Page 32 of Reach Around

“Not so bad?” I repeat, arching an eyebrow. “Remind me to redefine my standards for bad.”

As we leave the room, Lynsie throws an arm around my shoulders, her laughter ringing out. “Welcome to the world of high maintenance. Trust me, it’s worth it.”

“You know you’re not really supposed to, uh… you know… right after a Brazilian, right?” Gisele says, wagging a finger as she finishes.

I groan. “Seriously? Gisele, you could’ve told me before you ripped off half my soul.”

She grins. “Consider it my public service announcement. Use protection—and maybe some aloe.

Lynsie holds up her phone. “I’ll write your eulogy: ‘She died as she lived—chasing the perfect O and ignoring all the instructions.’”

I roll my eyes. “At this point, if Brogan’s willing, I’ll risk it. If I die, avenge me.”

And despite the waxing ordeal, as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—hair done, nails perfect, feeling like a brand-new version of myself—I can’t help but think she might be right. Just maybe, this was exactly what I needed to see myself in a new light, not just for Brogan but for me.

In the final moments at Glamboozled, I stand in front of a full-length mirror, the quality lighting now seeming to cast a soft glow around me. Lynsie and Gisele hover nearby, their faces brimming with barely contained excitement. They’ve seen this transformation dozens of times with others, but this time it’s personal. It’s me.

I hardly recognize the woman staring back. Gone are the traces of the tomboy who could skate and shoot with the best of them, replaced by this... elegant stranger. My hair, now blown out and styled into loose waves, frames my face in a way that accentuates features I usually hide under a baseball cap. The dress—a stunning black-sequined cocktail number borrowed from Gisele—is a far cry from my usual jeans and jersey combo. It clings in all the right places, hinting at curves I forget I have.

“Holy crap,” I mutter, my voice tinged with awe and a hint of fear. “I look like I’m going to the Oscars not a team function.”

“You look amazing,” Lynsie insists, her grin infectious. “Brogan’s not going to know what hit him.”

Gisele adjusts the strap of my dress, her touch reassuring. “It’s not just about looking good, Joely. It’s about feeling good. Seeing yourself in a new light.”

I meet her gaze in the mirror, her words sinking in. It’s not just about impressing Brogan or anyone else. This is aboutshattering my own perceptions, daring to embrace a side of me I’ve kept hidden.

Lynsie’s hand squeezes my shoulder, bringing me back. “You’ve always been this swan, Joely. We just helped you fluff your feathers a bit.”

Their laughter fills the room, easing the tightness in my chest. But the nerves are still there, coiling in my stomach as the reality of the evening ahead sets in.

“Okay, pep talk time,” Lynsie announces, her tone shifting to one of seriousness. “You’re walking into that party not just as Brogan’s friend but as a knockout who can hold her own. You’re not there to make him see you differently. You’re there because you finally see yourself, and that’s the only vision that matters.”

Her words are a lifeline, a beacon against the doubts that threaten to cloud this moment. “And what if I trip over my own feet? Or spill something?”

“Then you’ll be the most glamorous klutz they’ve ever seen,” Gisele chimes in, winking. “But seriously, just enjoy the night. Let them see the Joely who can laugh at herself, who’s strong, kind, and freaking beautiful.”

As we gather our things, their encouragement wraps around me like a warm hug. I take a deep breath, steadying myself for the evening ahead. The reflection in the mirror nods back at me, a small, confident smile playing on her lips.

Stepping out of the salon, the cold air hits me, but it’s different this time. It doesn’t chill; it invigorates. With Lynsie and Gisele at my side, I feel ready. Ready to face Brogan, the team, and whatever the night holds. Because tonight, I’m not just Joely the bartender or Joely the tomboy.

Tonight, I’m just Joely, and that’s more than enough.

Chapter Eleven

Brogan

There’s a strange magic to one of my special winter nights—like the cold can freeze your memories in place, preserving every ache and secret you’d rather leave buried. Tonight, Miner Arena gleams like a jewel box on Main, all the town’s best faces scrubbed and suited, chasing a few hours of glitter before the world gets gray again. You can feel the hope and the history in the air—the weight of a thousand could-have-beens swirling under the chandeliers, the promise that maybe, just maybe, someone might finally take a risk tonight. In Sorrowville, everybody knows your past, but on nights like this, if you squint hard enough through the sparkle and the bourbon, you can almost believe in new beginnings.

Playlist: First Day Of My Life by Bright Eyes

The team’s annual holiday bash is always a spectacle, and this year’s no exception. The grand ballroom of the Miner Arena isdecked out like some high-roller’s fantasy—crystal chandeliers dripping with light, tables cloaked in shimmering gold linens, and an open bar that’s already drawing a crowd. The guys, all scrubbed up and stuffed into tuxes that itch in places we can’t scratch in public, are muttering about the formal wear but brightening up every time a tray of hors d’oeuvres swings by.

Bennett, Shep, and I are huddled by one such table, my brother frowning at his bow tie like it’s a personal insult. “I swear, this thing is a damn noose. Remind me again why we can’t just wear jerseys to these shindigs?”

Shep, balancing a plate stacked dangerously high with mini quiches, chuckles. “Because, my dear caveman, this is what civilized looks like. Plus, seeing you choked up by a piece of fabric once a year is a highlight I wouldn’t miss.”

I’m about to join in, ribbing Bennett about his perpetual scowl that’s probably scaring the waitstaff, when the crowd parts like the Red Sea. And there she is—Joely. I’ve seen her a thousand times, in jeans, in sweats, in Slammers gear, behind the bar... but tonight, damn, she might as well be stepping out of a painting.

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