, even when he can’t see it for himself.

As Lynsie packs up the cans, the adrenaline of the moment fades into a deep, steady warmth. We leave our mark behind—half rebellion, half pep talk, all hope. And as we walk back to my car, I know one thing for sure: tonight, I didn’t just leave behind a secret message for a boy I’ve always cared about. I left a lifeline, plain and simple, for a teammate who needs one.

“Ready to thaw out at Molly’s?” I dust my hands off and head toward the driver’s side.

Lynsie nods enthusiastically, her breath visible in the freezing air. “Absolutely. I can’t feel my toes anymore.” My friend hops into the passenger seat of my car, a beat-up old sedan that’s seen better days but gets us where we need to go.

I start the engine, the heater kicking in with a welcome blast of warm air, and pull out of the arena’s parking lot. As we drive, the quiet streets of Sorrowville pass by, softly illuminated by the streetlamps casting long shadows on the snow. The conversation turns lighter, a stark contrast to the seriousness of our earlier mission.

“Think he’ll figure it out?” Lynsie asks, turning the heat up as she rubs her hands together.

I shrug, keeping my eyes on the road. “With Brogan, who knows? He can be pretty clueless about these things. He still seems ignorant about the coasters.”

We both laugh, the sound mingling with the hum of the car’s engine. As we pull up to Molly’s Diner, the cozy glow from the windows promises warmth and a reprieve from the biting cold. We park and hurry toward the building, hoping it might just melt away the evening’s tension and the chill that’s settled into our bones.

We barrel inside, the bell jangling. Lynsie beelines for a booth, shivering and griping about frostbite, but she’s smiling—just a little. “If I lose a toe, you’re paying my medical bills,” she grumbles, but I can tell she’s riding the same adrenaline high I am.

I yank off my gloves, cheeks burning, adrenaline fizzing out. “Your toes are fine. If anything, you’ll lose a finger for all that ‘artistic’ outlining.”

The server—Molly herself, in a snowflake sweater—waves at us. “Two caramel lattes, extra whipped cream?” We nod like bobbleheads.

I collapse into the booth, boots thudding under the table then drum my fingers, unable to sit still. Lynsie shoots me a sideways look. “You think he’ll even notice?”

I shrug, staring out at the neon-lit snowbanks. “Honestly? It’s not about him noticing. I just… I don’t want him to forget what it feels like to have someone in his corner. Not this season. Not with everything on the line.”

Lynsie eyes me, waiting for the rest. I finally blurt it: “If he thinks someone believes in him—really believes—maybe he won’t spiral out. Maybe he’ll actually play like himself again. I don’t care if he never knows it was me.”

She softens, her foot nudging mine under the table. “He’s lucky. Even if he’s the dumbest Foster brother.”

Before I can retort, the bell jingles again and in walks Brogan himself, shaking out his hair. My heart squeezes in my chest. He doesn’t spot us right away—orders coffee, glances over, and does a double take.

“Well, look who’s out past curfew,” he says, sliding into the booth like he’s always belonged there.

My heart stumbles, but I grin, covering with a joke. “Don’t tell your mom. She thinks I’m home crocheting a blanket for orphans.”

He laughs, my shoulders loosening a notch. “Did you guys see the arena rock tonight? Just drove by it on the way here. Someone’s got way too much free time and a killer stash of paint.”

My stomach drops like I just skated over an open trapdoor. For one wild second, I swear he can smell the spray paint on my jacket. I shoot Lynsie a side-eye—she looks ready to crawl under the booth and take me with her. Is there paint in my hair? On my face? On my soul? I force a laugh that sounds only half-murderous. If Brogan figures this out, I’ll have to change my name, move to Fargo, and live out my days haunted by a boulder. Next time, I’m wearing a ski mask and gloves. And maybe a fake mustache.

Lynsie bites her lip. “No kidding. Wonder what inspired that.” She’s got the world’s worst poker face.

Brogan shrugs, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Whoever did it, it worked. Guess I’ve got no excuse to phone it in next game.”

Before the convo can get too real, Fern swoops in, sometimes journalist for the Sorrowville Times, and always queen of the rumor mill. “Joely! You and Lynsie doing some late-night recon? Or just here for the lattes?”

Lynsie jumps in, “We’re here to thaw out and definitely not responsible for any vandalism, I mean… art, around town.”

Fern laughs, scribbling something. “You girls. Always in the middle of something. Brogan, care to comment on your mysterious cheer squad?”

He sips his coffee, a little pink creeping up his ears. “Just lucky, I guess. Not a lot of towns would bother.”

Fern’s not letting go. “Word is, your game’s off lately. This help you get your head back in it?”

His gaze goes distant for a second. “Off the record? Yeah. Feels good to remember what it’s all for.”

Molly arrives with our lattes, loaded down with whipped cream and sugar snowflakes, rescuing us all. Fern wanders off, and Brogan flashes us a grateful, crooked smile.

I meet his eyes, letting myself be honest for half a second. “You got people rooting for you, Brogan. Don’t forget it.”

He blinks, like he’s not sure how to process that—like I just offered him something he’s too tired to hold. For a split second, I swear he’s about to say something—his mouth opens, closes, the words dying on his tongue.

Instead, he clears his throat, eyes dropping to his coffee. “Yeah. Thanks, JoJo,” he manages, voice rough, like it hurts to admit he needed to hear it.

I look away fast, fascinated by my snowflakes.

Eventually, Brogan checks his watch and stands, flashing that crooked grin that always makes my heart do a one-timer. “I’d better head out—get some shuteye. Coach will murder me if I’m late for morning skate tomorrow.” He grabs his to-go cup, zipping up his jacket and tossing us a two-finger salute. “Try not to get into any more trouble, ladies.” He’s out the door with a gust of cold air and the sound of the bell overhead, vanishing into the winter night, leaving the ghost of his laughter hanging in the diner.

The second he starts to walk away, my whole body feels empty and way too full at the same time. I watch the condensation fade on my water glass, wishing I had something brave to say—or that he’d just see me, just once, the way I see him.

Lynsie doesn’t miss a beat, bumping my shoulder with hers and giving me a look that says, “Girl, you are so obvious.” I ignore her, swirling my whipped cream and pretending I’m not picturing the way Brogan’s smile will haunt me all the way home.

I glance toward the parking lot. And as his silhouette disappears into the snowy dark, I wish, just for once, he’d look back.