Page 24 of Reach Around

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 thatsays 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.

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