Page 67 of Reach Around

And every damn time after that.

Hell, give me a hundred more interruptions, a thousand Sorrowville disasters—as long as she’s next to me for every single one.

Chapter Eighteen

Joely

If you drive Main Street at dusk, you’ll see it: the yellow neon bleeding through fogged-up windows at Power Play, laughter curling out into the cold, and every heart waiting for the next home game to bring our boys—and our hopes—back. Tonight, the talk’s all about Brogan Foster coming home after a five-game stretch, and if the wind carries right, you can hear the bets about how fast Joely Parnell will drop everything to be the first in his arms. Around here, we may not believe in miracles, but we sure as hell believe in hockey reunions, bonfires, and loving hard enough to warm you straight through winter.

Playlist: Home by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros

I’ve been drying the same damn pint glass for three full minutes. Mostly because I forgot I was holding it. And also because my phone is sitting on the bar like a loaded weapon.

Averywell-endowed weapon. Courtesy of Brogan Foster—who’s been on the road for five games straight and is finally, finally headed home today.

The latest text from him just vibrated its way into my bloodstream.

Bro:I can’t wait to get you alone.

And my body responds like Pavlov’s golden retriever in a lightning storm. I toss the bar towel over my shoulder, trying not to look unhinged. Failing spectacularly.

The Slammers limped their way through the road stand—one ugly win, two heartbreak losses, and a couple of games where they barely looked like a team at all. Brogan’s name didn’t light up the box scores, but I watched every minute anyway. He’s been a little sharper—skating harder, making smarter passes, even notching an assist in the third game—but he’s still not himself. Not the Brogan who can turn a power play into poetry, or set the pace for the whole team. It’s better, but not enough. Not yet. And I know it’s eating him alive.

The regulars are nursing their usuals. The old jukebox is spinning some alt-country heartbreak, and Beth is in the back organizing inventory, which means the only witness to my slow descent into Brogan-induced madness is Lynsie. And unfortunately, she knowseverything.

She leans against the pass-through window with a knowing smirk and a cherry stem between her teeth. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m warm.”

“It’s fifteen degrees outside and the draft beer cooler is blowing on your knees. Try again.”

I huff and snatch my phone, tapping out a reply with fingers that are absolutely not shaking.

Me:How’s that gonna work?

Bro:The guys will wanna party at Power Play after the game. Come over after work.

Me:Solid plan. See you soon.

God help me.

The seconds start crawling. I check the clock every five minutes like a lovesick teenager. Beth catches me pacing behind the bar and tosses me a look that says,You’re not being subtle.Then she mumbles something about “young love” and “might have to fumigate the supply closet” and disappears into the office.

By the time I’m finally clocking out, I’m flustered, undershowered, underwaxed, underlingeried, and entirely too worked up for someone who’s trying to pretend this isn’t the real deal.

Because it is. Itis.

And now I’m driving through a flurry of snow, clutching the steering wheel with white knuckles, my body practically humming. This thing with Brogan? It’s been a slow burn for years, but it’s not slow anymore. It’s an inferno I walked into willingly—and tonight, I’m not leaving the fire. Five days away from him after becoming intimate was just too damn long.

I park in front of his place and catch sight of myself in the rearview mirror. My hair is a mess, my mascara’s on its own journey, and my heart’s beating out a Billie Eilish bridge. Do I look like I missed him enough? Do I look desperate? Is it desperate if it’s been five days and I want to crawl inside his hoodie and live there forever? I fluff my hair, pinch my cheeks, wipe my palms on my jeans—none of it helps. Whatever. He’s seen me worse. But never this wrecked. Never this hopeful.

There’s a flicker of firelight visible in the backyard.

Of course there is.

Brogan Foster doesn’t justlight a fire—heisone.

And tonight, I’m stepping right into the flame.

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