Page 56 of Reach Around

I’m dating Brogan Foster. Secretly. Kind of. Sort of. Maybe?

When Brogan strolls in ten minutes later, I drink him in. Freshly-showered. Baseball cap low. That smug littleI know what I did to you and we should totally do it againgrin on his face.

He doesn’t say a word. Just taps the bar twice in greeting and sits down, eyes locked on me like I’m a three-course meal and he’s been starving for weeks.

I hand him a Coke like it’s no big deal, but my fingers brush his and something tightens in my chest.

He leans forward, elbows on the bar, rubbing the edge of a coaster with his thumb. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, of course.” I grab a glass to polish, anything to keep my hands busy.

His gaze is dark, locked on the liquor shelf. “You ever get scared you’re about to lose the one thing that makes you… you?”

That stops me. “All the time.”

He laughs, but it’s brittle. “Feels like every day, I’m just waiting for the other skate to drop. Like, if I mess up even once, I’m done. Out. No second chances.”

I want to reach for him, but the bar is full now, and Brogan Foster hates looking weak. So I keep it light. “Well, you could always become a bartender. I’ll teach you how to clean a beer tap. It’s almost as fun as a penalty kill.”

That gets a small, crooked smile. “Yeah, right. Only job I’m qualified for is feeding squirrels and making up bad chirps.”

I try to joke, but I see the fear in his eyes, and my chest aches. “Hey, you’re not done yet. You’re just… in overtime.”

He huffs out a laugh, but his shoulders are tight. “Hope overtime lasts a few more seasons.”

I wish I could tell him it will. That he’s unstoppable. But I just pour him a fresh Coke and slide it across, wishing he’d see what everyone else sees—the guy who’s still in the fight, even when he’s scared.

He laughs, and it’s like the sun coming out in winter. But that cold pit in my stomach doesn’t go away. If Brogan Foster is done with his dream, someone has to believe in it enough for both of us. And unfortunately for my rapidly deteriorating emotional health? That someone is me.

That means, Lynsie and I have to institute karaoke Plan B.

By the time the regulars shuffle in and the scent of fryer oil and beer settle over the place like a weighted blanket, I’ve got my customer service mask on and my Brogan panic stuffed somewhere under the bar, right next to the backup ketchup.

Since it’s karaoke night, the mic will be hijacked by a rotating cast of tone-deaf hopefuls and off-duty Slammers looking to embarrass each other in public. The front door opens andchaos incarnateblows in: Shep, Gage, Heath, and Boone, and a grimacing Bennett, fresh off God knows what and already arguing about song selection.

I wave a bar towel over my shoulder like a white flag and brace for impact.

“We’re doing a group number,” Shep announces like this is Broadway and not a bar with sticky floors and a karaoke machine older than God.

“Absolutely not,” Boone grumbles, sliding onto a stool. “I’m not singingBarbie Girlagain.”

“That was one time,” Gage points out. “And younailedKen’s existential dread.”

Heath slaps a laminated song list on the bar. “What aboutI Saw the Sign?”

That gets a round of nods.

“We change the words,” Shep says, tapping his temple. “Make it about Brogan.”

I stop mid-pour. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” Gage grins. “You know…I saw the sign, and it opened up my eyes, I saw the Bro… he’s quitting hockey, it’s a crime…”

Boone snorts. “Honestly? Banger.”

I glance across the bar. Brogan’s sitting with Bennett, half-listening, but his gaze keeps flicking toward me. Like I’m some puzzle he’s still trying to figure out.

And maybe he is.

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