Page 113 of Reach Around

“Did I tell you how I got into hockey?”

“Not exactly,” I say slowly. “I always assumed it was a Foster thing. Your dad. Your brothers.”

“Yeah. That’s it.” He exhales and leans back on one elbow, staring at the ceiling like it might have the words for him. “They love hockey. Like—live for it. And I was the kid who tagged along, wanting to be just like them. I was good at it. Still am. But somewhere along the way I forgot to ask myself if it was mine.”

I pause, halfway through another bite. “Are you saying…?”

“I’m saying I’m not like them, Joely. I like hockey. I’m decent. But I don’t wake up itching to get on the ice. I never have.”

He finally looks at me, and it’s not fear I see there—it’s honesty. And something like relief. Like this is the first time he’s ever said it out loud.

“Do you like me playing hockey?” he asks, voice soft now.

I put the protein bar down.

“I like you being happy,” I say simply.

He nods once, then leans in and brushes his thumb along the edge of my wrist. “I’m happiest right here.”

Grabbing a blanket, Brogan tucks it around me, plumping up the pillows behind my back like he’s building a nest. Then he grabs the remote and lines up something dumb on TV—cartoons, a hockey blooper reel, whatever will make me laugh without jostling my cast. It’s excessive, and a little embarrassing, but I let him. Because right now, being babied by Brogan Foster is my new favorite form of physical therapy.

And maybe it’s the pain meds kicking in. Or maybe it’s him finally letting me see all the parts he’s been hiding. But either way, I feel something inside me settle.

Like this is where he belongs.

Like maybe he’s finally found his own ice to skate on.

“You’re not happy playing,” I say, and it comes out quiet. Matter-of-fact. Like saying the sky’s blue or that I’ve been in love with him since third grade. Undeniable.

Brogan lets out this breath—long and slow—and then scrubs a hand down his face like he’s trying to wipe off years of pretending.

“I thought I had to be,” he mutters. “That if I didn’t keep going, I’d disappoint everyone. My dad. My brothers. The team. You. Because if you live in Sorrowville, and you’re not a Slammer, you’re nothing.”

“Me?” I blink. “How could you possibly disappoint me?”

“You believed in me.” His eyes find mine. “You always believed I had it in me to be great. And I wanted to live up to that.”

My chest twists. “I didn’t believe in hockey. I believed in you.”

He looks at me like that’s a foreign concept. Like I’ve just offered him a blank sheet of paper when he’s only ever been handed expectations printed in ink.

“I guess I got so used to skating on someone else’s ice, I forgot I could build my own rink.” He laughs once, short and humorless. “Is that a metaphor? That was bad.”

“It was adorable. I’ll allow it,” I say, nudging his knee with mine. “So… what do you want now?”

He’s quiet for a second, then looks toward the window like the answer’s out there waiting for him.

“I want to work with the Mega Mites,” he says finally. “I want to teach them. Be the guy who makes hockey fun. Who helps them believe in themselves.”

I swear my heart does this little stumble-step. “You want to coach?”

“Yeah. And not in that fallback way, either. I don’t feel like I’m giving something up—I feel like I’m finally getting something right.” He leans toward me, voice softer now. “Will you still love me if I’m not a Slammer?”

I scoff. “I would love you if you were Brogan the garbage guy.”

He grins, but his thumb keeps circling my wrist, soothing, like he’s grounding himself to me. For a guy who spent a decade hiding his soft spots under chirps and chest bumps, this is as naked as he gets.

“Like, driving the truck,” I clarify. “Not just… rolling around in banana peels and used coffee grounds.”

---