Page 26 of Reach Around

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. Hedoesn’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.

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