Page 8 of Reach Around

“I’ve got the rest,” she adds, nodding toward the rag in my hand. “You need sleep. You’re back at it tomorrow.”

I hesitate, but there’s no point arguing. Not when Beth’s already untying her apron like she’s dismissing me with a damn period at the end of the sentence.

I grab my coat and head for the back door, the sticky bar mats squishing under my boots one last time. The wind hits me the second I step into the alley, slicing through my jacket like it’s paper. My little rental house isn’t far, but tonight, it feels like a hundred miles. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and start walking.

Beth locks up behind me, turning toward the stairs that lead to her apartment above the bar. She catches my eye one more time, her expression softer than usual.

“Get some rest, kid,” she calls. “Tomorrow’s a new game.”

I nod, but my throat feels tight. Because tomorrow… tomorrow, I’m done playing safe. Tomorrow, I take my shot—whatever the hell that means.

I turn toward home, leaving Beth and my dignity in the dust.

Chapter Three

Brogan

Funny thing about me—I don’t just watch my boys fall apart, I document it like it’s folklore, like it’s my civic duty to remember every glorious rise and every slow-motion crash. And if you think for one second my people aren’t lined up at Power Play rehashing it over wings and whiskey, then you clearly haven’t been paying attention. On my hallowed streets, we love a hero, but we live for a trainwreck, and tonight, our golden boy Brogan “BroFetti” Foster just rolled out a front-row seat to the biggest disaster since Holden’s bachelor party at the bowling alley when Slammy accidentally twerked his foam ass into the nacho cheese dispenser—so buckle up, buttercup, because you can bet your last Fireball shot that this mess isn’t over, not by a long shot. Between you and me, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion the best (or worst) is yet to come.

Playlist: Let’s Dance by David Bowie

I’m sitting across from Franklin in his cluttered office, the walls crowded with memorabilia that smells of old victories and stale cigar smoke. He’s laid it out bluntly: up my game or it’s the bench for me. “Work with Madeline,” he suggests, pointing his thick finger toward the door. “She’s got ideas, fresh ones. Might help sway the fans, get the buzz back around your name.”

Madeline, the new Slammers publicist who slid into Tierney’s spot after Declyn hit the big dance, waits just outside. When I nod and stand to leave Franklin’s office, she meets me with a clipboard in hand, her eyes bright with what I can only guess are marketing strategies and social media campaigns.

As we walk down to the locker room, her heels click in a steady, rapid beat against the concrete, echoing off the walls of the empty hallway. “Brogan, we need to boost your image, make you a fan favorite again. How do you feel about TikTok?”

“TikTok?” I repeat, skepticism probably painted all over my face.

“Yes, it’s perfect for fan engagement. There’s a dance trending—lots of athletes are doing it. It could really humanize you, make you relatable,” she explains with a fervor that almost makes me believe in the power of dancing on camera.

Madeline introduces me to Harper, a spry young woman with a camera practically glued to her hand, our official social media guru. “She’ll film it, and we’ll upload it to the Slammer’s channel. What do you say?”

I’m not much of a dancer, more a glider on the ice where my skates do the fancy work. The thought of dancing, of being out there without my gear, feels more daunting than a tiebreaker shootout.

“Just a few steps,” Harper chimes in, her smile encouraging. “We’ll make it fun. Think of it as a play, but off the ice.”

As I look from Harper’s eager face to Madeline’s expectant one, I realize this might be just the breakaway play I need offthe ice to keep my game alive on it. “Alright, let’s give it a shot,” I concede, figuring I’ve faced tougher opponents than a dance routine. Maybe it’s time to show the fans that I can do more than just shoot and skate—maybe I can dance, too.

Madeline gestures for me to follow her down the corridor leading to the locker room. The closer we get, the louder the sounds of pre-game prep become—sticks clattering, skates scraping, and my teammates’ voices melding into the familiar chaos that always precedes a game. It’s comforting, at least until I remember why Madeline’s tagging along tonight.

Stepping into the locker room, the smell of sweat and determination hits me like a slapshot. The guys are suiting up, their banter bouncing off the walls, adding to the pre-game energy that’s almost tangible.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask Madeline, trying not to let my teammates hear the hesitation in my voice.

“Yes. This is your time to shine,” she responds with a confidence I wish I could mirror.

“Why me?” I mutter, half-hoping she’ll back down.

“Rumor has it, we need to up your star power for contract negotiations,” Madeline explains, a hint of mischief in her eyes.

“I see you’re friendly with Britt,” I comment, recalling the recent office gossip.

“She helped me acclimate. I owe her. Yes, we’re going to get you big money,” Madeline assures, her tone all business.

Bennett, overhearing, chimes in with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, “Spoken like someone who hasn’t seen him dance.”

“Harper and I worked together all afternoon, so we’d understand the trend,” Madeline counters, unfazed. “But don’t worry. This will be a breeze. Nothing complicated or anything.”

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