Page 25 of Reach Around

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.

Chapter Eight

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, sohe’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.

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