Page 4 of Reach Around

Chance shakes his head stubbornly. “Personal. Private.”

I crane my neck, scanning the crowded bar until I spot Shep, who’s laughing at something on his phone. “I’ll call him over.”

“He’s right there,” Chance points out, obviously impatient.

My patience snaps. “Fuck, kid. Give it to him and get out. I’m busy.”

Reluctantly, I step aside, letting Chance slip through. Watching him weave through the crowd, I rub a hand over my face. It’s going to be a long night.

Before I can finish my first Coke, the night at Power Play is in full swing, the air thick with laughter and the clatter of darts hitting their mark. From my post near the entrance, I keep an eye on the patrons, the job’s monotony broken only by the occasional rowdy drunk needing a reminder of manners. It’s routine, comfortable in its predictability—until it isn’t.

Through the dim light and sea of bodies, I spot Chance Sawyer again, this time attempting to blend in with the older crowd. The kid’s got guts, I’ll give him that. He’s laughing, a beer bottle cunningly hidden behind a dartboard, tipping it to his lips when he thinks no one’s watching. The team, caught up in their game, doesn’t notice. But I do.

Before I can step over, the crowd parts like the Red Sea, and there she is—my mom, Beth, marching through with the kind of purpose that spells trouble. Her eyes lock onto Chance, then to me, and I know this isn’t going to be pretty.

“Do you like being a bouncer?” Mom’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp as a skate blade.

“Yeah. I’m living the dream,” I reply, the sarcasm thick in my voice, but it falls flat against her stern expression.

She points a finger at me, sharp and accusing. “You’re about to be living the nightmare.”

“What? Why?”

“If the police pop in, we have an underage kid trying to drink in the bar. Get him out of here,” she orders, her voice a low growl that I know better than to argue with. “How did he even get by you in the first place?”

“Shit. Sorry.” I glance back at Chance, who’s now looking decidedly sheepish, the beer bottle suddenly fascinating.

I push off the wall and make a beeline for him. He clocks me coming and tries to play it cool, setting the beer down like that somehow erases the crime.

“Out,” I growl, grabbing his arm just firm enough to make my point without causing a scene. “You don’t drink in here, and you don’t lie to me again. Got it?”

He tugs free with a teenage eye-roll that could win gold at the Olympics, backing toward the door.

“No wonder Shep says you peaked in high school,” he mutters under his breath, loud enough to land the punch but fast enough to duck out the door before I can swing back.

My mom’s face turns an alarming shade of red. “Where’s your head tonight, Brogan?”

“Meeting earlier. I talked to Britt and Franklin,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck, feeling the weight of the day pressing down again.

She regards me for a moment, her anger softening around the edges. “You know what your father would say.”

“Get my head out of my ass, my skates on the ice, and play like my life depends on it,” I recite, the familiar advice bitter in my mouth tonight.

She chuckles, a sound that feels like home. “Yup. I spent twenty years losing all my beauty sleep to get you guys to practice.”

My lips twist into a wry smile. “Mom, you’re beautiful. You don’t look a day over sixty.”

Her eyes narrow, a playful spark igniting. “You know I’m only fifty-two, you little snot!”

“I know. I get away with saying these things because I’m your favorite. Admit it.”

“I don’t have a favorite. I dislike all of you equally,” she fires back just as Bennett and Boone saunter in, the latter planting a kiss on her cheek.

Bennett pulls out some mail from his pocket. “I brought you something.” I often say that my grumpy older brother is ‘fucktose intolerant.’ He has zero ability to put up with people’s bullshit, even our mother’s.

Mom thumbs through the contents, pausing on a glossy magazine she doesn’t recognize. “Jesus. AARP. I could…”

Bennett interrupts, his grin devilish. “Hey, don’t get all worked up. It’s way past your bedtime. I’m surprised you haven’t instituted the classic senior dinner here, but you’ve been eating dinner at 4:30 for as long as I’ve known you.”

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